Andre chuckled. “Izzy posted that cute pic of you two on Instagram. Let me guess, you guys have been out ‘celebrating,’ ”—he made actual air quotes around the word—“and that’s why you’re so late to work?”
“Actually . . .” I started to say, but Izzy interrupted.
“Oh, you know us,” she said with a giggle. She leaned against the counter. “Surprised to see you here so early.” Not that it was early, not really. It might have been if we’d gotten to work on time, but it was nearing the switchover from morning shift to night shift, when Andre normally took over. Since there were only two managers, they worked pretty much seven days a week. I had no idea how they managed it. “Where’s Todd?”
Andre grinned. “He had to run an errand, so I came in early to cover for him.” I glanced at Izzy, but she was concentrating on Andre. It wasn’t like Todd to leave early. In the short time I’d worked there, I hadn’t even known him to take a single day off. “But you two were already late by the time he left, and he’s hella mad.”
“He’ll get over it,” Izzy said. “You want me on the register or do you have another job in mind for me?”
It was a legit question. We all had our job descriptions, but then we had our real job descriptions, which pretty much entailed doing whatever odd chores Todd or Andre needed. When I was the newest employee, I was always the one to walk Huckleberry, haul out the constant stream of trash, or clean the disorganized stockroom. It usually fell to me to inventory the toilet paper rolls or coax the ancient office computer to run faster. Now that I was handling the social media accounts, Todd generally left me alone to wait tables as long as the Instagram and Twitter accounts were updated daily, even on my days off.
“You’re so late, it would serve you right if I sent you both home,” Andre said.
“But you won’t,” Izzy said promptly. If I hadn’t been right by her side the entire time, I never would have guessed that Izzy’s afternoon had been traumatic. She was her normal self—spunky and sociable.
“I could use some help arranging the stockroom. Inventory’s coming up and that place is a wreck.”
“On it, boss,” Izzy said, tipping an imaginary hat at him.
“And get into uniform,” he said sternly. “Both of you. Oh, and, Odessa? Before I forget, Todd asked me to see if you could boost Untapped’s social media presence.”
“How so?” I asked. I actually enjoyed updating the store’s accounts, but full-on advertising was above my pay grade. Seeing a twinkle in Andre’s eyes, I braced myself for the worst. “Are we talking Facebook ads or does he want me out on the sidewalk in a humiliating costume handing out flyers?” I’d done that once, and I’d promised myself never again. There were few things worse than wearing a crawdad costume in the middle of a broiling Louisiana summer, but if anyone could top that, it would be Todd.
“No biggie. He just wants you to come up with a meme and make it go viral.”
“What?” I shook my head. “That’s not how it works.”
“I know, I know. And I tried explaining that to him. He doesn’t believe me that the best memes are organic. Just do me a favor, and the next couple of pictures you take, slap a cute caption on them before posting. Then you can say you tried.”
“Aye, aye,” I said, and hurried off to the small—but clean—bathroom off the hallway that separated the public areas of the bookstore and café from the employees-only area. Not that people respected the distinction. More often than not, we had to wait for the employee bathroom because a customer was using it but today, I got lucky.
Izzy was checking her hair in the mirror as I changed into my uniform, which just meant swapping my tank top for a neon green polo with the Untapped Books & Café logo stitched on it. Beyond that, they didn’t care what we wore—shorts, jeans, a skirt, even pajama bottoms—it was all fair game. Nine times out of ten, I chose a long, flowy skirt—usually one of my own creation—and a pair of sensible but ugly secondhand orthopedic loafers.
“Don’t you think it’s weird that Todd’s not here? That’s not like him. He’ll disappear into the office in the back on occasion, but he prefers to lurk over everyone’s shoulders rather than trust that we know how to do our jobs,” I said.
“Don’t look a gift donkey in the mouth, Odessa,” Izzy said.
“It’s horse,” I corrected her.
“I’m not so sure about that. I’ve always considered him more of an . . .”
“Gotta run,” I told her. I tucked my tank top into my bag, washed my hands, and left the bathroom. On my way to the café floor, I grabbed my apron off the hook it hung on along the hallway wall.
I tied the apron around my waist and headed into the café, pausing to stash my bag in the designated cabinet in the kitchen when Parker, the day chef, appeared. As usual, his shaggy blond hair strained the limits of his hairnet. He bopped his head to the music that was piped in over cheap Bluetooth speakers mounted up near the ceiling. He flashed me a giant, toothy grin as he lined up plates along the pass-thru and tapped an old-fashioned bell to indicate an order was up.
Scanning the tables, I noted only half of the seats were occupied. That would change as people started getting off work and began trickling in for the Friday night rush. A server I didn’t recognize was waiting on a group of regulars. It wasn’t uncommon to see unfamiliar faces on staff. Between low wages, Todd’s micromanaging, and the sheer number of restaurants in New York City to choose among, the waitstaff was a constantly revolving merry-go-round of temporary name tags.
“Hi, I’m Odessa,” I introduced myself to the new waitress. She towered over me even though she wore the sensible, flat-soled shoes of an experienced server. Her head was shaved bald, with the faded lines of a tattoo against her dark skin forming the shape of an intricate mandala—a geometric shape resembling a flower. Peeking out of the neon green polos all the Untapped Books & Café employees wore were arm muscles that could only come from hours at the gym.
Waitressing was enough of a workout for me. Then again, even with all the walking I did now, I might have actually gained a few pounds since moving to Williamsburg. The food was just too good, and there were so many options to choose from. From deep-fried falafel to homemade ice cream, everything just tasted a little better in Brooklyn than it ever had in Louisiana.
“Nan,” she replied. “ ’Scuse me.” She shuffled past me, heading toward the kitchen to pick up her order.
“Can I get a refill?” someone called, and I hurried over to their table. A redheaded woman I sort of recognized sat at the table nearest the kitchen. This one used to have sudoku puzzles underneath the plastic table topper, but after spending who knows how many hours scrubbing various markers off the plastic at the end of every shift, we swapped the puzzles out for a world map.
The woman’s plate, which rested near Australia, was so clean I couldn’t even guess what she’d ordered. I picked it up. “I’ll take that for you.” Her glass was also empty. “What are we drinking?”
“Just iced tea,” she said. “You’re Odessa, right? We met, briefly, at Bethany’s wake a few weeks ago.”
Now I placed her. She’d spent the whole time flirting with my friend Parker. He hadn’t mentioned that he was seeing anyone, but by the way she kept glancing toward the kitchen window, I assumed she was at the café for more than a delicious local meal. “Oh yeah, I remember you.” I racked my brain for a minute before coming up with a name. “Hazel?”
She smiled. She had a pretty smile. “That’s me.”
“One tea, coming right up, Hazel,” I said, heading for the drink station. I dropped off her plate and returned with her refill. “Holler if you need anything else.”
A piercing laugh drew my attention, and I plastered my best customer service smile on my face before turning to face the boisterous table in the back corner of the cramped café. The café had been decorated before influencers and Pinterest,
from yard sale rejects that had never gotten around to being refurbished. The owner had been going for quirky, but between garish orange carnation wallpaper and squeaky vinyl seat cushions, at best, we’d accomplished tacky.
Although, to be fair, I liked it. I wouldn’t decorate my own kitchen like this anytime soon—I gravitated toward shiny steel appliances and subway tile backsplashes—but I doubted I would ever own a house; much less be able to afford a designer. Even back in Louisiana, where prices made at least renting my own apartment somewhat obtainable, I lived with my parents and ate my meals in a kitchen with lime green appliances that hadn’t been refreshed since the seventies. Now that I was staying at my aunt’s, I couldn’t even control where the plates were stored, much less the decor.
I might not own my own place, but the thought of all the money I was saving by living at home buoyed my spirits as I straightened my shoulders and got to work.
“What can I get y’all?” I asked as I approached the gaggle of women seated around a table with random yearbook pages laid out under the plastic table topper. They had just started on their meals, so it was probably too early to sell them on dessert. “Refills? More beer?” There were several bottles on the table, and I recognized the labels as some of our most popular local brews, including Bad Hudson Stout and Pour Williamsburg.
Before moving to Williamsburg, I’d only ever tried the big-name, mass-produced brands that came out of aluminum cans. Those same beers were also available in Brooklyn, but hardly anyone ever ordered them. The locals preferred craft beer, small batch brews with simple ingredients and complex tastes. I made a point of learning everything I could about our wide and ever-changing selection of brews.
This week, we were pushing a locally crafted beer served in a dark brown glass bottle with a red, white, and blue label. It had been a big seller over the Fourth of July weekend, but now cases of it were taking up space in our already cramped stockroom. “Have you tried Pursuit of Hoppiness?” I asked them. “It’s light and refreshing, but at nine and a half percent, it’s one of our strongest IPAs. Guaranteed to give you a buzz, with a nice, slightly sour flavor.”
The woman nursing one of the Bad Hudson Stouts gave me a dismissive wave. “Another one of these, please,” she requested without making eye contact. “And water,” another woman at the table added.
“Coming right up.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Nan the waitress glancing in my direction before returning her attention to the table of button-down-shirt-clad men near the front. At least she wasn’t jumping down my throat and accusing me of trying to poach her tip. Besides, I recognized her other table from a bank down the street and knew they always left at least 20 percent, after tax.
I took care of the refills. As I passed the open kitchen window to return the water pitcher, there was a break in the music—today we were playing a mixture of commercially popular folk music and the smoky voice of a local lounge singer—and I noticed Izzy leaning against the counter where a few high-topped stools were lined up diner-style. The stools had to have been designed by a sadist, and were rarely occupied except on our busiest nights. “Aren’t you supposed to be organizing the stockroom or something?”
“I was. I am. But then I realized I haven’t eaten all day.”
Parker poked his head out the pass-thru window. “Izzy, order up.” He slid a bowl of what looked like egg salad on a bed of lettuce with a garnish of spiral-cut carrots and radishes. I knew it wasn’t really egg salad because vegans like Izzy didn’t eat any kind of animal product, not even eggs or dairy.
“Mind if I try?” I asked. Without waiting for a response, I scooped up some of the faux egg salad on a piece of radish. It was good, surprisingly so. “If I didn’t know this was vegan, I would think it was the real thing,” I said.
Parker, who had been hovering around the open window to hear the verdict, beamed. “Really?”
“Yup,” I confirmed, dipping another serving onto a slice of cucumber. “I bet you’d fool half of the biddies down at the Sunday social with this.”
“Good to know.” He disappeared into the kitchen. At least Parker and Izzy understood my accent. Most of the time. Then again, I wasn’t sure they even had Sunday socials up here in Williamsburg, so he might have just been being polite.
“Hey, Parker, you gonna be serving that ‘egg’ salad all weekend or just today?”
He stuck his head back through the pass-thru. “Depends on if people like it or not.”
“They’ll like it, trust me. Mind plating one up for me for Instagram?” I hadn’t updated the café’s page yet today, and if I didn’t come up with something soon, Todd would have even more ammunition against me. “Don’t worry, I’ll pay for it. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I tasted it.”
He arranged two big scoops on a bright green piece of lettuce, added the garnishes, and sprinkled some cherry tomatoes on top. He slid it onto a blue glass plate, next to a thick slab of fresh, locally made multigrain bread and a dollop of spicy mustard before passing me the plate. “On the house. Least they can do for free advertising.”
“You should have been an artist,” I told him.
“He is an artist,” Izzy corrected me as I snapped a picture and posted it as the daily special. Remembering Andre’s request, I tried to think of something cutesy to say about it, but while the dish was delicious, it wasn’t very meme-worthy. I sat next to Izzy and dug in with gusto.
“Wow, you really do like the egg-less salad!”
“Told ya,” I assured him, my mouth full. “It’ll be a hit. I promise. Is that what you served Hazel?”
Parker blushed, and I resisted the urge to pump my fist in the air. I knew it. He and Hazel were an item.
I liked Parker. He was my friend, and I liked seeing him happy. He was a phenomenal cook and quite a catch. “She seems nice.”
As much as I hated to abandon my meal, there were tables to be waited on and new diners to seat. I grabbed a bite or two every time I swung by the window to drop off or pick up orders, and by the time we got really busy, I’d managed to polish off the plate.
6
Untapped Books & Café @untappedwilliamsburg ∙ July 12
What’s your favorite Williamsburg institution, and why is it Untapped Books & Café? #Williamsburg
By the time the night shift crew arrived, the café was full. Even the stools at the long bar were all claimed, and groups had started pushing tables together. As a waitress, the only thing that bothered me more than people swapping tables—thus making keeping track of checks nearly impossible—were people who dragged chairs between tables or pushed two tables together. At the end of the night, there was enough cleanup to be done without also having to rearrange all the furniture back to the way it was.
Because I’d been so late, I only got to work a few hours, but it had been a productive shift. My pockets were padded with small bills from tips. I turned over my tables to the next server, told Parker—who was finishing up his shift, too—to have a good evening, and hung up my apron. Izzy had likewise finished in the stockroom and was waiting for me. “Good to go?” I asked, and she nodded.
We left together, heading toward my aunt’s building. As usual, I took a moment to appreciate Williamsburg. I enjoyed the walk home. I could take in more of the city at my admittedly slow pace, but right now I had to hurry to keep up with Izzy’s long-legged stride. When she first moved in with me, I was afraid that between working together and living together, Izzy and I would get sick of each other but so far it hadn’t happened. We got along like peanut butter and jelly, and spent our free time together as well, when she wasn’t out with Castillo.
My bag was a lot lighter without the trophy weighing it down. What with it being a murder weapon and all, I doubted we’d ever get it back. I still wasn’t clear how that had happened. “Hey, Izzy, why did you leave my messenger bag in the library of the escape ro
om?”
She glanced at me. The light changed and we stepped off the curb. She yelled an inventive obscenity at a cabby that barreled through the intersection, ignoring the red light and crosswalk, and got an angry horn in response. Only in New York. “I’d rather not talk about that right now.”
“Sure.” Alrighty then, sore subject. Not that I blamed her. I hoped Castillo hadn’t been too rough on her. I guessed asking her what exactly happened in the interview room, and how Castillo was going to continue heading an investigation that his girlfriend was at the center of, was off-limits, too, even though I was dying to know. Maybe it was time to change the subject. “I wonder why Todd wasn’t at work today. That’s not like him. Come to think of it, the last time I saw him, he didn’t yell at me or tell me to go scrub the front steps with a toothbrush first. Didn’t even have a snarky comment. Is he feeling all right?”
“Better than,” Izzy said with a knowing grin, scooting over to let a jogger pushing one of those speed baby strollers pass. She took a breath and held it for a dramatic pause before revealing, “Todd’s dating.”
“Oh.” Words failed me. What kind of woman would date a guy like Todd? He was just so . . . peculiar. Then again, there was someone for everyone, wasn’t there? Even my great-aunt Maude met the love of her life at the ripe age of eighty-two after a lifetime of knitting orange sweater vests out of her cat’s fur. “What’s she like?”
“I haven’t met any of them yet,” Izzy said.
“Any? Them?” My mind boggled that Todd might have more than one date. It wasn’t that Todd was repulsive or a swamp monster or something. Everyone deserved to be happy. I’d just never seen the human side of him before and it was going to take a minute to adjust my mindset.
Izzy nodded. “Todd asked for my help to set up an online dating profile and he’s had his head in his phone ever since. Been on a couple of dates already, and supposedly been texting someone special.”
No Memes of Escape Page 5