Maybe Jenny Green could get some use out of Bethany’s soap-making supplies? If they really were friends, Bethany would rather her molds go to her fellow soap maker than get tossed in a landfill. I packed it all up as best I could and set it aside for her. I knew that Izzy had her phone number, but rather than bugging her at work, I pulled Jenny’s YouTube feed up on my phone, then followed her links to her Twitter account. I switched from the Untapped account to my own, and composed a DM saying that I wanted to talk to her if she had a minute.
My phone rang almost immediately, and I snatched it up and swiped to answer, not looking at the display name until it was too late. The caller ID was from Untapped, and the voice on the other end was Todd’s. “Odessa, good.”
I never answered the phone before checking the display screen, and I rarely ever picked up an unknown number. My only excuse was I was hoping to hear from Marco or Jenny, which had overridden my common sense. “Hey, what’s up, boss?”
“I need you to take the evening shift.”
“Tonight?” I asked.
“No, New Year’s Eve,” he said, his irritation thinly veiled as sarcasm. “How soon can you get here?”
“I don’t know, Todd . . .”
“Cry me a river. You think you’re the first person I called? You can hardly handle a morning shift.” Ouch. That hurt. I was a good waitress. Well, a competent one, at least. It wasn’t my fault that I’d been a little distracted lately. “You’re the only one who picked up the phone. So tag, you’re it.” Before I could argue, he disconnected.
I guessed I was working that night.
All I needed to do was change, feed Rufus, and . . . Oh yeah. He was out of food. I had no idea when I was going to be able to get back tonight. It wasn’t fair to Rufus to make him miss dinner. The café would have to wait.
Like almost every street in New York, there was a bodega on the corner. The tiny cramped convenience stores stocked the basics—milk, bread, cereal—at astronomical prices. But it still beat schlepping groceries from one of the few big supermarkets. The bodega half a block away sold cat food, carob covered peanuts, fresh flowers, and a selection of groceries with brand names I’d never heard of before.
I grabbed a variety of cans of cat food and paid cash at the register. They had a card reader, but it had been “down for maintenance” for as long as I’d been in the neighborhood. Instead, the owner directed customers to the ATM in the back, the one that charged an eight-dollar service fee. I wouldn’t be surprised if the ATM owner was the same as the bodega owner. Good thing I remembered to bring cash.
Back in the apartment, I opened the cabinet where the cat food is supposed to go, and found a Post-It note on the empty shelf written in Izzy’s handwriting. “Check the fridge.” I removed the note and lined the cans up on the shelf. It would be so much cheaper if Aunt Melanie bought cat food in bulk or at least had it delivered as a subscription service. But even an apartment as nice as this one only had room for a few days’ worth of food, and I wasn’t sure if subscription services sold anything less than a month’s worth at a time.
Cans put away, I opened up the refrigerator and found a medium-sized plastic bowl with “Rufus” written in black marker on the side. I pulled it out and examined the notecard taped to the top. “Serve 1/3c 3x/day.” Underneath that was a list of ingredients, which was surprisingly simple—chicken, liver, rice, green beans, and broth. I opened it up and took a sniff. It wasn’t what I would call appetizing, but it smelled better than what I normally fed him from the can, and it didn’t have a suspicious oily sheen on top.
“What do you think, Rufus?” I asked, offering him the bowl for him to smell. He approached it tentatively, sniffed, and then finally licked it. Then he buried his face in the bowl, grabbed a huge mouthful, and ran into the living room. “I guess it’s Rufus-approved.”
I had no idea where Izzy came up with the idea for homemade cat food, but it sounded like a good idea to me. It had to be healthier than the fillers they shoved into the commercially produced stuff. She’d gone to all the trouble to make it, and he seemed to like it, so the least I could do was try it for a couple of days and see how it went.
After Rufus was fed, I got ready for work. I sure missed my cowboy boots. It was bad enough walking around Brooklyn in flip-flops, but to work in them? I couldn’t begin to imagine how my feet would feel after a shift in the flimsy shoes, assuming that the glass-laced-sandpaper thong strap between my toes didn’t kill me first.
I glanced over at the boxes. Among the miscellany that represented Bethany’s entire existence had been several pairs of shoes. Two of them had been gorgeous and completely impractical, the kind that were designed to break a neck. But there had also been a pair of black orthopedic loafers. And they were in my size.
Wearing a dead person’s shoes wasn’t my first choice, but I was desperate. Besides, I’d worn clothes from thrift stores before, hadn’t I? Lots of times! The chances that their original owner—or maybe owners, plural—had fled this earthly plane were pretty high. I grabbed a pair of my socks from my drawer—I drew the line at wearing a dead person’s socks—and stepped into the loafers. They were ugly as dirt, but man, were they comfortable.
More comfortable than cowboy boots, if I had to be honest. Not that I would tell my beloved boots that, may they rest in peace. I was never going to make fun of orthopedic shoes ever again.
Even though I hurried all the way to work, the first thing I heard when I stepped inside Untapped Books & Café was Todd’s whiny voice. “Took you long enough,” he complained. “I thought you lived in that swanky building near McCarren Park, not in Jersey.”
I was raised to respect my elders, but I’d had enough from Todd. “First off, I got here as quick as I could, as a favor to you.”
He cut me off. “A favor? I’m doing you a favor. After that stunt you pulled yesterday? You’re lucky you still have a job. Cutting out in the middle of the shift, and bringing Huckleberry back looking like a poodle with mange. I’m surprised you didn’t paint his toenails and put a bow on his tail.”
I caught a glimpse of Izzy coming around the counter to defend me. Technically, she had been the one to shave him, but I didn’t want her getting into trouble, too. “You’re welcome, by the way. He could hardly see before, and couldn’t have been comfortable in this heat wearing all that matted fur.”
“Well, he looks stupid,” Todd argued. “You probably want a trophy or something now.”
I ignored his barb. Todd never missed a chance to “own the millennials,” as he liked to say. “And second, how do you know where I stay?” I knew that when I’d filled out my job application, I’d put down my permanent address in Piney Island.
“You don’t think I’d miss Bethany’s wake, do you? She was my friend, too. Are you gonna get to work, or what?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, too surprised to be annoyed with him anymore. Todd considered Bethany his friend? Bethany hated him, and had been very vocal about that fact, to his face. For that matter, most of the employees despised him, and not just because he was a manager. Andre was a manager, too, but everyone adored him. Unlike Todd, Andre was upbeat and helpful. He directed us without being a bully. He didn’t talk down to us or make us listen to his boring—and often offensive—jokes.
Izzy caught my attention as I headed back toward the café. “Hope you don’t mind, but I spoke to Earl on my way out this morning, and reserved the pool for tomorrow night. Everyone has to clear out by ten and we’re responsible for cleaning up after.”
“Thanks for arranging that,” I told her. She nodded and turned away, but not before I saw tears glistening in her eyes.
Everybody dealt with loss in different ways. Izzy and Bethany had been friends, but instead of letting her grief overwhelm her, Izzy was throwing a party in her honor. Todd and Bethany hadn’t gotten along one whit, but now that she was gone, he could pretend that they
were besties. Was that what I was doing, too? Maybe I was consumed with finding Bethany’s killer so I wouldn’t feel guilty that I wasn’t more upset over the sudden passing of someone I barely knew, and by all accounts, might not have even liked that much if I had known her better.
After stashing my bag and putting on my apron, it was time to face the afternoon crowd. I almost bumped into Kim as she brought in a stack of dirty dishes from the courtyard. “Hey, I thought you were working days to train the new girl,” I said.
“I was. She quit, and I ended up picking up a double.” The bell rang from the kitchen window. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” I stepped out of her way so she could go drop off the dirty plates and grab full ones to distribute to new customers.
I guess that was why no one bothered learning a new server’s name for a few days. I wished Hana had stuck around a little longer, though. I’d never met anyone from Slovakia before, and I’d been looking forward to learning more about her native country.
Another waitress came up to me. “Odds or evens?” She was average height, but was built like a pin-up girl and even the baggy neon green polo shirt did nothing to disguise her curves. She had curly red hair that was caught up in a high ponytail that bounced when she walked.
I hadn’t met her before, and had to glance at her apron to learn her name, Emilie. “Hi, I’m Odessa.”
She rolled her eyes. “Not what I asked. Look, not trying to be rude or nothing, but we’re slammed and . . .”
“Odds,” I told her.
She winked. “Good luck.” Then she turned and, ponytail bobbing behind her, headed off toward her tables.
There are lots of ways to divvy tables into sections. The easiest is when one server takes the right half of the room, and the other server takes the left. Then there’s the first-come method which gets pretty confusing after a long shift and can result in one table getting overlooked. Apparently, Emilie’s favorite was splitting it up according to table numbers, which was fine with me.
I scanned the odd-numbered tables. Three needed menus, so I dropped those off first. Seven had empty plates, so I cleared those away, got their check from Emilie, and dropped that off. She’d get the tip—she’d earned it. Then I saw who was sitting at Table Nine, and realized why she’d been thrilled I hadn’t chosen evens.
“Hey. Seth, right?” I said as I reached his table. As usual, Seth was drinking coffee, black. From the looks of the rings on the plastic tabletop, he’d been sitting here for a while, taking advantage of the free refills and monopolizing a whole table.
“Yup. Top me off, will ya?” he asked, not looking up from his laptop. He pushed his coffee cup toward me.
I didn’t pay much attention to him when he always sat in Bethany’s section before, but now he was my problem. “Look, Seth, if it were up to me, I wouldn’t mind you sitting here all night nursing free refills, but people are waiting for a table. Why don’t you move over to the bar?” There were several stools free, which was a minor miracle in itself. “Or, maybe, I can put this in a to-go cup?” I didn’t like to be rude, especially not to a customer, but it wasn’t fair to the other diners.
“Nah, I’m good here,” he replied, leaning back in his chair. “Are you going to Bethany’s wake tomorrow?”
Not answering him, I swept up his coffee cup. “I’ll be right back with that refill.” Then, instead of going back to the kitchen, I detoured toward the front desk to find Izzy turning the cash register over to Andre.
“Hey, Odessa, how’s my favorite little Southern-fried Belle doing today?” Andre asked. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was flirting with me. The way he always made eye contact when he was speaking with someone made them feel special. “Didn’t see you on the schedule for tonight.”
“Todd called me in,” I explained. I didn’t think I’d ever worked a full shift with Andre before, and I was looking forward to it. Most of all, I was determined to prove to him—and everyone else—that I wasn’t just a mediocre waitress. “Hey, has anyone named Stefanie ever worked here?”
“We’ve probably had a dozen Stefanies with an f, Stephanies with a ph, Stephs, Stevens . . .” His voice trailed off. “None in the last year that I can think of, but with turnover being what it is, well, you know.”
I nodded. New Girl syndrome. “That’s what I thought. Thanks.” I turned to Izzy. “I’d rather you not invite customers to Bethany’s wake,” I told her. “You said you’d keep it small.”
“I didn’t invite any customers,” she protested as she gathered up her belongings. “Just a few folks here, and a couple of her friends outside of work.”
I frowned. “Then how did Seth hear about it?” I asked.
“You mean that creepy guy who only ever came in here to drink coffee and ogle Bethany all day? I would never invite him. Maybe he overheard a few of us talking?”
“How many is a few?”
“I don’t know, a couple,” Izzy said. “My shift’s over, but we can talk about this at home, later, okay?”
“Sure. Don’t forget, we also need to invite Bethany’s roommates, her ex, and Jenny Green,” I reminded her. Combined with whoever showed up from work, we already had a guest list in the double digits. And now random near-strangers were planning to attend as well. I had a bad feeling about this.
19
Untapped Books & Café @untappedwilliamsburg ∙ June 27
Halloween in June? Why not! We’ve got Werewolf Pup, Zomb-IPA, and Frankenbrew on ice, waiting for you #IPA #craftbeer #drinklocal
THE DIFFERENCES BETWEEN the morning and evening shifts were—and I really don’t want to say this—night and day. With people ordering more beers than food, I finally had a chance to use some of that craft beer trivia I’d memorized. Werewolf Pup had quite a bite, as the name suggested. Yes, As Sour As Pickles got its signature tartness from the yeast, not from adding artificial flavors. Pour Williamsburg Pale Ale was as local as it got—it’s brewed and bottled right here. Frankenbrew was a little like the Kitchen Sink Dark Ale we had last week, only smoother.
I glanced over our remaining stock, noticing a trend. It must have been a full moon or something, because half the names in the refrigerator case had spooky names like Zomb-IPA. I took a few pictures with my cell phone, but it looked more like a package store than the Untapped “brand,” so I grabbed a few bottles with appealing labels and carried them out to the bookstore section.
Few customers browsed the stacks this time of night. Mostly, they were café customers waiting for a table. But who knew? Maybe they’d find something even better than tonight’s special—grilled apple, fennel, and tri-blend cheese on locally baked sourdough. I’d gotten to try a bite of it when a customer sent hers back because she hadn’t realized that our sourdough bread wasn’t gluten-free, and it was delicious. No offense to mom’s grilled cheese sandwiches, but these were a whole different level.
“Whatcha doin?” Andre asked, watching me wander around the shelves with several bottles of beer tucked into my apron and under my arms.
“Oh, you know me, just goofing off.” I set the beers down on a display table, artfully arranged around a stack of colorful books. Huckleberry wandered over to investigate what I was doing, and with a little bit of encouragement, he jumped up onto one of the big overstuffed seats we keep for customers, curled up, and laid his nose down on the arm of the chair. Framed by the big front windows, I got a few good pictures. “That ought to do it.” I uploaded the pictures and caption to all of our social media accounts.
I know Todd only assigned me the task of social media manager because he didn’t want to deal with it, but I had to admit that it was fun. I liked being creative, and I loved watching the funny comments pour in. Then I frowned down at my screen as a new comment from Stefanie99NYC popped up, worried that she was going to berate me again for still not posting a Bethany tribute, but instead she posted a heart followed by a beer mug em
oji. Crisis averted.
“When you get a chance, mind taking out the trash?” Andre asked. “Kitchen’s got their hands full, I’m sure.”
“No problem,” I replied, gathering up the beer bottles to return to the fridge. I made certain to always hold them by their label, not the pry-off lids. If I was a customer, the last thing I’d want was to be served a beer that tasted like armpit. Then again, to my unsophisticated palate, that described some of the most popular of the IPAs we carried, although our customers would fight me if I said that out loud.
Andre wasn’t kidding. The trash barrel in the kitchen was overflowing, and even as I gathered the edges of the bag to tie them together, Silvia, the night cook, tossed a handful of apple peels into it. We needed a composting plan. It made no sense to throw away so much organic material that could be used to fertilize local gardens instead of taking up space in a landfill. I reminded myself to bring it up to Andre or Todd later.
I lugged the heavy bag through the narrow hallway and out the back door, musing over what a difference it made when Andre asked me nicely to do something versus Todd shouting orders. Either way, taking out the trash was a smelly chore, but at least this way I didn’t resent doing it half as much.
Two customers I recognized as regulars were blocking the back door, and when I kicked it open—my hands were full—the heavy door almost hit them. “Watch it!” one of them snapped at me.
“What are you even doing out here?” I asked, then noticed that both of them were puffing away at vapes. Ever since New York made it illegal to vape or use e-cigarettes anyplace that smoking was already prohibited, the vapers were forced to huddle outside along with the few remaining cigarette smokers.
“Duh,” the taller customer—I think his name was Jose or maybe George—said, gesturing with his colorful vape pen as he released a cloud of grape-scented vapor into the air. He was one of the few customers tonight who looked familiar to me. For the most part, the night shift regulars would remain strangers unless I graduated to one of the more desirable shifts.
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