The Waiter

by Ginger Voight

THE WAITER

  By

  Ginger Voight

  *****

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Copyright ©2011/2015

  ***

  Dedicated to my mother, Patsy McCandless. May your table in heaven be filled with the bounty of good things you always deserved.

  I will love you always.

  ***

  It was a strange little booth. The kind that made you feel like you were on your own little island in the middle of an ocean of people; where the sights and sounds of the nearby city street were obscured by high, paneled walls and dark, red velvet curtains.

  Even within the restaurant itself the din of the ever-present and ever-changing crowd diminished to a low, comforting hum.

  You were alone, but you weren’t.

  That suited me just fine back in the winter of ‘44. That’s when I discovered this gem of a booth in the back, dark corner of Finnegan’s Restaurant on 49th Avenue.

  It was also where I met Gus.

  He was a waiter at Finnegan’s, possibly one of the best that they had. He made sure glasses were filled, the best dishes ordered and only the freshest, hottest food served.

  And that’s what I loved best about that little booth. That was Gus’s station, and every time I sought refuge there, he always waited on me like a kind, old friend.

  He was slight but tall, with a shock of red hair that he kept cut meticulously short. God had painted freckles across the bridge of his nose and sprinkled a few stragglers across both cheeks. He was soft-spoken and polite, often kneeling down to the table so he could be at eye level with those he served.

  If I had to guess, I’d say he was barely twenty when I met him all those years ago. But his clear blue eyes were old and wise. The best conversations we shared where when we didn’t really speak at all.

  He seemed to understand I needed space to breathe… to grieve. To heal.

  In the spring of 1944, I was a blushing bride with the whole future ahead of me. By winter, I was widowed by war. Five blocks from Finnegan’s I toiled to manufacture that which would equip that war; at first out of patriotism and loyalty to my husband’s noble cause. Eventually that would give way to my own dire financial circumstances.

  No longer would I wait for my husband to provide my needs. Gone was my mother’s dream of my being a happy homemaker managing a handful of children.

  There was no home to be made, nor kids to tend; just an assembly line where I found comfort being a faceless one of many. For a lot of us, that daily time card validated our existence.

  Gus seemed to understand this and made no demands. He was there to serve me, and serve me well he did. For months I was sure he was the only person on earth who ever acknowledged my existence. I made sure to limit my contact with the world that had betrayed me.

  That made our interaction more poignant. Tentatively I trusted him, and he never let me down.

  He was there when I needed him. In fact, I never had to ask for him. He seemed to predict my needs and eventually anticipate my wants. He knew I always drank coffee black with sugar before a day shift, and tea with cream after a grueling night.

  He’d make sure the paper was removed from the booth by the time I got there, so I’d be spared the depressing headlines. Whether the war raged on or had ended, I had already paid the ultimate price.

  Funny, but I don’t even remember telling him that.

  Yet that was Gus. He just simply knew.

  Maybe that’s why I was drawn to him. I never had to face that look of sympathy when I would disclose my story. I never had to feel that understandable undercurrent of “So sorry, hon, but better you than me,” that I felt around all the other war wives where I worked.

  All I was ever expected to do? Place an order and pay the tab. I would say what I wanted and he would get it for me.

  For a woman on her own for the first time in her life, it was exactly what I needed.

  By the following winter of 1945 I would move on. The war would end, and I’d remarry. I’d have kids and grandkids and virtually forget those dark days after I was widowed, when I had been so scared and alone.

  I’d even forget Finnegan’s. I could never bring my new family to a place where I had mourned the future I had lost with my first husband.

  But I never forgot Gus. Even as the years passed the picture of him in my mind was as clear as a photograph, one that magically never yellowed with age.

  Perhaps that was why I stood in front of Finnegan’s that afternoon after my doctor gave me the news.

  Stage Four Cancer, she said, before releasing me back into the world to get my affairs in order.

  Merry Christmas to me.

  Having been forced into pragmatism by World War II, those affairs were already in order. The will was written and I had even planned for, and paid for, my funeral. Being sick as long as I had been, there was no real excuse to procrastinate.

  And my needs were relatively simple. My second husband had already passed on and my children were doing well on their own, having raised their own kids. At this rate there was nothing really for me to do but die.

  No one mentions that last stage of cancer, where everyone has made peace with death before it even comes to the door.

  Much like the last few years of my own life, the old neighborhood around Finnegan’s seemed on life support. The factory had long since closed. Its windows were broken out, and it looked as though it had been vacant from the end of WWII.

  Gone were the cars that used to fill the streets. Even the buses no longer stopped here. There was no need. Over the decades, this part of town had been easy, often necessary, to forget.

  That was why I was so surprised to once again find my gem, hidden but not yet buried.

  I glanced up at the sign over the entrance to Finnegan’s. Over sixty years had passed, but the neon still hummed. Fake snow had been spray-painted on the windows, where cheerful garland hung. If I wasn’t mistaken, those old ornaments were the very same ones that had hung there so many years ago. A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth as tiny snowflakes began to light upon my cheek, much like they had in the winter of ‘44. I could almost hear Bing Crosby crooning from the old radio. It was funny how the little things connected the past and the present.

  I walked in and much like it had many decades ago, it was like stepping into another world. One where you’re acknowledged, but your presence ceases to be extraordinary. You’re one of many, a family of lost souls gathered for one brief moment of time. It was a comfort to an old woman like me, whose nearest relative was a good forty-five minutes away.

  Once again Fate pulled the carpet out from under me, but once again I wasn’t alone.

  In a weird way, I was home. That it was Christmas, complete with all the trimmings, only made it more of a homecoming. The colorful lights twinkled on the tiny tree that sat on the old countertop, right next to the antique cash register that still rang like a bell whenever it opened or shut.

  More garland was draped along the counter and along the outside of every booth, where Christmas cards all hung.

  I didn’t even know anyone sent Christmas cards anymore. I stopped caring about such things when I was going through chemotherapy the holiday before.

  I struggled with my coat as I made my way to that back booth. With any luck, it would be free.

  Fortunes smiled upon me that cold, blustery Christmas Eve.

  As I slid onto the cool, cushioned bench, the years melted away. A tiny flame burned in the red crystal candle holder, which managed to cast light well within the booth, but taper out by the edge of the table. The smell of freshly baked rolls filled the air, sweet and familiar. The same vintage painting of the rolling green hills of Ireland still hung on the wall. It was remarkable. Everything looked exactly lik
e it always had. Even though I knew it was a statistical improbability, I half-expected to see Gus lean over with his ever-present pitcher of water to fill the empty glass that sat waiting on the table.

  I reached for the cloth napkin folded neatly upon the plate upon the table, unfolded it and set it across my lap. I picked up the menu, surprised to see it looked the same as it did the very last time I held it. I opened it, closed it, flipped it around in my hand. It was exactly the same, pristine and perfect, untouched by the decades long past.

  I envied its continuity as I traced the lettering. This really was a magical place.

  An arm reached across me, and ice clanked against the glass as water poured into it. “Welcome to Finnegan’s,” the male waiter said.

  “Thank you,” I started, but the words died in my throat as I looked up into that familiar freckled face.

  It was Gus, as young as he’d been the very last time I had seen him.

  My mouth dropped open as I stared at him. His hair was still neatly short, just as bright as a freshly washed carrot. He was still