by Robyn Carr
Hedda could have been Jennifer fifteen years ago, except that Hedda obviously took more risks in self-expression than Jennifer had ever dared. She and her mother had lived in a great many dumps like that one, and worse than that, they’d spent time on the streets now and then. There was a four-month period when they’d lived in an Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser station wagon, getting the occasional shower at the Salvation Army.
A woman with stringy hair and wearing a ratty plaid bathrobe opened the door of that same small house and yelled, “Hedda! How many times do I have to ask?”
Hedda whirled instantly. “Sorry, Mama,” Jennifer heard her say. She dropped the book bag, went back into the house and came out again, this time carrying a trash can. Jennifer was frozen in her spot, watching. Hedda walked around the buildings to the rear where the carports were and emptied the trash into the Dumpster. She dropped off the trash can, picked up the book bag and then, with a pleased smile, spotted Jennifer.
“Hey, Doris,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
“Just checking out the neighborhood on my way to the library. I’m at the Sunset, right over there.”
“Yeah? We stayed there for a little while. Then the house came open and it has a kitchen. An old kitchen, but a kitchen. I’m just on my way to work.”
“With your books?”
“It’s a little slow in the afternoons. If I get my other stuff done, I do homework,” she said. “And hey, if you ever want to get rid of any weekend hours, I’m looking to pick up time.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I’m thinking of going to the prom,” she said, and became instantly shy when she said it.
“Thinking of going?” Jennifer asked as they walked along in the direction of the diner.
“I’m not sure I’m the prom type,” Hedda replied, but while she said it she was looking down. “I haven’t made up my mind yet.”
It didn’t take Jennifer long to catch on. It had to do with money. You didn’t make much in tips while doing homework. In fact, between breakfast and lunch Jennifer had to look for things to do to stay busy. Before Hedda came in, the diner had been swept, the bathroom was cleaned, the Naugahyde was wiped down and the floor mopped. Adolfo did the cooking and most of the cleanup. Buzz manned the cash register, poured coffee and waited on the counter.
When Hedda arrived at about two-thirty, she did some chores like refilling ketchup bottles as well as the salt, pepper and sugar containers, and then she took the back booth and spread out her books. She might have a couple of dozen diners in her three-hour shift. Gloria came on at five, and the dinner traffic from five-thirty to seven-thirty was steady again with all the usual suspects showing up. Jennifer knew this because she had stopped in for dinner herself more than a couple of times. Only on weekend mornings did the place stay busy. So Hedda would have trouble saving for the prom on her low wages and meager tips.
“Well, you should probably try it once, if you can find the right dress,” Jennifer said.
“That’s what I was thinking,” Hedda returned.
Jennifer had no idea how long her stash and waitress job would have to last her, but there was one thing she did know—she had savings and investments in accounts that Nick Noble knew nothing about. At least not yet. She didn’t know when or how she’d get back to those accounts, but unlike Hedda, Jennifer had them.
Her first week at the diner had gone well; no one seemed particularly shocked to see her and, all in all, the regulars were friendly. There was Louise every morning, with Alice, and Jennifer very much looked forward to seeing them. She loved the old woman’s gruff and direct manner; it was as though being accepted by Louise meant something. Then there was Louise’s neighbor—Rose. Slender and elegant, Rose didn’t seem to be big on diner food—she feasted on tea and toast. Jennifer loved the way the women, so opposite, interacted. Louise was short, stout, with thin white hair, while Rose was taller, whip thin, with flaming red hair, though she was over sixty.
One morning during her second week on the job, Marty, who owned the used-book store, greeted her with “You the bald girl I’ve been hearing about?”
Well, there you go, she thought. You don’t shave your head and go unnoticed. “I guess that would have to be me,” she said. “Word sure gets around.”
“What else have we got to do around here?” he asked, and grinned so big his dentures slipped around. “Thank God there’s a new face now and then.”
A couple of Boulder City cops rode their mountain bikes up to the front of the diner, parked them where they could keep them in sight and sauntered into the diner. The sight of them made her instantly nervous and afraid of being recognized, but they seemed more intent on breakfast than anything. Ryan, the pudgier of the two, said, “Well now—what biker gang are you from?”
“Schwinn,” she answered, pouring his coffee.
His partner and a couple of other diners laughed, but Ryan just shook his head and said, “Schwinn? I haven’t heard of that gang. Schwinn?”
She met Sam the Vet, Judge Mahoney and the girls from the beauty shop. The joggers were Merrilee and Jeanette, and by their third morning they were calling out “Hey Doris” as they came in the door.
A nice-looking young man came in late one morning and Buzz told her to go introduce herself to Louise’s other next door neighbor, Alex.
She took the coffeepot over and said, “Hi, I’m Doris. I see your neighbor Louise in here every morning.”
“Hmm,” he replied, turning the page on his paper and snapping it open with a sharp shake. She poured him coffee.
“And Alice. We keep dog treats on hand for her.” He said nothing. He peered at her from behind the paper, frowning as he took her in. “Bald,” she said. “Completely bald. Cream? Sugar?” He merely shook his head and went back to his paper. “Not friendly at all,” she reported to Buzz.
“He’s the tall, handsome, quiet type,” Buzz said.
“Definitely tall. And quiet,” she said. “Handsome is as handsome does.”
* * *
Jennifer was often seen wandering around town in her baggy green-and-tan fatigue pants, an oversize work shirt, a windbreaker tied around her hips, hiking boots and the backpack that was always with her. She went from the diner to the Sunset to the library to the park and back to the diner. And as she went, she was very observant, always on the lookout for that long black limo. But it did not reappear.
The weather was cool and mostly cloudy with occasional showers, so she spent most of her time indoors, passing the time with reading. Four-thirty came very early, which put her to bed by eight or nine, and for this she was very grateful—she had no desire to flop around all night, worrying about a lot of things over which she had little or no control—like being whacked by her ex-beau.
One evening she left the Sunset at bedtime to venture back to the diner. She had a cup of coffee and piece of pie on her mind. There were no customers present. She found Gloria seated on a stool at the counter and Buzz standing opposite her. Adolfo was in his booth at the far rear, newspaper spread out in front of him.
“Well, a person would think you’d had enough of this place for one day,” Gloria trumpeted.
“I was remembering that apple pie,” Jennifer said. “And the Sunset doesn’t have TVs in the rooms.”
“I been meaning to get a TV for this place,” Buzz said. “But then Gloria would never do a lick of work.”
“Probably true. Sit up here, girl. Buzz, get the girl a cuppa.”
“You don’t ever go home, do you, Buzz?” Jennifer asked as she climbed on the stool.
“There ain’t anyone at home,” he answered, giving her a cup. He poured coffee into both hers and Gloria’s, then he pulled a silver flask out of his pocket and held it over Jennifer’s cup. She shook her head no, but Gloria tapped her cup with her spoon.
“Something like that,” Gloria said.
“I go to my family at supper,” Adolfo informed her from the back of the diner. “My Carmel, she is a better cook than even me. We eat an early meal, then I come back most nights. But Señor Buzz, he can manage if I have need to be home. He doesn’t like anyone to know, but he can cook.”
“We trade off pretty good,” Buzz said. “I like it here. Always liked it here. This old diner is a whole lot friendlier than my house. You want ice cream on that pie?”
“Please,” she said. It was kind of nice not to think about the calories for once. This was a big change for her, and she genuinely hoped she wouldn’t grow into her baggy pants. Her mouth was watering before she could dig her spoon into the delicious dessert.
She was so busy eating that she never heard the soft knocking at the back door. Adolfo got up to see who was there, and with the door partially open revealing a man in an old and worn coat, he called, “Señor Buzz. Someone here for you.”
“Let him in, Adolfo. I got just the thing.”
Buzz went back to the kitchen and came out with a steaming bowl and basket of rolls while Adolfo let an old ratty-looking man into the diner. The old guy was in need of a shave, and he shuffled as if his ankles were tied together with a foot-long rope. Without saying a word, the man took the seat at the end of the counter and Buzz put the soup and bread in front of him. He then served the man a cup of coffee and poured plenty of cream in it.
The only person who didn’t understand what was going on seemed to be Jennifer, who watched the man out of the corner of her eye while she ate her pie.
Adolfo came out of the pantry in his coat, cap on his head. “I’m away,” he said to Buzz. “Señora, Señorita—hasta mañana.”
While Buzz was busy with something in the kitchen, Gloria talked about her husband, Harmon, who had had a stroke four years before. She found him on the garage floor, near death. Somehow he pulled through, but with fewer than half his former capabilities. He couldn’t communicate very well, but she claimed to do all the communicating for him. He went from bed to wheelchair to bed and could only be left alone for periods of a couple of hours at a time, so when she worked or ran errands, her neighbor looked in on him and called Gloria’s cell phone if she was needed. “To tell the truth, I work for a break. You have no idea how hard it is to take care of an invalid. Hard on the heart, too.”
The man at the end of the counter stood up and shuffled out the back door without a word, without a thank you or a goodbye.
“Is he homeless?” Jennifer asked.
“Oh my, no. He lives a couple of blocks away. Widower. We don’t see too much of him, but Buzz always reminds him that by the end of the day there’s usually food that’s going to get thrown away, if he’s interested. Once in a while, he comes down here and relieves us of the waste.” Gloria got up and cleared away the old man’s plates. “Not much of a tipper,” she laughed. And then, “You’re welcome,” she yelled toward the door.
The next couple of weeks Jennifer learned that there was much more to the diner than met the eye. More specifically, there was so much more to Buzz. His waitresses needed their jobs—jobs that seemed to be specifically designed for them. And he seemed to have a regular clientele of hungry people who needed a charitable bite to eat. Jennifer even saw Buzz tip his flask over a cup of coffee a transient was having.
“Did I see you just give that man a drink?”
“Appeared he needed one,” Buzz said, clearly not interested in discussing it.
And then she realized that Buzz had his own little meals-on-wheels service. He frequently excused himself from the diner for just a few minutes with a take-out carton in a grocery-store sack. Or he’d ask Adolfo or Hedda if they’d drop something by Miss Simms’s or Mr. Haddock’s place as they were leaving. It didn’t appear to be a scheduled service, unless he had a schedule in his head. Buzz seemed to know when and where to fill a need.
* * *
Saturday morning, around nine, found the diner packed to capacity and Hedda was serving up a storm. Jennifer was getting the hang of this waiting business, but she was nothing compared to Hedda in speed and accuracy. “Don’t worry about it,” Hedda told her. “You’re doing great, and I can back you up.”
Hedda was picking up orders from the grill and switched the radio station to something with a little more boogy to it. “Oh, Mother Mary,” Buzz complained.
A song by Usher blasted into the little diner and Hedda said, “Oh, yeah!”
Balancing two complete breakfasts on her arm and a coffeepot in her hand, she two-stepped across the floor in her high-top, rubber-toed athletic shoes to the rhythm of the hip-hop. She put them on the table with a flourish, poured the coffee in spurts that matched the beat, then hopped away from the table on her way back to the counter.
Someone in the diner began to tap on a tabletop to the beat while someone else clinked a utensil against a saucer. Encouraged, Hedda continued to dance around the diner while she picked up plates. It was irresistible to Jennifer, who had always loved to dance. She joined in, moving to the beat as she went from table to booth to table, picking up dishes, then hopped backward and around in a circle just as Hedda had done. They met in the middle, bumped rumps, did a few hops and high-fived each other. There was a bit of laughter and the tapping turned to table banging, which only served as encouragement.
As the waitresses hopped and slid and wriggled around the diner, the patrons kept the beat with enthusiasm. The song was a mere three minutes long, and when it came to an end they took a bow and erupted into laughter. There was a little applause from their tiny gallery. “You’re all right, Doris,” Hedda said. And she whispered, “Think any of these tightwads will cough up an extra dollar?”
At the end of the shift they pooled their tips and divided them. It had been a good morning; Hedda’s face lit up as she pocketed sixty dollars. “Yeah, I think I might go to that prom. My boyfriend, Max, thinks he can borrow his older brother’s car for the night.”
“Here,” Jennifer said, handing her another twenty. “You did twice the work I did.”
“No way,” she refused. “A deal’s a deal. Besides, it was busier than usual. And I think that little hip-hop brought us in a little extra.”
“It was a nice break from la orquesta,” Jennifer laughed.
“Hedda,” a woman called sharply.
Both waitresses turned to see Hedda’s mother standing in the diner door with her seven-year-old boy by the hand. Jennifer wouldn’t have recognized her by the way she looked—her appearance was so much improved from the other day in the doorway of the bungalow. But the sharp tone of her voice was unmistakable. Jennifer was a little startled to see that up close the woman was about her own age, give or take a year. She must have had Hedda as a teenager. She was dressed and made up for work, an old trench coat obviously covering a sexy waitress uniform that included black hose and heels. She was, in fact, an attractive blonde, though a little on the pale side. She would definitely be prettier if she had a smile on her face instead of an expression of sheer annoyance.
“Did you forget something?” she asked.
“I was just on my way, Mama. Mama, meet Doris—a new waitress here. Doris, this is my mom, Sylvia.”
“Hello,” Sylvia said shortly. “Hedda, you’re going to make me late by screwing around.”
“Sorry, Mama. Just let me get Joey a soda and then I’ll take him home.” Hedda crouched. “How’d you like that, skipper? Cherry Coke?”
“Yeah!” he said, climbing up on a stool.
“Hedda, I have to talk to you for a minute,” Sylvia said. She turned around and headed out the door.
“I’ll get that Coke,” Jennifer said. “Nice meeting you,” she called after the woman.
Sylvia
turned and gave a nod, but she was all about business. Late for work, Jennifer decided. She watched through the front window while Hedda and her mom talked for a moment and then Hedda reached into her pocket, withdrew her tip money and peeled off two twenties, handing them to her mom. Then, as Sylvia’s hand remained extended, Hedda put out all she had.
Jennifer felt her heart twist. She hoped she would see Sylvia give her daughter a kiss or hug or some show of affection—at least a smile—but when Sylvia just walked away, Jennifer’s twisted heart sank.
Hedda stayed outside awhile after her mother left, staring in the direction of her departure. When she came back inside, she was quieter. To her credit she kept her chin up. And she didn’t say a thing about giving her mother money.
* * *
There was a coin-operated washer and dryer at the Sunset Motel, so Jennifer put on her sweat suit, the first purchase she had made after fleeing the MGM Grand, and washed her clothing and sheets. Nothing in her life felt more like luxury—even in her Fort Lauderdale condo—than clean sheets. These sheets were a little on the muslin side rather than the nice six-hundred-count at home, but it was the clean smell that counted.
In bed, cozied up to the smell of Downy, ready for a guiltless sleep, she heard the sounds of a neighborhood that was still awake through the thin walls. Someone played a radio too loudly and young peoples’ voices could be heard from another block. There were the occasional horns honking, engines revving and the unmistakable sound of a skateboard whizzing past her room.
What am I doing here? she asked herself for the millionth time. Of all the things she had considered for her future, her imagination had never ventured this far. She had thought about a career in real estate, or maybe even a travel agency.
She wasn’t missing her sexy clothes, nor did she lament frequent trips to fancy spas or resorts. She hadn’t wanted to be the other woman for life and, in fact, the sooner she could leave all that behind, the better. But one thing she had never seen coming was what appeared to be a return to the tough times of her youth.