The Waiter

by Bradleigh Collins

  I followed her back to her office.

  “Your first article is fantastic! We’re launching it today along with an introduction. I thought you should be the one to hit the publish button.”

  She turned her monitor around and showed me the layout of my article. There, on the homepage of the website, was a photo of me wearing the Missoni dress and above it, the headline, “Welcome to the team, Sammy!” Below was a brief intro about my background and experience with the ad agency in Atlanta. Then a link that said, “check out Sammy’s first article, e-Styled: What to Wear to a Job Interview.”

  “What do you think?” Jackie asked.

  “It looks great! This is so exciting.”

  “Well then. Just click the button here and you and your article will officially be live.”

  I leaned over and double-clicked the mouse. I was published. Sammy St. Clair had arrived in New York City. I was ecstatic.

  I floated back to my desk and got started on all the paperwork Victoria from HR had given me. Around noon, George was back.

  “We’re ordering lunch from The Flame Diner. Do you want anything?”

  “I would kill for a grilled cheese and fries right now.” I reached for my bag.

  “Oh no, girl. There is no way you’re paying for lunch on your first day.”

  “Thanks, George.”

  “I’ll let you know when it’s here and we’ll eat in the lounge.”

  About an hour later, the food arrived. I joined George and Patricia, the Editorial Assistant who sat next to me, in the lounge.

  “So, George, what’s happening with your show?”

  “I start rehearsals November 1st and it opens November 30th. It’s an evening of original ten-minute plays and I’m in two of them. It’s in the downstairs theatre space at The Drama Bookshop on 40th.”

  “I will definitely come. I’ll bring my friends.”

  “Did George tell you he wants you to be Ginger Spice for the Halloween party?” Patricia asked.

  “What Halloween party?”

  “Oh, we’re having a big party here in the office the Saturday before Halloween,” George said. “We’re dressing like the Spice Girls. You’re Ginger, Patricia is Scary, Ann Marie in IT is Sporty, Emily in Sales is Baby, and, of course, I’m Posh.”

  “Of course you’re Posh.”

  Patricia laughed. “I had to be Scary. George racially profiled me.”

  “I profiled Sammy too because of her red hair.”

  “Can we invite people to this party?” I asked. “My best friend Dana and her boyfriend are visiting that weekend.”

  “Of course. Invite as many people as you want. But they all have to wear costumes.”

  “Okay.”

  “Oh, and I hope you don’t have any plans after work tonight because we’re taking you out to Peter’s for happy hour.”

  I didn’t have any plans other than to go home, change clothes and hit the gym. Happy Hour on a random Tuesday sounded just fine, especially since Dalton wouldn’t be home from work until after nine.

  Later that afternoon, Eric from the IT Department came over to set up my iMac. He handed me a piece of paper with my login info.

  “Try to login and see if that works,” he said. “I’ll be right back with your iBook.”

  “I get an iBook too?”

  “Everybody’s got one,” Eric replied nonchalantly. I was starting to realize how incredibly different the culture of a startup was compared to any other place I’d worked before. There were certainly a lot of perks that came with the job.

  Eric returned with my iBook.

  “It’s so cute!” I squealed. It looked like a clamshell and it had a handle, like a purse. And, of course, it was orange.

  “Every girl says that,” Eric laughed.

  “What do the guys say?”

  “They just say, ‘cool.' Or they ask for a Dell.”

  Eric made sure I could login on both devices before he disappeared. I was reading my article on the company’s website when George came back over to my desk carrying a large box with a bow on it.

  “This just came for you,” he said, setting it down on my desk.

  “Oh, wow,” I said. “Who’s it from?”

  “Open it and see!”

  I unwrapped the bow and opened the box. Inside was a large fancy bottle of sparkling grape juice with another smaller box sitting right next to it. There was an unsigned card that simply said “Congrats on your first day. And I’m sorry.” I knew exactly who it was from.

  “Oh, do you not drink alcohol?” George asked, looking at the bottle. He sounded concerned.

  “I definitely drink alcohol. This is a private joke.”

  “Good. Because it’s almost time for happy hour. I’m going to go pack up and then we’ll head out.”

  As George walked away, I picked up the smaller box. I was afraid to open it. I was afraid I would start crying right there, no matter what was in it. The sentimental gift of the grape juice had already taken me back to that day at the GreenFlea and stirred up feelings that didn’t need stirring. I thought about not even opening it and just tossing it in the trash. But I couldn’t. My heart pounded as I opened the box. Inside was a blank CD with a note from The Waiter.

  It simply said, “Play Me.”

  CHAPTER 19

  ◆◆◆

  “Where’s Peter’s?” I asked as we walked up Columbus Avenue. I couldn’t help but notice that every block was bringing me closer to Pomodoro.

  “Columbus and 68th,” George said. “Not too far.”

  It was not too far alright. Pomodoro was on Columbus and 70th. I had no idea if The Waiter was working, but the thought of being so close to him made me nervous. The CD he’d sent was in my bag and I still didn’t know what was on it. I’d have to wait until I got home to find out.

  When we arrived at Peter’s, we grabbed a high top table near the bar and ordered a round of drinks.

  “So, how often do you guys do happy hour?”

  “Every Friday,” Patricia responded. “And whenever George is in the mood, like tonight.”

  “Yeah, but The Queen always comes on Fridays,” George said. “And she picks up the tab.”

  “Jackie is amazing,” I said. “I’ve never met anyone like her. I’ve certainly never worked for anyone like her.”

  “Me either,” Patricia agreed. “She takes great care of her team. And we all work our asses off for her.”

  “What’s her story? Is she married? Single?”

  “Oh, The Queen is single,” George answered.

  “What about you, Sammy?” Patricia asked. “Are you attached?”

  “Yeah, I moved here with my boyfriend. He’s an IT consultant. He got a long-term assignment with his company and free corporate housing.”

  “Oh, that’s incredible,” George said. “Where?”

  “On the Upper East Side.”

  “Oh no, that’s sad.”

  “Why is it sad?”

  “The Upper East Side is a wasteland. Stuffy old rich people live there.”

  “Where do you guys live?”

  “I live in Queens,” George replied.

  “Brooklyn,” Patricia said.

  “Where does Jackie live?”

  “Central Park West. She walks to work every day.”

  “Jackie comes from old money, although you’d never know it because she’s so down to earth,” Patricia added. “Her parents were in commercial real estate.”

  “Her parents live on the Upper East Side,” George said. “See, old money.”

  “How long have you been with your boyfriend?” Patricia asked.

  “Almost ten years, on and off.”

  “Ten years?” George yelled. “Are you serious? Why aren’t you guys married by now?”

  “Neither of us is the marrying type. It’s never really been something I wanted.”

  “Damn girl,” Patricia said. “Ten years is a long time.”

  “He must be really hot,” George chime
d in. “What’s his name?”

  “Dalton.”

  “Oh wow, like Patrick Swayze in Roadhouse Dalton? Yeah, definitely hot. Minus the mullet.”

  “I can’t believe you’ve seen that movie, George.”

  “I’m crazy for Swayze. You should call your man and tell him to come meet us.”

  I knew Dalton wouldn’t come even if I called him. I also didn’t want to prolong happy hour because I was dying to get back to the apartment so I could listen to the CD. The suspense was killing me. But I didn’t want to diss my coworkers on my first day.

  “He’s been working late every night on a project. But you’ll definitely meet him at the Halloween Party.”

  We stayed at Peter’s until seven. Then I caught a cab on Central Park West instead of Columbus so I wouldn’t have to pass Pomodoro on my way home.

  When I walked in the apartment, I was surprised to find Dalton lying on the couch watching television.

  “Hey babe!” he said. “How was your first day?”

  “It was good.” I walked to the bedroom and put my bags down. “I’m surprised you’re home so early.”

  “I just got home a few minutes before you. Why don’t you take off all your clothes and come tell me all about it?”

  I laughed. “Do I need to be naked in order to tell you about my day?”

  “No, but I’d be a lot more interested if you were.”

  I took my new iBook out of my Scoop bag. As I did, I shoved the CD from The Waiter down to the bottom so Dalton wouldn’t see it. Then I walked back into the living room.

  “Look what I got today.” I modeled my laptop as if it were a new handbag.

  “Typical startup. Apple-obsessed. I guarantee you the programmers aren’t using Macs.”

  “Everybody’s got iMacs and iBooks. And they’re all color coordinated.”

  “Of course they are.” He opened my iBook. “This is a piece of junk designed by a punk.”

  “Oh god, do I really have to listen to another lecture about how Bill Gates could kick Steve Jobs’ ass?”

  “He could.”

  “Yeah, but nobody wants to have sex with Bill Gates. I’d totally do Steve Jobs.”

  “Well,” he said, setting my iBook aside and pulling me down on top of him. “Steve Jobs isn’t here.”

  What I really wanted to do was grab my Walkman and headphones, lock myself in the bathroom, and listen to the CD. But I’d never turned down sex with Dalton, and if I did now, he’d know something was up. He’d automatically assume it had something to do with The Waiter, which of course, it would.

  “Take off your dress,” Dalton ordered. “But those boots stay on.”

  “You’re such a perv.”

  “I am. And you fucking love it.”

  I stood up and pulled the dress over my head. He pulled me back down on top of him. The whole time I was having sex with Dalton, I was thinking about The Waiter. I felt bad, but I couldn’t help it. Right there in the room next to us, in the bottom of my Scoop bag, was a message from him. A message I had yet to receive. Maybe it was an apology. Maybe it was, “hey, can’t we just be friends?” Maybe it was something in between. Whatever it was, I would have to wait a little longer to find out.

  An hour later, I had the perfect excuse to make my escape.

  “Well, now that you’ve worn me out, I’m going to go take a nice, long bubble bath. I’m exhausted.”

  “Okay.” He reached for the remote and began flipping the channels, still lying there naked on the couch. Then he turned up the volume.

  “Oh, and two things,” I yelled over the sound of the television. “One, you have to wear a costume to the Halloween party and two, I told my mom we’re staying in New York for Thanksgiving so we can go to the parade.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “She was fine as long I’m home for Christmas. I told her Josh wants to initiate us into the Upper West Side night-before-Thanksgiving festivities. You know, balloon inflation followed by a pub crawl followed by the inevitable karaoke marathon at The Parlour.”

  “And you think that after all that you’ll actually get up super-early to go to the parade?”

  “Maybe we’ll just pull an all-nighter.” I went into the bedroom and put on my bathrobe. I grabbed a towel from the laundry basket and used it to hide my Walkman and the CD.

  “I’m gonna be in the tub for a while,” I said to Dalton as I passed back through the living room. “Do you need to get in here before I run my bath water?”

  “No babe, I’m good.”

  I walked into the bathroom and closed the door. Then I locked it. I figured if he tried to come in and asked why the door was locked, I could always say “oh, I don’t know, habit.”

  I turned on the water. Then I sat down on the side of the tub and took the CD out of the plastic case. I put it in my Walkman and placed the headphones over my ears. Then I took a deep breath and pressed play.

  Terrence Trent D’arby began to sing. It was his cover of “Who’s Loving You” from the Introducing the Hardline According to Terrence Trent D’Arby album. I immediately started to cry. It was that horrible ugly cry where your face contorts and you wanna scream but nothing comes out because you’re not actually breathing. I had to cry silently because I didn’t want Dalton to hear me. And the more the song played, the harder I cried. It was guttural. Uncontrollable. Part of me wanted to run out of the apartment and across Central Park just to knock on The Waiter’s door so I could see his face. Another part of me felt incredibly guilty because Dalton was in the next room.

  I thought about logging on to ICQ after Dalton went to sleep and messaging The Waiter. But how on earth would I ever be able to explain that not only had I gotten back with Dalton, but that I was, in fact, living with him? In New York. And what would happen if Dalton caught me? I couldn’t do it.

  When the song was over, I just sat there, still sobbing silently. I realized that I was in love with both of them, but in two very different ways. What always has been. And what could be.

  I took off the headphones, took off my bathrobe, and climbed into the tub. I had absolutely no idea what I was going to do about Dalton or The Waiter, if anything. All I knew was that my heart was absolutely aching. For both of them.

  CHAPTER 20

  ◆◆◆

  It had been over two weeks since the CD incident and I still hadn’t responded to The Waiter. I couldn’t. I was living with Dalton and it wouldn’t be fair to either of them.

  I called Dana this morning on my way to work to let her know that she and Simon would need to bring a Halloween costume when they came to visit. Then I admitted to her that I couldn’t stop thinking about The Waiter.

  “Sam, what are you going to do? Do you still love Dalton?”

  “Of course I love Dalton. But I’ve gotta tell you. Things have been weird between us.”

  “Weird how?”

  “He’s just distant. He’s been working late - like really late - every night. And whenever we go out to eat, if we have a male waiter, he asks if I fucked him too.”

  “Dude. That’s bullshit.”

  “Yeah. He likes to punish me on a daily basis. I don’t know if he’ll ever get over this.”

  “How much of his bullshit have you had to get over?”

  “Too much. But I owe it to him to really try and make it work this time. I mean, he did move here for me and I do have a free place to live.”

  “Do I even have to say it?”

  “Say what?”

  “I told you so. Remember when we had that conversation at your apartment and I told you the only reason he got the job there was so he could manipulate and control you? It’s already happening.”

  She was right. And Lucy and Katie agreed with her. We’d had brunch together on Sunday, and the consensus was that I should get my own place as soon as possible. It wasn’t a bad idea. I had plenty of money saved. I’d sold my car before I left Atlanta, so I’d have no problem coming up with a security deposit and br
oker fee. Plus, I was making a lot more money at e-Styled than at the advertising firm. But I knew that if I got my own place, it would be the end of Dalton and me.

  I was sitting in the conference room around four-thirty with Jackie and the creative team discussing the follow-up to my last article, “What to Wear on Halloween.” We’d featured several costumes from Ricky’s NYC and “tips-and-tricks (or-treats)” from a special effects makeup artist. Ricky’s had even gifted us Spice Girls costumes for our Halloween party, which was coming up in two days. I received a spectacular Union Jack mini-dress and a pair of red platform boots. We hired a photographer to document the party and costumes so I could write a follow-up article.

  “Don’t forget happy hour tomorrow night is at the Evelyn Lounge,” George said as our meeting was wrapping up.

  “George, you’re our very own ‘Julie the Cruise Director.’”

  “I think he’s more ‘Isaac the Bartender,’” Jackie said.

  “I miss The Love Boat.”

  “The writing and acting were horrendous. But the fashions were incredible.”

  “Remember the episode with Halston and Bob Mackie?”

  “And Geoffrey Beene and Gloria Vanderbilt? It was my favorite episode,” Jackie said. “I have the Halston dress that Pat Cleveland was wearing.”

  “You are a goddess!”

  “You’ll have to come over sometime and see my entire vintage collection,” she said. “You can write about it.”

  “I would love that!”

  After work, I changed clothes in the bathroom and headed to the gym. I’d been taking a really great cardio kick-boxing class at New York Sports Club every night, but the dressing room was always crowded, so it was easier for me to change at work.

  When I got home from the gym around eight-thirty, I was shocked to find that Dalton was actually home and in the shower. I went to the kitchen to grab some water and saw his open laptop on the counter. An ICQ message popped up on the screen.

  I miss you so much! I can’t wait until you’re back in Atlanta for a visit. It was from Rhonda, his so-called “platonic” friend that had conveniently forgotten to wake him up that time they were “just watching movies.” I couldn’t resist the temptation to scroll up and read the chat history. About five minutes later, Dalton came out of the bathroom. I stood next to his laptop with my arms folded, glaring at him. He glanced at the screen. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.