September Rain Bk 2, Savor The Days Series

by A. R. Rivera

  Better still, there is no music playing this morning. No acoustic guitars. No haunting young boys with bronze hair and hazel eyes.

  +++

  Taking a deep breath, I sit down at the back table, across from an older, heavy-set man. His name tag says, Zane. He has buzzed salt and pepper hair and bright blue eyes. His hand rests across the table. In it, he holds my application. Glancing between me and the paper, he takes a deep breath.

  “Can you skate?”

  I nod, “Yes, sir.”

  “How good are you?”

  “Been skating my whole life. It’s one of my favorite things to do.”

  He nods. “You know this is under the table, right? I need someone who won’t ask for a W-2, which is why the job comes with the apartment upstairs and two comp meals a day. Another employee puts Mom and Pop into a higher tax bracket and they’re gonna be retiring in a few years.”

  I nod my head as if this is standard. “Yes. Your parents own the place?”

  “Nah. I’m the night manager. I came in this morning for the interview.” Zane takes a napkin from the dispenser on the table and wipes the sweat from his forehead. “Mom and Pop is just easier to say than Henrietta and Voytek.” He smiles at his little attempt at humor, so I do, too.

  “Would I have to buy my own skates?”

  Zane shakes his head. “We’ll provide you with a pair. What’s your size?”

  “Six and a half.” I mumble. “What about a uniform?” The other waitresses are all wearing black bottoms with monogrammed pockets and hot pink button-down shirts. They look like a ladies bowling league on roller skates.

  “It’s twenty-five for the uniform. You pay when you can. You know, most people don’t want to move for a low paying job.”

  “Well, it suits me. I don’t own a car and I’m in my second year of business school. My night class is just down the street. Right now, I’ve got five roommates who are all model-slash-actresses moonlighting as dancers. The house is a constant party-zone and I need a quiet place to study.”

  He smiles wide and sets a small silver key on the table between us. “You’ll do. The place is small, but it’s clean. I’ll give you a few days to get moved in. You can start Wednesday morning at seven.”

  “Great.” My face is stretched in an uncontainable grin.

  Now I just have to learn how to skate.

  +++

  I stare down at the saucer and cup in my hand. The coffee shudders inside the ceramic mug as I set it on the tabletop in front an elderly man. They say he’s here every Tuesday. He’s not the reason I’m shaking. It’s not the working on skates, either. I’m a natural skater. The first time I put them on, I could just do it. It’s easy, mostly. And way more fun than walking. I just have to remember not to swing my feet out too far on either side so I don’t kick the chairs or roll over customers toes.

  It’s the song on the radio that’s playing through the diner. Usually the music is from one of the jukeboxes, but when it’s slow, like now, the radio kicks on. It’s supposed to be an easy listening station.

  This song is anything but easy. Angel by Aerosmith.

  The sound of it still makes me want to smile, then I can’t help but remember what happened, which makes me want to curl up and die.

  Leaving the coffee and cream on the table, I turn and head back to the counter to keep busy.

  One of the beautiful things about the state of California, aside from the natural beauty, is when the state asks if you’re a convicted felon, and you check the ‘no’ box, they take your word for it. I found that out when I applied for state health insurance—it’s one of those unenforced laws. I have to manage. Management is the most important thing. I needed insurance to pay for my meds and therapy. Part of maintaining good mental health is staying away from stressful situations. Don’t get too hungry, too angry, or too sleepy. Those are my triggers. Oh, and I have to ask for help when I need it.

  The last notes of the song fade into an Elvis tune as my name is called.

  “Sheri-berry!” The grating voice of my boss calls out to me.

  “Coming,” I call back to Chip, and make one more swipe over the glass pie case before rolling to the doorway of the kitchen to poke my head inside.

  Chip is a good manager and a shitty speller. My name is supposed to be Sherry, like the wine. But when Chip printed up my nametag, it was spelled with one R and an I, like some mid-western idiot made it up. So I roll around for ten hours a day with my misspelled name pinned to my chest. Even so, everyone calls me Sheri-berry, rhyming like a stupid playground name game.

  For obvious reasons, I had to change it. I chose the best I could—the one that was easiest to remember. The lyrics from Jakes first song gave me Sherry, and then I took my mothers’ last name, Barry. I guess I was asking for it.

  I’ve settled into something here at this little out of the way diner in an old neighborhood. It’s my own routine. I work in the days and go to school at night and make time for therapy, eating, sleeping, and homework in between. It’s an odd sort of normal—maybe something like that normal that everyone is always talking about. The one they openly reject and secretly savor.

  “You rang?” My voice is low, monotone, imitating Lurch from that old Munsters TV show. Funny to those of us who are too poor for cable. If it weren’t for public access, I’d have no culture. Besides, Chip happens to look a lot like that creeper. But I don’t tell him that because he’s the only son of owners, Voytek and Henrietta.

  “Table two’s waiting and Jeanine’s on her break,” he orders from over the rim of his glasses.

  I salute him and take two greasy menus under one arm, fill two glasses with water, and head on over.

  “Hello, my name is Sheri. Can I get you something to drink?” I set the glasses down, then the menus in the center and go for my writing pad. Focused. Poised, with my pen-tip set to paper, anticipating. The two guys grab the ice water, down them in a flash, and then ask for refills with what sounds like strong accents. Every other person in L.A. has an accent, though. You get used to them.

  When I get back with the water pitcher to grant the request, their noses are buried behind the lunch menus.

  “How much for an order of chips?” One with curly hair says.

  “They’re French fries, here.” The second says.

  “Half-order or whole?” I ask, and then realize I haven’t looked at their faces. I’ve been concentrating on not banging the tips of my skates on the chair legs.

  Eye contact makes me go weak in the knees. The man who asked about fries looks exactly like the boy from the park.

  The boy who looks exactly like Jake.

  My mouth goes dry when I see those hazel eyes, set under a strong brow and full lips, slightly puckered as he focuses on my wide eyes and gaping jaw.

  The name flies out, taking my breath with it. “Jake?”

  Hazel eyes stare widely back at me. “What’s that?” His full lips ask with an English accent.

  My skates roll back from the table. The oblong restaurant zooms by. Chip and the cooks watch me plow through the kitchen. A few voices crack out questions, but I can’t stop. The air breezes by as I make my way out the back door of the kitchen, leaving their questions unanswered. I have a few of my own that I need to sort, first.

  The air outside is a warm slap to the face. The dumpsters in the alley are near capacity. I breathe in the rancid air through my half apron, counting backwards from twenty, trying to calm down. Chip follows me out, aiming to give me a talking to, but pauses when he sees me hunching over, trying not to lose my complimentary breakfast on the pavement.

  He sets on palm against the door frame. “Are you pregnant?”

  Spitting sour acid onto the broken asphalt, I croak, “I’m having your baby, Chip. Isn’t it magnificent?”

  He offers a half-smile at my sarcasm. “Miracle of life. Jeanine, breaks over.”

  Jeanine, the waitress I was covering for is standing across the alleyway with a cigarette in her
hand. I didn’t even see her there.

  She nods to Chip, “Be right in.” To me she frowns, asking, “You sick or something?”

  Twice. I’ve seen him twice. In two different places. And Chip was the one who told me to take the table, so he saw them, too. But did he see what I saw?

  I nod my head. “Watch my tables? Just a few minutes?”

  “Yeah. No problem.” Jeanine stamps out her cigarette, coughing her way past me.

  Jake was not English. But that boy has his same brilliant copper hair. His eyes and strong jaw.

  The kitchen door swings open again as Chip bursts back into the alley. “What the hell? Are you actually sick?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Then get your ass back to your station. The lunch rush is picking up.”

  Propping myself against the side of the building, I beg, “Five minutes?”

  I hear the creak of the kitchen door as Chip steps back inside, yelling, “This counts as your break.”

  It takes another few moments for my breathing to return to normal. I keep my eyes shut tight, willing myself to calm down. I’ve got maybe another two minutes before Chip starts to get angry. And before then, I’ve got to make a choice.

  It isn’t him. It isn’t him. He just looks like him.

  I’ve heard about people who aren’t related looking alike. It’s possible. But there’s only one way to be sure. I have to suck it up and roll back inside. Back to work. Work is good.

  Once I’m back on the dining floor, I’m disappointed. First, because Chip was exaggerating. There are four tables in Jeanine’s station and two in mine. Second, because I don’t have the guts to look at the two guys, quietly waiting. So I stop at the pie case, wiping at streaks that aren’t there. When Jeanine walks by with an order ticket, I take her by the elbow and inquire on the customers at table two.

  “Two young Brits. Yeah. Very cute, too.” Her eyes widen. “You want to ask one of them out.” She accuses, trying to hide a smile.

  “No.” I answer, a little too forcefully. They look too young, I think, but don’t say. “I just want to make sure they’re still there.”

  She points to the unobstructed view. “Clearly. If either one says ‘yes’ to a date, you better be ready to foot the bill, because those two are broke.”

  I roll closer and look around the long room, taking in every occupied table but the one I’m most interested in. “I’m not asking anybody out. And how can you possibly know something like that? They’ve been here all of five minutes.” My stomach is still constricting.

  Jeanine shakes her head. “Did you see them? The curly-headed one has a stamp on his hand. A red shield.”

  I nod knowingly and feel a twinge of pain searing across my chest. When I first came to LA, I was broke. I stayed over at the Salvation Army shelter for the first few months. I was grateful for the bed, but some days it was tough to get a meal. They fed the children and their parents first, often running out of the main course before they got to the single adults.

  My gut clenches again. “What did they order?”

  “Two waters and a half-order of fries.”

  As Jeanine says it, Joe, the line cook, calls up the order. I thank Jeanine and roll over to grab the hot plate from the window. I’m out of excuses. I’ve got to suck it up and get the job done.

  On my way to the table, I stop back at the pie case and cut two slices, load them with whipped cream, and then pour two glasses of milk. With my full tray in hand, I take in a deep breath, bite my lip, and push forward.

  Deanna once told me, ‘the only road through is called, do.’ You do what you gotta do.

  I catch sight of the two young men, and am trying desperately not to think about how much the lanky, copper-haired one reminds me of Jake. But it’s impossible to look at one and not think about the other. The resemblance is too striking.

  Slowly rolling over, I can only watch. The boy does not move like Jake. He lacks the natural grace. Then, closing my eyes, I listen to the conversation. The boy does not sound like Jake. So the similarity is only in the hair. And the eyes. The jaw line. And the smile. The shape of his face. That’s all.

  My pulse thrums in my ears and warms my face. I set a palm to my over-heated cheek. What the hell? It isn’t him. I tell myself, and pull to stop tableside.

  The two are talking in low voices. I place the pie plates and milk in front of them.

  “Madam, we didn’t order this.” The one with curly hair says.

  It’s a half-scoff, half-laugh that comes out before I ask, “Did you just call me ‘Madam’? And I know you didn’t. It’s my way of apologizing for running off a few minutes ago.”

  “Technically, I think you rolled.” The one that isn’t Jake says and folds his hands over the tabletop. His fingers are long and slender. The edges of each nail bed are lined with dirt. On the back of his right hand, is the stamp; the shield that says he is in need.

  My mouth goes dry and whatever blood was heating my face has fled. I feel pale and cold. It’s too much.

  “Are you well?” The one with curls asks.

  I shake my head and point to the stamp. “That’s a rough place.”

  “Rough’s a mild description, I’d say.” Curly unwraps a straw and puts it in his milk as the boy who isn’t Jake pours way too much ketchup all over the French fries. “We’re grateful for your generosity.”

  I clear my throat, trying to keep my eyes on the slightly older looking boy with the curls. “What’s your name?”

  He places a hand over his chest, “I’m called Marcus.” Then, extends the same hand to his friend. “This here’s me mate, Evan.”

  I can’t bring myself to look at Evan for long, as he dips his head in greeting, his mouth full of food. “What brings you two to Los Angeles?”

  “I’m going to be an actor.” Not Jake—Evan—says at the same time that Marcus says, “He’s going to be an actor.”

  My heart aches and I rub at my chest. Another commonality: an artistic mind. But I tell myself it’s not the same. Jake was one of a kind. But I guess it’s not so bad . . . having a real someone walking around who actually looks like him.

  “Have you landed any jobs yet?” I make a point to keep my eyes on Evans’ shoulder, which doesn’t look as broad or as sculpted as Jakes was.

  Marcus sighs. “We’ve only been ‘ere . . . Not a month, yet an ‘ave no place to start.”

  And because I spent nearly six months living with dancers-slash-models-slash-actresses and listened to them bicker about this part or that casting call, I am filled with useless information about this sort of thing. “Well. Up at the corner is a news stand. There you’ll find a circular called Backstage. It’s free and comes out every Thursday. The ads aren’t for anything beyond toothpaste commercials or billboards, but it’s a place to start.” Mustering my courage, I look Evan in the eye. “Do you have head shots?”

  His mouth is full of blackberry pie. He swallows and politely wipes at each corner with a napkin before speaking. “Not yet.”

  I can tell by the troubled look on his face that this is an obstacle. “I might know someone who can help. One of my former roommates majors in photography.” She still owes me seventy dollars for long distance calls she wracked on my personal phone line. “Can you sound American?”

  Evan sets his empty glass of milk down and almost smiles. “Actually, it’s my best accent.” He says this without inflection and I have to concede. It sounds pretty good.

  Examining him further, I try to ignore the aching similarities to Jake and really see him. His energy.

  Turning back to Marcus, I aim to avoid the mega-watt smile stretching Evans face. “He’s got an interesting look and presence, which should help him find an agent. It’s nearly impossible to find work without one. He’ll also need to start exercising and eating healthier than fruit pie and French fries. In this business, your looks are your livelihood.”

  Something inside me swells and I don’t know why, but I have a
n uncontrollable desire to help these two.

  Marcus nods his head as Evan clears his throat. “I am right here. You might try talking to me rather than about me. Do I really look so bad?”

  Turning his direction, I notice another table has filled up in my station. A party of five. Three men, two women; dressed in business attire.

  “Don’t leave. I’ll be right back.”

  I might be going crazy. But it doesn’t feel like it. Helping a person in need is the right thing to do, (isn’t it?) setting aside the fact that I have steadily avoided getting involved in anyone else’s affairs. But finding someone that is so much like Jake is impossibly weird. Remarkable, even. And doing as much as I can to help him feels strangely, exactly right—like helping Jake himself in a round-about way.

  Grabbing a stack of menus, I make my way over to the new table and introduce myself, then rattle off the Specials. It’s very easy to serve people who are on their lunch break. Since they’re working in a timeframe, they almost always know what they want when they walk in the door. It’s no different for this crowd: no one wants a menu, or appetizer. I take out my notepad take everyone’s order, and then pass off the ticket to the kitchen so Joe can get to work on it. After that, I fill and deliver their drinks, make a quick stop to check on table five—they want some more napkins and the check, which I promptly deliver—before finally aiming back to table two.

  To Marcus and Evan.

  From across the oblong dining floor, I see they’ve cleared their plates. They seem to be waiting for the check, too. But I don’t want them to go, yet. Making a quick detour, I stop at the soups station and fill two bowls with the soup of the day—its vegetable beef. No one orders it—and fill a ramekin with packets of crackers.

  When I return to the table, Marcus’ eyes go wide. “What are you doin’?”