“Here ya go.” She came over with a basket of fries. “Need anything else?”
Ask for her freaking name!
“Uh…” He looked around dumbly. “Maybe some extra napkins?”
Unbelievable…
“Of course.” She smiled. “There’s a dispenser right there.”
He checked. Sitting at the end of the table, under the window, was a little metal napkin dispenser. Wow.
“Oh, right. Duh. Thanks.” He pretended to snicker, but in reality he had died a little inside.
“No problem. Lemme know if you need anything else, alright?”
He nodded. “Will do. Thanks.”
Then, she walked away.
As usual.
He ate his fries slowly, glancing up at the game. He occasionally reacted to a score—even though he didn’t really care—just to make it look like he was paying attention. Diners slowly finished and headed out. Eventually, he was the only one left.
The waitress started toward him.
He held his breath.
Now or never. You can do this.
“Alright hun, you have a good night.” She put the check on the table. “Try and stay dry. It’s pourin’ out there.”
Say something!
“Thanks.”
Say something else!
She turned.
He started to speak. “So—”
She didn’t hear him. “Hey Gio, think I’m gonna head on out. Past closin’ time.” She pulled off her blue t-shirt, revealing a cleaner, white undershirt beneath.
“No problem, Delaney,” the owner said as he turned off an oven. “Don’t forget you got the afternoon tomorrow.”
“I won’t.” She threw on a jacket and grabbed her purse. “Make it home safe.”
“Planning on it. You have a good night, sweetheart.”
And then she left. Just like that.
Sam turned back to his fries. The game was almost over. He let her walk away. Again.
Gio whistled at him. “Yo, my man!” He was wiping down the counter with a rag, chuckling under his breath. “You ever gonna talk to her? Or you just gonna keep coming in here pretending to like sports and ordering the cheapest thing on the menu?”
Was it that obvious?
Thunder rumbled outside. It shook the street.
“That,” Sam sighed and sank into the bench, “is a very, very good question.”
5
The First Step
The alarm blared. Another weekend gone. He’d left the apartment building twice, both times on Saturday. Sundays were usually spent dreading Mondays. The daily monotony was agonizing: get up, stand in line for the shower, get dressed, stand in line for the train, stand in line for the bus, stand in line to get in the building. Lines. Everywhere. People talked about the fast pace of New York City, but the reality was that you spent two-thirds of your time waiting.
His desk at work was minimalist. One picture of Pittsburgh’s skyline was tacked to his cubicle wall, and that was that as far as decor. He spent half the day waiting for his computer to ding. Another assignment in his inbox. Tech editing. Most documents took five minutes. The internet was blocked, so seven of the eight hours in his workday were spent staring at a clock while his life ticked away, even when the hands of his busted watch remained motionless.
“Number eight-two-eight. Have a dandy day!” came a squeaky, high-pitched voice from down the aisle of the cubicle farm.
Sam felt a brief moment of happiness.
“Number eight-two-nine. Have a dandy day!” The voice was louder. Closer.
Then he remembered that his entire paycheck was pretty much already gone. In fact, he may have been in the red. The thought made him frown.
“And number…” a chubby redheaded woman with a pink dress and tight blue sweater appeared at his cube and handed him an envelope, “eight-three-oh.”
“Thanks.” He took it glumly. He didn’t even want to open it. It was too depressing.
“Have a dandy day!” Her smile was eerie. Smug. Robotic. Fake. She walked away, but not before he heard her say, “Good afternoon, Mr. Watson.”
Uh oh.
William Watson, fifties, with a comb-over and dark sweater vest, stepped into Sam’s cubicle. There was a condescending quality to his mannerisms. Like he was talking to a toddler. He was the boss. As a result, his ass had more lip prints on it than a baby’s forehead before Election Day. “Hello, mister…” he took a peek at the nameplate on Sam’s cubicle, “…Pierce. How’re things today?”
“Good sir, thank you.”
“That’s good, that’s good. What’ve you been up to lately?”
“Uh,” he nodded to the computer, “just my usual work.”
“Ah. Which is…?”
“Tech editing, sir.”
“Right, right. We’re not pushing you too hard, are we? I see you’re taking a little break.” He smiled. Sam hated that smile.
“No, not at all. It’s just, there’s really nothing to do between assignments, so—”
“Say no more, say no more.” He held up a palm. “I just wanted to walk around and get a feel for where everyone was, mister…”
“Pierce, sir.”
“Pierce. Right. Well, you take it easy now.”
“Yes sir, thanks.”
His boss walked away. Sam could hear him talking to the next employee down. Number eight-two-nine. He wondered if Watson had a number.
The bus line wrapped around the block. More waiting. Sam took one look at it, cringed, then walked to a mailbox at the corner of the street. He took a second to stare down Broadway. The metropolis stretched for miles, a tunnel of skyscrapers. Even after six months in New York, it still impressed him.
A silver sports car pulled up to the stoplight. It was a convertible. The top was down. The driver was wearing sunglasses and blasting music…and it was forty-five degrees on a cloudy day. He looked over at Sam and waved.
William Watson.
“Hey!” his boss shouted. “Uh…uh…” He snapped his fingers, trying to remember his employee’s name.
“Eight-three-oh…”
“That’s right!” The light changed. “Have a good weekend, bud!” The car took off down the street, racing to the next red light at the end of the block.
It was Monday.
Sam grunted in annoyance and opened the mailbox. He pulled an envelope from his trench coat pocket; it was addressed to his sister in Maryland. With a sigh, he dropped it into the slot. There went a week’s pay.
It better not go toward cigarettes.
Relenting, he walked back across the street and took his place in the bus line amongst the hundreds of other random numbers.
It was storming again by the time he emerged from the 191st Street station. The rain fell in heavy sheets. White rivers churned along the curbs and the roads mirrored the traffic’s headlights. Sam stood on his apartment’s street corner. While other people were running for cover against the torrential downpour, he was glancing back and forth between his building and the little Italian restaurant across the way. Some of Romano’s lights were out, so at the moment it was “manos.”
His apartment. Or ‘Mano’s. Apartment. ‘Mano’s.
Back and forth.
Go home and spend the night alone. Or go to ‘Mano’s, don’t talk to Delaney, then go home and spend the night alone.
Go right home or add the extra step?
Stop thinking like that!
Apartment. ‘Mano’s. Apartment. ‘Man—
A truck honked its horn right before slamming into the back of another car at the intersection’s stoplight. The rain made the asphalt slick. Within a few seconds, the two drivers were arguing in the street.
Sam caught Delaney and Gio staring out at the fender bender, their faces pressed to the restaurant’s glass. She was wearing a pink tank top and gray yoga pants.
‘Mano’s won.
It was empty tonight. People were probably at home sheltering themselves from t
he storm. Sam’s coat was dripping.
Delaney approached him. “You’re lookin’ a little wet, hun. Just come from work?”
“Uh…” He looked down. He forgot he was wearing his work clothes. White collared shirt, unbuttoned at the top, loosened black tie. “Yeah. Long day.”
“Well go on and take a seat, I’ll be witcha in a minute. Dry off a little, lord knows it’s warm as hades in here.” She fanned herself with a paper menu. It was unusually warm. Probably the pizza ovens.
They went through the usual routine. Sam sat down in the corner booth and looked up at the TV. Monday Night Football. Delaney brought him his soda and fries, but then took a seat at an empty table across the room and started texting.
Talk to her. She’s probably texting her boyfriend. Shut up and talk to her!
She laughed at her phone screen.
It has to be a boyfriend. Fine. Don’t talk to her. Enjoy your TV dinners and videogames.
She looked over.
Sam held his breath.
“You need anything else, you just lemme know, okay?” she said.
“I’m good for now, thanks.”
From the corner of his eye, Sam could see Gio grinning and shaking his head as he swept the kitchen.
She went back to texting. Sighed a little. Smiled. What the hell was she doing?
Finally, she stood. She’s heading back to the kitchen. She’s leaving. Say something. What’s the point? Everyone rejects you. You don’t matter. You will not know if you don’t try. I really like their fries, though, and I’ll never be able to stand the awkwardness if—
“Hey.”
He spoke. What hell, brain?
She turned, taken by surprise. “Hey, can I getcha somethin’?”
He froze. Gio watched from behind the counter.
Talk, idiot!
He shrugged, tried to play it cool. “I’ve been coming here six months now and don’t know anything about you. I don’t have a whole lot of friends here, so I was wondering if, uh...” For a split second, he forgot how to talk. She just stared at him. He cleared his throat. “If maybe you wanted to talk or something. I mean…” he looked around. Empty restaurant. “Seems kind of slow tonight.”
No turning back now.
She then did something that completely caught him off guard.
She pulled a chair up to the edge of the booth’s table, sat on it backwards and laid her arms over the seatback.
Well, that was easy…
Awkward silence.
Was she nervous, too?
“So, you’re obviously not from around here,” Sam said.
She smiled, nodded.
“Where you from?”
“I’m from Nashville, nice little neighborhood called Sylvan Park.”
“I’ve never been to Nashville. I mean, I’ve heard of it.”
“Well, who hasn’t?”
Oops?
“I mean, I’ve read about it…”
“I came up ‘bout a year ago now.”
Thunder. Sam welcomed it.
“Nice, nice. I imagine things are a little different here than they are down there.”
“Mmm,” she thought. “It’s a lot more hustle and bustle here, that’s for sure. But it ain’t like we’re all country and farms. Downtown’s got a bit of tall buildings.”
“Why’d you come here?” He took a sip of soda. It was a conscious effort to keep things casual. He found it harder to lift the glass and take a drink when he was actually thinking about it.
She sighed and shrugged. “Get away from things. Start a new life, I reckon. I wanted to come here since I was a little girl. Took me twenty-eight years to finally do it.”
“So you’re twenty-eight?”
“Yep…” She didn’t sound happy about it. Thank God she wasn’t sixteen. “You?”
“Uh…” He hated telling people his age. It always reminded him of how little he’d accomplished when compared to the pretentious teenage millionaires New York constantly reminded him existed. “Thirty…two…”
“Really? You look a little younger.”
“Well, the secret’s a strict diet of soggy fries and soda for every meal.”
She laughed. Brushed her hair out of her eyes. “So what’d you end up here for?”
“I was hungry and my culinary expertise only extends to peanut butter and jelly.”
Another laugh. It didn’t sound forced, either. Her accent was so charming that she could’ve been screaming at him and he would’ve found it seductive. “No! I mean New York! You been here all your life?”
“No, no. I’m from DC. Born and raised.”
“Ah, that’s not too far.”
“Couple hours,” he said. “I moved here a while ago.”
“What for?”
“Same reason everyone else does, I guess. More opportunity. Wanted to try it out while I was still young enough to appreciate it.”
“You got a family back home?”
“A little sister. Well, she’s twenty-five now.” He shook his head. “Not so little anymore, I guess. Nephew, he’ll be seven here pretty soon.”
“Aww.” She lit up.
“They live with my mom in Bethesda. Little city in Maryland, right over DC. My dad’s…well…we don’t have to talk about him.”
Another nod. “I understand. That your only family?”
He hesitated. It wasn’t. But he wasn’t sure if he should bring it up. “Uh, I had another sister.” But he always did. He couldn’t take the guilt of leaving her out. He looked away as he spoke to watch the rain, the water droplets on the windows reflecting New York’s light. It had a calming effect.
Delaney caught a flicker of melancholy in his eyes and listened intently.
Sam said, “She passed away when she was seven. I was thirteen. Jesus…was that twenty years ago now? Feels like yesterday.”
“I’m sorry.” She touched his shoulder. Gently. “What happened?”
“Cancer.” He wavered. Tripped up by his own thoughts. “Among other things.” He snapped out of it. Looked back at her. Cheered up. “That’s enough about me, though. You seem a lot more interesting than I do.”
“Well, I don’t know about that.” She extended the fingers of her left hand. They were all ringless. “I got married kinda young. Right out of high school. Got swept off my feet.” She sighed. Her eyes sank. “Don’t work out like in fairytales, though. Thought it was my fault. Lipstick on a pig.”
Sam was careful with his words. Talking about past relationships with a girl made him feel like he was trying to disarm a bomb. Don’t cut the wrong wire. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Are you…divorced now?”
“Yep. Took my dumbass a long time to realize it, though. One of the reasons I moved up here. Sometimes you just need to hit the reset button on life, ya know?”
He knew. He knew very well.
There was another rumble of thunder. The lights flickered a little. The TV screen went blue for a few seconds before the game came back on.
“It’s just one of those weird things about us ladies,” she said with the side of her head resting against her fist. “We always clamor and holler that we want Prince Charming but we always fall for the jerk with a mean streak, then whine when they act it. I nearabout ran myself into the ground before I figured on comin’ up here and gettin’ a fresh start.”
“Well, I don’t want to brag or anything.” Sam leaned forward and looked into her eyes. “But one time, at the grocery store, there was a sign on the door that said ‘please use other door.’ But I just walked right on through it anyway.” He smiled. “Never even bothered to look back.”
She held her hand to her mouth, laughing. Even Gio snickered a bit behind the counter.
Things got easier. There were no more awkward silences. There was always something to say, something to talk about. An hour passed on the clock. The football game was in the third quarter. Not a single customer walked through the door the entire time. The rain kept them at home, at
bay. Divine intervention? Gio walked over with two beers and set them on the table. “On the house. Got to keep my best customer and best waitress happy.”
Delaney looked up, surprised. “Ain’t I on duty?”
“Yeah, for allllll the customers in tonight.”
“Thanks, man,” Sam said. “I appreciate it.”
“No problem.” He whistled back into the kitchen.
“So,” Sam took a swig, sat back, relaxed, “what kind of fun stuff do you get into down in Tennessee?”
She chugged her beer. Half the bottle was gone before she set it down and wiped her mouth. She looked at him. “Say again?”
“Damn. Guess that answers part of that question. I asked what kind of stuff you get into back home.”
“Oh,” she chuckled. “You know, kinda stuff you probably think we do from seein’ it on TV. My daddy used to take me shootin’ up in the woods a lot. Fun times.”
“So…you’re a good shot?”
“Hit a tick off a deer from a mile away!”
“Gotcha.” He nodded. “So don’t piss you off. Check.”
“I like the way you’re thinkin’ already!” She took another swig.
“Well, I’ve done quite a bit of shooting in my day, too.”
“Really?” She crossed her arms. Smiled. Eyes wide.
“Yeah, and believe me when I say that those little foam arrows can leave a hell of a bruise at point blank range.”
She nearly spit out some beer, bursting with laughter. “Aww, you crack me up!”
For another twenty minutes, they kept talking, about nothing in particular. They were so different—the products of vastly dissimilar worlds—yet the chemistry just felt so right. Ying and yang. A magnetism neither could explain.
“So, I was wondering,” Sam started nervously. This was it. “I was wondering if maybe one of these days—”
A bell rang.
Four men came stumbling into the restaurant. They were loud, tipsy, obnoxious. They were dressed in dirty work clothes, hardhats and orange neon vests. Construction workers fresh off their shifts.
“Can we get a rain check?” Delaney asked.
“Uh, yeah, sure.”
Farewell from Paradise Page 3