“The standards?” His composure causes me to grapple with the fact that I am still lost in a trance. Brown Eyes wants me to elaborate, probably questioning my waitressing intelligence. I fall, hard and fast, back to reality. My intuition stands up, dusting her knees and elbows.
I blink deliberately and look down at my blank order book. I can feel the heat rise in my cheeks as I try to remember wine brands. I try to eliminate the robotic nuances as I begin to recite, “We have the Syrah which goes well with meat like beef and steak. The Malbec complements exotic dishes like Cajun or Indian. The Pinot Noir brings out the flavor in grilled salmon and chicken. And the Merlot is compatible with practically any entrée.”
“Which one is your favorite?” Brown Eyes surprises me with his question. Whether he is simply making small talk or genuinely inquisitive, Brown Eyes strikes me as too worldly to care about what a simple waitress like me prefers.
No one, more specifically a customer, has ever asked me for my preference before. But then again, I have only worked here for six months. I keep my voice as steady as I can. “Um, I don’t drink wine.” Oh May. Can you be professional and just suggest something? Like this amazingly striking man actually cares about your preferences. I wish for the ground to swallow me up.
“What do you drink then?” Brown Eyes presses further, giving me the impression that he is trying to help salvage my embarrassment of being so inexperienced.
“Coffee.” I find myself whispering. “It keeps me awake for the long shifts.”
“Coffee,” Brown Eyes echoes after me. For the life of me, I cannot imagine why he cares to carry on this awkward conversation. Swiftly, Brown Eyes nods his head before he changes the subject back to the wine order. “We’ll have the Merlot then.” A look crosses his face. Maybe he is wondering why I am rambling on. His eyes glow for some reason, leading me to speculation.
I nod my head at Brown Eyes’ concise wine order and push for the appetizer and entrées next. “Would you . . . and everyone else . . . like to order right now?”
The other men around the table are staring inquisitively at me. Did I speak a foreign language? I look back at them with the same awkwardness. Brown Eyes mumbles incoherently in a foreign tongue that I catch as American English. As though they finally have permission to speak, the men at the table fire off. They make it a point to flip through the menus and gesture toward the entrées.
I keep my composure as I write down their orders. At our monthly staff meetings, Son often holds a waiting contest. I have always placed second to Son when it comes to memorizing and taking down customers’ orders. Today, however, I am having some problems for a number of reasons. The most significant and distracting reason is Brown Eyes. He seems to survive without the need to blink. Even when he is telling me his order of the steak, Brown Eyes keeps his gaze steady and unrelenting on me.
“That will be all,” Brown Eyes says after the last member of his group orders. His voice is controlled, but it carries with it a beat of breathlessness.
Why is he so good-looking even when he wants to shoo me away? “Thank you. I will put your orders in and be back with your Merlot.” I close my black order book and proceed to collect the menus.
Brown Eyes leans back in his chair languidly. He drapes a casual arm against the back of his chair and watches me intently. He doesn’t say a word and neither do the other men at the table.
The last menu slips out of my fingers onto the table, and the man to my left helps me. He leans forward and his eyes are soft, almost apologetic. If I can read his mind, he is probably telling me he’s sorry that his handsome Boss makes me so clumsy. Maybe Brown Eyes mesmerizes waitresses all the time. The other men around the table are catching on and they are forming identical, amused expressions.
“Thank you,” I mumble to Brown Eyes’ helpful man. I quickly tuck the menus under my arm and walk away from the table. My heart races and I realize my palms are sweaty. Don’t trip. Don’t trip. When I find balance on the main restaurant floor again, my thoughts continue to dance.
Aish! What is going on? Why did I turn into some kind of silly putty just because an overwhelmingly attractive and enticing customer gazes at me like that? I am usually immune to that kind of attention. A voice on the right side of my shoulder whispers, “Because he’s not like the rest. That God-given creature is staring at you!” The other voice, on the left side of my shoulder, hisses, “Just because he asked you what you like to drink doesn’t mean he wants to marry you. Get it together May.”
I shake my head to chase away the train of thoughts. An electric current is rushing through my veins, waking me up from a long and deep slumber. Suddenly, the night does not seem too long and tedious. I feel as if I can wait tables and serve customers until sunrise.
I try to suppress the giddy schoolgirl inside of me, dying to free herself and somersault all the way back to table twelve. I head through the throng of tables to the kitchen. The chef and his assistants are bustling around the large oval kitchen. As usual, the kitchen staff is attempting to complete the restaurant’s orders in an assembly line manner. I place table twelve’s order on top of the waiting counter.
“Excuse me,” I mutter to a kitchen staff when I am inches away from colliding into him. He is carrying ten dirty dishes in his arms; he nods his head in acknowledgement and continues his gait to the other side of the kitchen.
I head to the small cellar in the back of the kitchen where we keep the wine. The Trax stocks its wine in large, ornate cabinets that line the entire wall. All the wine, including exclusive alcohol bottles, is ordered by date. Since the Merlot is one of our most popular choices, I have no trouble finding its signature dark bottle. I extract the bottle of Merlot from the cabinet and walk to the right side of the closet to pull out five wine glasses.
“How’d it go?” Joolie enters the kitchen with an armful of dirty dishes. Her cheeks flush with color to match the stars in her eyes. “Isn’t he gorgeous?” Joolie doesn’t need to elaborate on who it is at table twelve.
“Not really.” I squeeze by Joolie, hoping she doesn’t see the lie on my face. “He’s . . . too pretty.”
“Pretty? He’s drop-dead gorgeous May!” Joolie gives me a desperate and devious smile. “I’ve never seen him here before. He must be in town for business or something. They’re all wearing suits and ties at that table.”
“Yeah,” I mumble. Before I can stop myself, my mouth runs away from me. “I think I’ve seen him before.” I feel my intuition grimacing at my confession. It is too soon for such a conclusion, but I can’t help the nagging feeling brewing at the pit of my stomach.
“You know what,” Joolie interjects as her eyes gloss over, “you’re right. Me too! He looks like that actor, Song Seung Hun! I watch his dramas all the time.”
No. Not that kind of familiar. A wave of disappointment comes over me. I let out at laugh at Joolie’s interpretation of my comment. “I have to go. I owe table twelve their drinks.”
“You know we’ve never seen anyone like that before!” Joolie laughs as I exit the kitchen.
I shake my head at Joolie’s joke. I continue back to the bustling restaurant. When I near her table, Number Nine waves at me. Her Martini glass is empty and she is undoubtedly requesting a refill. I give her a quick acknowledgement smile.
“The shipment should be arriving in about two hours.” The man sitting to the left of Brown Eyes, the one who helped me when I dropped one of the menus earlier, is reporting in a voice that is slightly above an octave of a shrill.
“And all the heads are accounted for?” Brown Eyes questions in that same signature calm and controlled tone.
“Yes,” Menu Helper answers. “Boss,” he adds anxiously.
The rise and fall of their syllables signal a secret and important conversation. Almost immediately, I feel as though I am brushing against a restless monster living in a foreign world. I know things like danger and violence existing in the world, but to interact and be in the presence of its citizens
is new territory for me. A chill comes over me when I catch Brown Eyes’ title.
“Here are your drinks.” He’s making me feel like I am interrupting something important. The thought crosses my mind when I set the bottle of Merlot on the table. I keep my eyes low as the heat in my cheek rises yet again. I hope he doesn’t think I am eavesdropping on his conversation.
“Thank you.” Brown Eyes disquiet voice permeates the air.
“No problem,” I mumble as I keep my hands steady. I place the wine glasses at the center of the table. From the depths of my waitress apron, I produce a wine opener. With precision, I wrap it around the tip of the Merlot and twist. I am well aware that I have the undivided attention of all five clients as I open the bottle. I remind myself to breathe when I fill their glasses. After I am done, I gesture with open palms at their glasses of wine.
Whew! I look calm and professional. Inside, I am one impulse away from bolting off the platform table twelve is elevated on.
In unison, the men thank me and I leave. Just as I turn, I make the amateur mistake of glancing at Brown Eyes again. He has his eyes on me, intense and just as provocative as moments ago. I cannot understand his curiosity in me, but I can understand my curiosity for him.
I have seen him before, I tell myself. I just cannot remember from where or when. A face like his is truly unforgettable, but I cannot pinpoint any relevancy. It crosses my mind that maybe he is thinking the same. He remembers me from somewhere too, but cannot pinpoint it either. However, Brown Eyes doesn’t strike me as the kind who would struggle with his memory. I do my best to back away from table twelve without tripping on my own two feet.
“Maybelline! Table two!” Son shouts my name from across the room again. He is pointing frantically at the new group of people pouring in.
I breathe a sigh of relief. For once, I am glad that Son always has an endless list of responsibilities for me. I turn toward the direction of table two and allow the increasing foot traffic at The Trax to distract me. I take table two’s orders and spend more than five minutes helping the clients understand the differences between our popular sauces.
From my peripheral view as the night progresses, I am well aware that Brown Eyes scans the room for me occasionally. Despite the seemingly serious topics at his table, Brown Eyes’ gaze catches moments of me throughout the restaurant. His gazes are always brief, but the effect they have on me is long lasting. The dance of I-see-you-looking-at-me goes on even after their entrées.
By the time I deliver the check to table twelve, Brown Eyes picks up the black book with great ease and asks me, “When is your break time?”
Once again, his question takes me back. My next break time is not until another hour, but the latter part of me, the part that believes in happily-ever-after blurts out, “Five more minutes” instead. What is he going to do now that he knows?
Brown Eyes hands me back the checkbook with his credit card neatly placed inside. I am nearly transported to a different world when his lips break into a striking smile. He states simply, “I hope you enjoy your break. You’ve been working very hard,” and I try to stop myself from melting into the floor. I keep the smile on my face and take the checkbook from him.
I keep my composure as I walk to the cashier’s counter to charge his card.
Did you think someone as handsome, mysterious, intelligent, and beguiling as that man is going to ask you on a brief date on your break? My thoughts scold me. I want to laugh, but the humor buries between embarrassment and desire.
When I return with the checkbook, I drop it off quickly and head over to the next table. I spend no more than a minute chatting with the customers when I notice the activity at table twelve. One-by-one, the men at table twelve leave. They must think I am the waitress utterly smitten with their Boss. Menu Helper nods his head in my direction when he notices I am looking their way. Brown Eyes is on the phone now, his eyebrows coming together to form an expression that should never come across his striking features. He heads the line out of the restaurant. Brown Eyes’ stride is confident, inexorable, and ambitious. Brown Eyes doesn’t look back at me when he exits the doors with his men in tow.
“It’s almost nine!” Son’s voice cuts across my silent observation.
I snap out of my daze and pick up a dirty plate from the neighboring table. I make my way back to table twelve to pick up the payment. The black checkbook is shut, but I can visibly see the final receipt sticking from the top. Absentmindedly, I pick up the checkbook. The thin, glossy paper flutters out of the checkbook. I almost let out a gasp when I see the final amount. The Trax, with all its commotion, disappears in the background.
$280 dollars. $100 tip for May–for her superior customer service. His writing is elegant, concise, and defined.
CHAPTER ONE
My birth name is Maybelline Lee.
I am not entirely sure if the makeup brand Maybelline was already established when I was born, but my parents decided to add a Western touch to my Korean name Mayi Lee. My father was convinced that his children were destined to relocate to the United States one day. Bless his heart; my father was every bit of a romantic. However, despite the good measure that Maybelline symbolizes all things feminine embedded between the sleek pages of any given magazine, the name was lost in meaning when it rolled down the tongues of evil schoolboys who teased me for its difficult pronunciation. So, I shortened my name to the plain and simple month of May. May reminds me of springtime with colorful flowers and rays of sunshine; Maybelline reminds me of cosmetics on old women’s faces trying to be younger, and young girls trying to be older.
In many ways, I am a simple girl in the simple world I work hard to maintain. Contrary to others around my age, I enjoy reading a good book as opposed to going out on a Friday night. My literacy heroines and heroes live in the dark literatures of Edgar Allan Poe, Stephen King, and Anne Rice to name a few. I go jogging, at least once a week, with my cousin because she is a health freak and insists I put my body through the torture. I possess no special talent except for my hospitality and workaholic determination. I am particularly partial to these characteristics.
I currently attend Seoul University as a junior in the noted department of psychology. I am optimistic about studying the malleable human psyche and all of its imperfections–a saying I once read in a prominent psychology book. It sounds great in theory to observe and analyze people, but when it comes to applicability, I am still not brave enough to apply for an internship. In the grand scheme of things, college is the great milestone I wish to conquer. This explains why I am juggling two jobs to save money for college in the fall. With every passing semester, it is increasingly difficult to come up with enough funds for books and tuition.
On top of being a workaholic this summer, I make it a point to remind myself, “This is it, my twenty-first year. It’s my time to be an adult.”
The first step to being an adult is to stress myself out and divide not only my time, but also body, across my ventures. In order to eliminate idle time and increase the numbers associated with my bank account, I have my schedule filled for seven days a week from morning to night. In the daytime, I work at the local convenience store, Sansachun, as a registrar and product maintenance specialist–which is a fancy title for checking off inventory, stocking products on shelves, and keeping the store organized. At night, I work as a waitress at The Trax. The Trax is my last resort for a second income. Although the venue is a lively and somewhat reputable place to work for, The Trax calls the most dangerous part of town home. It is a spinning top because members from different social scales mingle there. Dating, including other unmentionable vices, parades The Trax like a breeding ground.
Mall jobs are hard to come by during the summer season, and I am too young and inexperienced to work at the real clubs. The Trax offers quite an attractive incentive with its pay. Occasionally, I make a substantial amount of tips that would rival any waitress at any high-end restaurant.
Nevertheless, no one has ever
tipped me a hundred dollars. Brown Eyes left quite the impression on me.
I end up keeping a copy of the tip receipt inside Nicolas Spark’s The Notebook, not because Brown Eyes’ nice handwriting is on it, but because it is a testament that I actually have a hundred dollar tip to my name. I am not sure if I am fascinated with the flattery, that someone thinks my customer service skills is worth that much, or if it is simply the notion that someone like Brown Eyes thinks I am special enough. I simply reduce it down to the simple fact that such a man fascinates me.
That Saturday night served as a reminder that even the mundane and recycled routines at The Trax can be open-ended. Days after, my usual pattern of work, sleep, and repeat continues. I let go of the glimmer of hope that Brown Eyes will be coming back anytime soon to have another business dinner. Someone of his caliber and importance probably dines at a gazillion restaurants and bars that easily outrank The Trax.
It is next to impossible that someone can consume my thoughts only after meeting him just once. No one man, or person for that matter, has ever made such an impression on me. This could possibly stem from the fact that I am not a social person, and I have not met enough people to refine my social skills, but I am sure that someone like Brown Eyes can rattle even the most experienced social butterflies. On top of that, there exists another unnerving fact that I coyly try to dance around. It is the fact that Brown Eyes strikes me as something familiar to a faded memory. I have met him before, but I cannot track the time or place. The notion that I met him a long time ago makes for a discomforting thought now.
The only time I am distracted from thinking about Brown Eyes is when I am working. I chalk it up to late adolescent fascination about a man I know nothing of, including the dark and captivating world he comes from. Even in my dreams for days to come, Brown Eyes haunts me in a bittersweet way.
April Loves Black Coffee: First Impressions Page 2