Four
“How does it feel to be card-carrying members of the proletariat?”
I’ve taken two bites of my habitual Wednesday night Thunderdome Lightning Mac and Cheese when the ambush starts.
Of course, if this were a normal Wednesday night, Lola and Efraín wouldn’t be sitting in my favorite booth at my family’s
diner. Alas, much to my silent consternation, Lola insisted on keeping the gang together to celebrate surviving our first
day.
Instead of delivering our meals with a wink and a maternal platitude like she would any other night, Ma slides in next to
Naomi. She nods amiably to Lola and Efraín, as if they’re perfectly normal additions to this family debrief.
“Our time cards are virtual,” Naomi says.
“It’s actually an app,” I say simultaneously.
“Bona fide, then,” Mom decides, coming out of the kitchen and sitting next to Lola. The flour smeared on her forehead does a poor job concealing that she has just as many freckles as Naomi and I do. It also means she just put a batch of pies in the oven. “Bona fide members of the proletariat.”
“It’s not my first job,” Lola points out between bites of her sandwich. “I’ve been working at the body shop since I was old
enough to hold a socket wrench.”
“Family businesses don’t count,” I mutter. “It’s just unpaid ‘helping out.’ ”
Lola frowns. “My dad pays me.”
Naomi doesn’t look up from her quinoa casserole. “Eli means when we help out here.”
Here being Lou’s Deluxe Diner, a family establishment and a cornerstone of Egan’s Creek, figuratively and literally. Prime real
estate at one corner of the town square, the diner is a cultural institution.
Lou’s looks like a ’50s diner because it was one, in a past life. When Ma’s Grammy Louise first opened the diner, it was ready
for the proverbial sock hop, and Ma’s dad never changed so much as a light bulb without consulting the town historical society.
When Ma took over her namesake, she rebranded. She saw the neon writing in the window long before the avocado toast boom.
She kept the nostalgic ’50s mise-en-scène—vinyl booths, checkerboard linoleum, and neon signs—but adopted a farm-to-table
ethos. Ma has a knack for updating classic diner fare into Instagram-worthy food porn accessible to every palate and wallet.
A decade ago, Lou’s became a modest tourist destination thanks to a feature on a certain travel food show hosted by an infamous homegrown celebrity chef, but that publicity doesn’t pay much in dividends anymore.
Efraín starts to say something asinine about unpaid child labor, but Ma waves him off. “Free food is a currency.”
“Room and board,” Mom agrees.
“Not that you two are allowed to pay, either.” Ma points to Lola and Efraín. “Friends and family don’t pay.”
Which is no way to run a business when Ma considers half the town friends, as evidenced by the pleasantries she exchanged
earlier with Mr. Jennings, the doddering accountant who rents an office upstairs and comes downstairs for the lentil-walnut
meatless loaf every night.
I still don’t know how to explain that I’m not actually friends with—
“I want to pay,” Efraín insists. “Max and Jesus—”
“The fact that you know the names of our waitstaff just goes to show.” Ma clucks her tongue. “You kids spend so much time
here, studying, working on the paper . . .”
It’s not my fault that this census-designated place has only one high school, with AP classes so small the district keeps threatening to cut them.
The handful of kids in those classes who actually want to study outside of school amounts to Efraín, Lola, two or three rotating background actors, and me.
It’s not my fault that Lou’s is the most convenient meeting place for us—and for the school newsletter staff, with our negligible budget.
It’s certainly not my fault that Efraín writes op-eds on every issue facing the school while I’m just trying to write my film reviews in peace.
Needless to say, Efraín and Ma have debated the payment issue more times than I can count.
“Consider it compensation for the carpool,” Mom interjects. She nods at Lola. “For gas.”
That appeases Efraín. For now.
“Speaking of the carpool,” Ma says. “I want to hear all about your youthful hijinks.”
“It’s a job,” I mutter, “not a sitcom.”
“All right, how was your first day at your very serious first grown-up job? Tell us everything.”
Mom glances at her watch. “Reader’s Digest version. I have plum tarts in the oven.”
I open my mouth, then shut it again. Naomi’s looking down at her barely touched plate. Efraín’s staring, inexplicably, at
me.
Thank God we have Lola to fill the dead air.
You know that thing where someone asks how you’re doing, and no matter how you’re actually feeling, you say you’re “good”?
For most people, the lie is intuitive, instinctual. But I’ve never been good with social scripts.
When I was a kid and people asked how I was doing, I told the truth. How was school that day? Bad because Shawn Rossi made fun of the one-eyed, threadbare teddy bear I brought to show-and-tell. I learned the hard way that no one wants the mess of your real, ugly feelings.
When someone asks how you’re doing, unless you’re talking to a doctor, a therapist, or a TV bartender, you’re supposed to
tell them some prettier fiction. They get to pat themselves on the back for performing their I-see-you empathy lines, just
so long as you swallow your lies until you make them true. That’s the social script.
I may have learned it manually, but I do know it. I also know it’s only a matter of time before Lola runs out of steam talking
about how great it was to see Blake again or how Divya invited her to the informal staff bowling night.
But as the conspicuous NS superfan in the room, Moms want to know how today went for me. “C’mon, kid.” Ma reaches past Naomi to ruffle my hair. “Was it everything you dreamed it would be?”
The truth is, I begged them to let me apply at the museum. I begged them to believe me when I said I could handle it.
Was it everything I dreamed it would be?
I remember the look in Anya’s eyes when she apologized for misgendering me and promised it would never happen again. I gave
her the prettier fiction: I believe you, it’s okay, let’s just move on already. Then I told it to myself.
I can’t let my moms know what really happened—that I barely made it through my first day without a meltdown.
I don’t know what will happen if they doubt my ability to keep this job, if I can’t come up with my share of the top surgery down payment.
It’s not that they won’t cover it. They understand that it’s necessary medical care but not its urgency. They don’t see the
harm in waiting a few extra months or another year, like Naomi had to wait for braces.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection rippling on the surface of my coffee.
The truth is? Everything that went wrong today was my fault. If I’d been clearer with Anya, she wouldn’t have misgendered
me.
Moms don’t need to know about the mess, so I give them the prettier fiction, too: “It was great. Better than great. Everything
I hoped and more.”
“What about you, kiddo?” Ma asks.
Naomi swallows a petite bite of casserole, then says, “Fine.”
Moms share a grown-up look, a conversation that happens entirely in eyebrow acrobatics.
Ma sighs theatrically. “Teenagers, amirite?”
Mom disappears to check on her plum tarts. Ma goes to check in on the booth next door and gets sucked into a cordial debate
about the recent small-business tax hike with Mr. Loman, the proprietor of Loman & Sons Hardware, and Ms. Sinclair of Blue
Plate Picture Palace.
Lola digs back into her jicama fries. Naomi keeps quiet, spouting neither random facts nor avian trivia. The lull is hardly companionable. I can’t settle into the silence because the diner isn’t silent. Ambient chatter and scraping cutlery across the room provide an unsettling soundtrack.
“You know, Coco Chanel was a Nazi,” Efraín says conversationally and apropos of absolutely nothing.
“Pardon?”
Across from me, Efraín takes a slow, lazy swig from his Mexican Coke. “As a self-proclaimed Nuclear Seasons fan, how are you okay with the museum promoting that brand? Chanel was a Nazi agent. How can you like a TV show that made
deals with—”
The Marienbad dress dances in my mind’s eye. “Have you been holding that in all afternoon?”
“Doesn’t it bother you?”
“Why, because I’m Jewish?”
“No, because you’re human.”
“Okay, well, I’m glad to know you don’t think I’m a lizard person, but it wasn’t product placement,” I object. “Almost all
the sixties designer clothing came from thrift stores and estate sales. Victor Kane didn’t have the production budget for—”
“Kane made a choice.”
Is this the part where I’m supposed to point out that the anti-graffiti coating on the Holocaust Memorial in Berlin was manufactured
by a subsidiary of the company that manufactured Zyklon B?
Maybe this is why I don’t get invited to parties.
I don’t know what Efraín wants me to say, so I try, “Kane was Jewish. There’s a photo from his bar mitzvah in the farmhouse.”
“Boys,” Lola interjects, “let’s leave work at work, yeah? I can’t believe I have to tell you to keep the TV drama on the clock, Ef. Why don’t we talk about literally anything else?”
Efraín’s frowning at Lola’s light chiding, and I’m wondering why I’m still here. I could be home with Sputnik, watching NS from the comfort of my own bed—
“I’m going to get fired tomorrow,” Naomi blurts.
Cue the laugh track.