More Than One Way to Be a Girl

by Dyan Sheldon

  Quel exhausting! Seriously. It’d be way easier to herd cats than serve the back room! And what made it worse, of course, was the spectre of Mr Schonblatt always watching, always waiting (ears up and nose twitching) for something to go wrong. We waitresses wondered if he had CCTV in his office or something, because he always knew when there was a problem. If there was a problem, Mr Schonblatt always knew who to blame. And it wasn’t the customer. Last Summer, when I first got the job, I guess I hadn’t been paying much attention to how things worked and everything. This Summer, I was paying attention. Now I realized that Mr Schonblatt doesn’t much like his employees (the kitchen workers are all lazy and stupid, and the waiting staff is all stupid and lazy), but he loves people with money. Rich people are always right.

  If he noticed someone looked like they were annoyed or like they were waiting for something (whether or not they looked unhappy about it), Mr Schonblatt would suddenly pop up at your elbow, hissing like a snake. Table ten looks hungry… Table twelve hasn’t ordered… Table eight wants to pay… Table fourteen needs more water. God forbid someone should make a complaint.

  But all the time I was being griped at by people who thought their children should be running the world, and racing back and forth so much it was like I was training for a marathon, I’d catch glimpses of Claire, gliding around the main dining room, smiling and chatting like I used to do. At the end of a shift, when we counted our tips, she always had more than I did. (Suddenly all my customers were tighter than Spanx waist cinchers. Tighter.) Her feet didn’t hurt and she never looked like for two cents she’d dump the next plate of chicken over some child’s head. Mr Schonblatt called her “dear”. I started thinking maybe I should follow the advice I’d given Loretta about how she dressed for work. I could wear a skirt. I could even put on a little make-up. It wasn’t like Loretta would ever find out, and I didn’t really think it counted as cheating. Just enough girly stuff so Mr Schonblatt remembered how much he used to like me.

  And then table nine complained.

  Table nine was a couple and a small boy. I was kind of surprised they’d been seated in the back room because the three of them were expensively dressed – designer everything, gold Rolex on the father, diamonds on the mom – and the man may have been with his family but he was having a business meeting on his tablet at the same time. He only looked up once. The mother (who was on her phone most of the time but did look up every now and then) called the little boy Marlon, but it should’ve been Destructo. He tore up the flower that was on the table. He threw his salad on the floor. He knocked over his mother’s wine. He tried to stab me with his fork. He poured his soda on his mother’s bread plate. But no matter what he did, the only thing his mother said was “Oh, darling, you shouldn’t do that.” (And, no matter what he did, I smiled and said, “No problem.”) But when I came back to their table with a new glass of soda and a new bread plate the boy wasn’t there. I spotted him crawling towards the main room (like a commando, not like a baby). He was already under a table by the time I got to him. I grabbed his feet, pulled him out and marched him back to his parents.

  I’d just picked up my next order and turned around to find Mr Schonblatt so close behind me the only reason I didn’t scream was because my heart stopped beating.

  “What’s wrong with you?” He was snarling, but very softly. “I should fire you on the spot for a stunt like that.”

  And I was supposed to know what he was talking about?

  “What stunt?”

  “What stunt? For what you did to table nine, that’s what stunt.”

  “Table nine?” They were still eating last I’d looked.

  “How could you treat a customer like that?” he demanded. (He meant, how could I treat a customer like that like that? There was no way he’d miss the watch or the diamonds.) “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He wasn’t shouting – he never shouts if there’s a chance the diners might hear him – but he was red in the face from the effort of not shouting.

  I said I thought I was doing my job.

  “Your job? And is it your job to manhandle children?”

  I said I didn’t manhandle anyone. I merely removed him from under someone else’s table.

  “He said you shook him.”

  “But I didn’t. I swear, Mr Schonblatt. All I did was get him off the floor. Before he hurt himself. Or someone else.”

  “You’ll go over there five minutes ago and apologize,” ordered Mr Schonblatt. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you lately, Giselle. Maybe it’s your time of the month. Or you’re going through some phase where you think it’s funny to be difficult and unappealing. But I’ll tell you right now that if you pull a stunt like that again, you can find another job.”

  He might not have to wait that long.

  So I went over (with a free dessert for Destructo) and apologized profusely and insincerely.

  And that’s when I decided against the skirt and a little make-up. That’s when I decided that the war was on. Anybody could be a pretty good waitress when she was waiting on people who were civilized. Dealing with people whose children were barely housetrained took skill. The Schonblatt wanted efficiency? I was going to be so efficient I’d practically be an android. I was going to beat that male chauvinist pig at his own game.

  When it was finally time for my break I went out behind the kitchen where there’s a fenced-in area so guests don’t have to see the garbage or the staff sneaking cigarettes. I was fired up with righteousness and couldn’t face the windowless staff room. I needed air. One of the kitchen boys was there, reading a paper. He looked up and nodded, the way you do when you’re all stuck in the same Gulag. And then he looked again. “Don’t I know you?” But I was still too preoccupied with what had happened to really be paying attention. I said I didn’t think so. He smiled. “Yeah, I do. You’re that friend of Loretta’s. I’m Gabe? We met a few weeks ago? Loretta was all dressed up for something?”

  Of course. It was Star Boy, Loretta’s secret crush. “Astronomy Club? Meteor showers?”

  “That’s right. We were talking about the Perseids.”

  He was talking about them. “Of course. The Perseids. Only that wasn’t when we met. We’ve had classes together.”

  “We have?” He peered. I bet he would’ve recognized me if I’d been a comet.

  “Yeah. Homeroom once. And World History with Mr Hunt. But you must’ve seen me with Loretta, like, thousands of times. And I was at her house that time you landed in the cat food.”

  He was still peering. “Did you use to have curly hair?”

  “That’s me.”

  “You look really different.”

  I said I knew I did. I said Loretta and I thought we’d change our looks for the summer.

  He nodded. Thoughtfully. “Oh, right. So that’s why she— So that’s why.” He laughed. “I didn’t recognize her at first. I thought she was going to a party or something.”

  “Loretta’s not really the party type. Believe me, she’d rather watch shooting stars.”

  He said, “Me, too.”

  We talked for a few minutes about the meteor showers and the Astronomy Club and how smart and funny Loretta is. I was surprised I’d never run into him before at the Inn, but he usually worked nights and was filling in for someone who was sick.

  “So,” said Gabe, “what’s a nice girl like you doing in a dump like this?”

  I laughed for the first time all day. “I’m thinking of it as penance. You know, if I work here, there’s no way I could ever go to Hell when I die.”

  Loretta

  My imaginary boyfriend and other complications

  If there is one thing you can say about ZiZi, it’s that she’s never been a complainer. Her positive personality and nature wouldn’t allow it. But that was something else that had begun to change.

  “You know,” said ZiZi, “I have noticed that though your heart bleeds for the oppressed women and food animals of the world, it doesn’t bleed for m
e. You’re not the tiniest bit sympathetic to my plight.”

  “I didn’t say that. All I said was I can’t believe you might quit just because Schonblatt put you in a different room. I think you’re overreacting.”

  She propped herself up on one elbow. “Me? I’m overreacting? I’m not the one who’s on coffee strike.”

  “That’s different.” We were lying side by side on her bed, recovering from the many stresses of our different days. “There’s a principle involved in the coffee strike. And it’s not all about the coffee. Because of Sourpuss Shapiro, Chelusky’s not sending me out on any handyman jobs. Which is stupid. Because I’m wearing a dress? Suddenly I forgot how to drill a hole?” I scooped up a handful of popcorn. “But you don’t know why Schonblatt moved you.”

  “Oh, yes I do. To punish me. Because now I look efficient and he can’t see my legs. He’s nothing but a sexist, chauvinist creep.”

  She was also starting to sound like me. Which was eerie, if not actually frightening. “That could be true, but how much punishment can it really be? It’s all one restaurant. Don’t you think it’d make more sense to fire you if he wanted to punish you?”

  “No, I don’t. You haven’t met him. I guarantee you he was one of those little boys who pulls the legs off insects. He wants to torture me first. When I’m totally demoralized and have lost the will to fight, then he’ll fire me. That’s the way his twisted mind works.” She reached for the popcorn. “Hey, I almost forgot. That friend of yours said to say hi.”

  “What friend of mine?”

  “You know. The one we met in town that time. Star Boy. What’s his name?”

  “You mean Gabriel? Gabriel Schwartz?” I tried not to sound too excited. “Tall? Really black hair?”

  “That’s the one. He’s working in the kitchen at the Inn.”

  “He is? I didn’t know that.”

  “Well, then, you’re even. He didn’t know you’re working at Chelusky’s.”

  “You talked to him?”

  “Yeah. We were both taking our breaks out by the rubbish. He said he didn’t even recognize you when we saw him in town that time.” She chewed. Thoughtfully. “You know I kind of got the feeling that maybe he—” She broke off suddenly. “What’s with that?”

  I was thinking about Gabe, and how he really had been rushing off to work that day and not simply trying to get away from me. “What’s with what?”

  ZiZi pointed. “Your toenails. You painted them? When did you do that?”

  I’d completely forgotten about them. The way you do. “Oh, I don’t know…”

  “You don’t know? What, you were asleep when you did it?”

  “The other day. I didn’t actually write down the time and date, so I don’t remember exactly when.”

  She leaned forward, studying my toes. I must have done a good job; all she said was, “And you did this because?”

  “It’s Summer. And I bought those new sandals. I’d like to wear them. If you’re wearing sandals, it’s nice to paint your toenails.”

  “You never did that before.”

  I shrugged. “I’ve never worn sundresses before, either.”

  The truth is that whereas I knew why I bought the mirror – so I could see what I was doing when I put on my make-up – I don’t know why I painted my toenails. I was lying on my bed, listening to music and doing the Sudoku when I noticed my toes. Who ever looks at their toes unless they’re scrubbing between them or trimming their nails? Not that many people. Podiatrists, for definite. Foot models, probably. People on the beach watching that they’re not stepping on glass or sharp shells or some dead crustacean, maybe. And girls lying on their beds, plugged into their iPhones, doing an easy puzzle and thinking about what it would have been like to be the first woman to attend an all-male college: the ridicule, the condescension, the harassment, the patronizing attitudes. It made dealing with the Mr Shapiros of this world seem like a sunny afternoon reading in a hammock. You’d have had to have nerves of reinforced steel. The certainty of a saint. You’d have had to be stubborn the way the Eiffel Tower is tall. But did they disguise themselves as men? Did they reject any outward signs of their femininity – even though they knew those outward signs were the arbitrary dictates of their society? It was a hideous thought, but was ZiZi right that you didn’t become a person by not being a girl? Was it possible to be both? Which was when I noticed my toes. And the next thing you knew, I was colouring them to match my fingernails.

  I would have explained that to ZiZi – well, some of it, not the part about her possibly being right – but she distracted me by mentioning Gabriel Schwartz.

  I’d been trying to get in touch with Gabe for weeks, but he never returned my calls and his texts only answered whatever I’d asked – which was always something about the club or the August outing – in as few words as possible. I couldn’t imagine what had happened in that brief encounter in town to make him act so oddly, but now I knew. He hadn’t recognized me; he’d been taken by surprise. He hadn’t been in a hurry because he couldn’t get away from me fast enough, he’d been in a hurry because he had to get to work – just as he’d said. That didn’t explain why he wasn’t answering my calls, but he had mentioned me; he told ZiZi to say hi. That had to mean something. What also meant something was the fact that Gabe and ZiZi worked in the same place. I now had more to talk about with him than the cosmos and the club. Hey, you work at the Inn. Is it as bad as ZiZi says? I didn’t need to ask him something about the club to have an excuse for calling him; I could take the initiative. He’d said to say hi. I picked up my phone. I was going to say hi back. I got his voicemail.

  I was so excited by this new turn of events and the possibilities it seemed to offer that I forgot I already had a steady boyfriend – the one nobody ever saw. Not that this was something I could ever forget for long; my co-workers constantly reminded me.

  The guys at Chelusky’s had always teased me a lot. Not in a mean or a flirtatious way or anything like that. Affectionately. Because they like me, but they think I’m odd. And because I was almost like a little sister – and ribbing your little sister is what guys do. They teased me about not eating meat. They teased me about the way I dressed and about liking cats more than dogs. They teased me about being better than they were at math and for being handy with a wrench and a hammer. They even teased me for getting Mick’s motorcycle going when he couldn’t start it. This Summer, however, they had something new to rib me about. Now they had the endlessly fascinating subject of my boyfriend.

  They wanted to meet him. How come he never picks you up here? Don’t tell me he’s one of these tree-huggers who won’t drive a car. Are you ashamed of us, is that it? Is he a prince who won’t talk to the peasants? When are we going to get to shake his hand? They wanted to know what was wrong with him. Does he have two heads or something, Lou? What’s the problem? Is it because he’s a vampire, and only comes out at night? They wanted to make sure he was good enough for me. We can’t have our Lou going out with just anybody. They wanted to see a picture. Ah, come on, Loretta. Don’t tell me you don’t have a picture of him. You have a phone. You must have a couple of snaps. They wanted to know where we went, what we did. If I wore something new, I got whistles and Another hot date tonight? When’s the wedding?

  There was nothing to tell, and that’s what I told them. Nothing. I said it was none of their business. I said they’d meet him when they met him. If they met him. This discouraged them as much as waving your hands and saying “Shoo!” discourages a curious pack of dogs. They were insistent and relentless. “You know, if it was anyone but you, Loretta,” said Vinnie, “I might think you were having us on.” We both laughed; what an absurd idea. It was a lot of pressure to be under.

  One slow afternoon, Mr Chelusky and I were alone in the store, doing a stocktake. He’d just finished counting off five-inch brushes when he suddenly said, “You’re not even going to tell us his name, Loretta? Who is this guy? Rumpelstiltskin? We get ten guesses and if we
’re not right you repossess our cars?”

  I looked up. “Whose name?”

  “You know whose. This mystery boyfriend of yours. He must have a name.”

  Of course he didn’t; he didn’t exist. Not exactly a mystery, more a lie.

  “We can’t keep calling him ‘that guy’.”

  And once again, when I should have said no – I’m sorry, Mr Chelusky, but, actually, he happens to be one of those people who doesn’t have a name – or should just have kept my mouth shut tighter than a safe, I finally cracked. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I said. “It’s not a big deal. His name’s Dillon.”

  Why did I say that? Temporary insanity? Because I knew Dillon Blackstock was safely out of town? Or was it simply because ZiZi had talked about Dillon so incessantly for the last year – Dillon said this, Dillon did that – that his was a name etched into my mind like letters carved into a tree? Whatever the reason, it was the first name I thought of. I had to know hundreds of boys’ names – most of them belonging to people I didn’t go to school with and one of them belonging to someone I actually wanted to go out with – but Dillon’s was the name I came up with.