Chapter 24 - Georgie #2
When I walk along the side of the corroded brick building, which could use a good power wash, I notice the same sun-faded black and orange help wanted sign still hanging in the window. So, why the hell won’t she hire me?
I push open the door to the diner, and the attached bell rings out over the Dolly Parton song playing from the old jukebox in the corner.
Sheila looks up from the bakery case as she slides out a chocolate cream pie. When she sees me, her mouth cracks into a wide smile. “It’s you!”
Hustling out from behind the long bar top, Sheila wipes her hands on a towel that hangs from the apron tied around her waist. “I’m so glad you came back, Georgie.
I misplaced your application, or maybe I threw it away accidentally.
I don’t know, but either way, I couldn’t find it to call you and offer you the job. ”
“You want to offer me the job?” My mouth splits into a matching smile.
“I sure do. In fact, can you start today? My other waitress called in sick, so we’re going to be short-staffed for the dinner shift.”
“Of course, yeah. I’d love to start today.”
“Great. I think we have a few extra uniforms in the back.”
I follow Sheila into a small break room at the rear of the restaurant next to the kitchen. Sheila opens a closet door, her hands flying through the hangers until she pulls out two pink dresses trimmed in contrasting white piping. Holding them up to me, she motions to the bathroom.
“Hopefully one of these will fit. Go change and meet me out on the floor so I can get you up to speed before dinner.”
Grabbing the dresses, I change out of my clothes and pull on the bigger of the two dresses.
Standing in front of the mirror, I button up the dress, liking how the cinched waist flatters my busty figure.
It’s a bit tight, but not too much. The dress hits me right above the knee, and I probably look a little silly wearing the dress with my pink cowboy boots, but since it’s Nashville, it kind of works.
Leaning my butt against the white porcelain sink, I take out my phone to text James.
Hey, I got a job, but I need to start today. Is that okay?
Luckily, he responds quickly.
James
Good for you, Georgie. I have Weston covered. I’ll feed him a bottle when he gets hungry.
Speaking of Weston getting hungry… I hope I don’t start leaking. Shoot, I hadn’t even thought of that. I walk into one of the bathroom stalls and fold up several squares of toilet paper before stuffing them into the cups of my bra. Hopefully, that will be absorbent enough if I do leak a little.
Thanks. I appreciate it.
When I walk out to the dining room after stowing my purse and clothes in a locker in the break room, Sheila smiles. “Oh, good, that one fits perfectly, Georgie. I’ll order you a second uniform and your nametag. Now, let’s get started.”
Sheila spends the next half-hour running through how their process works.
It’s a lot lower-tech than the places I’ve worked in before, but I like it because it’s simple.
Write orders on a notepad, tear off the carbon copy for the kitchen, hand guests handwritten receipts, and guests pay at the cash register.
“Deb was my grandmother,” Sheila explains as we refill the napkin dispensers.
“She opened the diner in 1958 with her two sisters, and my mom took over after they all passed. But once my mom was ready to retire, no one else in the family wanted to keep it going, so I took over about a decade ago.” Sheila’s eyes rove over the outdated interior, from the white Formica lunch counter with ribbed aluminum trim to the retro teal and white pleather booths and the pink walls decorated with classic records and framed black and white photos of celebrities. “It’s not much, but I love it.”
And for some inexplicable reason, I already love it too.
There’s something inherently comforting about the place.
It’s lowbrow, but then again, so am I. Maybe that’s why I feel at home here.
Quincy’s, the restaurant where James and I had lunch, was gorgeous, and the food was delicious, but I couldn’t relax.
I felt like I needed to speak quietly, to sit up straight, and use the correct fork.
But not at Deb’s. Coming into Deb’s feels like walking back in time, when life was simpler.
“I’m saving up to make some interior changes and fix up the place,” Sheila continues, “but we barely survived the pandemic. So, it’ll be awhile before I can scrape together the funds necessary to make improvements.”
“Sheila, I love Deb’s just the way it is, truly,” I say, meaning every word.
I’m sure Sheila looks around and notices everything that needs fixing, but I look around and see a neighborhood diner that has been enjoyed and well-loved for almost three-quarters of a century.
For the first half of the shift, I shadow Sheila, as she converses with the regulars and shows me where everything is located—the straws, to-go cups, take-home containers, sugar packets, condiments, and the like. And then she sets me free.
The first table I get assigned is a group of three retired men who are regulars and come in every week for dinner without their wives.
Norm, Greg, and Ron are friendly, easy customers, who know exactly what they want to order.
Two cheeseburgers, fully loaded, with onion rings to share and two chocolate shakes for Greg and Ron.
Norm orders a double cheeseburger with barbecue sauce and jalapenos, topped with onion rings, a side of fries, and a vanilla milkshake.
Once I get back into the swing of things, everything falls into place.
It may have been months since I last held a job, but I love how comfortable the notepad feels in my hand as I jot down orders, how easy it is to balance a heavy tray laden down with plates, and how enjoyable it is to have simple conversations with people, even if it is only to take orders and talk about the menu.
When Norm, Greg, and Ron settle their bill, a moment of perverse happiness hits when Norm calls out, “See you next week, Georgie!” It feels like I’ve been accepted, like I’ve found a place where I belong.
Later, as I unwind the white half apron from around my waist, Sheila sidles up next to me. “You did great tonight, Georgie. Think you can be back here again tomorrow for the lunch shift?”
“I’ll be here whenever you need for whatever shift you need, Sheila.”
After counting my tips, I made close to $55. It’s not a lot of money, but it seems like a lot to me.
Fifty-five dollars closer to freedom. But the thought of moving out doesn’t excite me like it should.