Chapter 3
Chapter Three
The Deal
With a thud to his head, the container of tea pops open above the groaning figure, and I gasp, realising his identity. My poised fingers unthread from the pin of my alarm to clasp my chest, swallowing my heart down from my clenching throat.
“Oh my God, Joey!” I lunge forward to help him. “I am so, so sorry! Are you okay?”
A confetti of loose-leaf tea and curls of shredded lemon rinds decorates his long mocha hair. He pulls off his over-ear headphones, letting them hang around his neck, releasing a quiet stream of music. Heat rushes to my cheeks, but the tension dissipates as he looks up and laughs.
“What the hell is this?” he asks, sniffing his hair before leaning forward and shaking it out like a wet dog.
“They’re tea leaves.” I dust what I see from his shirt. “Joey, I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here.”
My shoulders sink as I see that the container—my fix of joy—lies empty beside his leather boots. Their once-tan hides are darkened with dirt and streaks of oil. He scoops down, collecting the lid and pot. “Oh, shit… I’ll get you some more.”
“What? No! I threw it at you.”
“Well, for the record, I’m always in early on a Thursday for stock take.” He then smiles, wagging his finger at me. “So, no more tea to the head, okay?”
Although he’s done a brilliant job of reassuring me, the guilt continues to flush my cheeks.
When empty, the bar looks much larger. There’s a stickiness on every surface, and everything capable of shining is smeared or smudged.
Joey gives a quick tutorial on how things are done, and I have many questions about my role, since Donnie was not as approachable.
There’s something about Joey that is inviting beyond the curl of his lips.
Maybe it’s his nose? All his features are sharp-edged, his eyes dark, but his nose is adorably round, and I feel a perverse urge to boink it like a button.
I ask, “So, will I be working with you, or will there be other girls?”
“Krick won’t hire more women than he has to. You’ll be flying solo Monday to Wednesday. I’ve dropped those days,” he says while stacking glasses behind the counter. “I work full days Thursday through Sunday, but unless I have to drop any more shifts, you’ll have to put up with me, I’m afraid.”
“Why are you dropping shifts? Is it awful?”
“No, no, no, it’s not that. I tinker at my brother’s workshop—mechanics and repair.
I work there most mornings.” I had already noticed the oil marks around his nail beds, but he presents his palms, his calluses stained black, and his brows press, as if surprised at how dirty they still are.
He moves to the sink in the back corner of the counter, talking over his shoulder to me as he washes them.
“It’s his business, but I help whenever I can.
I could do it full-time, but I enjoy working here more, working with people.
But I just needed a bit more money for my business. ”
“You have a business?”
“Not yet. But I’m opening a rental store,” he says with a proud smirk, drying his hands on the dishcloth tucked into his belt. “I’ve collected movies and albums since I was a kid. I should be able to start up in the next year.”
A smile glows on my face. Since I left home nearly three years ago, all my movies were left behind, and with no TV at Jimmy’s, I would ravenously trade CDs and books, reading them until the pages would float from their spines.
Joey’s not a book guy, but he is quick to offer his brother’s collection to me.
And at the mention of his brother, he tells me a bit about his years in Minneapolis.
He is clean-shaven, despite his disorderly long mane that brushes his broad shoulders.
His full lips have a natural curl to them, so he seems to smile at all times, and it softens his eyes, which are incredibly dark—but when the light catches them, they glow like deep lacquered mahogany.
He is eager to discuss his favourite movies, directors, and genres, while I have only seen a fraction.
He looks a little older than me. Or maybe he’s way older, but the way he expresses himself is youthful, emoting passion at an almost childish level—but I enjoy it.
Often, men can be awkward around women, and it’s a relief to be spoken to like an equal.
With a glance at the clock, I stretch out my moist palms, unsure if it’s the rush of excitement or nerves that’s berating me.
The TVs have been turned on. They cover every wall, so they are in everyone’s line of sight, no matter where they choose to sit.
Joey left the music channel on, playing music videos, and it’s hard to look away.
I have never seen many of the faces behind these voices I have learned to love.
The opening is only minutes away. Jimmy’s Diner was laid back and rarely had a rush, while the locals were always patient, but the city is fast-paced. I’m desperate to do this with minimal help, since the idea of being schooled on how to do a job by a man is rage-inducing.
With the stroke of the clock, the front doors unlock, and a doorman steps through, broad and bald with a goatee upon his stern face.
He stops before the counter, and his face turns softer. “Smith. The doorman.”
“Hey, I’m Lee,” I say, “the new girl.”
He waits, standing there awkwardly, before Joey comes from the back room.
“Ah, Smith. Sorry, buddy.” He reaches into the fridge, grabs a bottle of soda, and pops off the hissing lid before handing it over. Smith takes the bottle and returns to his post in the bar’s porch area.
“So, that’s Smith,” Joey says while polishing a glass with a dishtowel. “He comes in for a soda every few hours. He’s been here for over two years, and I bet I’ve not heard fifty words come out of his mouth.”
“What? That guy? We were speaking for at least five minutes before you showed up.”
His face drops, and he bangs the glass on the side of the bar. “Shut up! You’re kidding, right?”
I release the edges of my lips into a curl as he shakes his head at my teasing. “A sense of humour? That’s something I can get on board with.”
“It’s entirely necessary, since we’re in a ‘If we don’t laugh, we’ll cry’ kinda world.”
He offers a grunt of agreement while nodding. “We should sell that on T-shirts.” He claps his hands together, offering a challenging brow. “Well, I’m going to do my best to make you laugh, Lee Quinn, since I’m not in the business of making people cry.”
He provokes a slanted smirk as I turn him over with my eyes. The oil-stained nail beds. The tattoos creeping beneath his long sleeves and collar. That smile… That soft smile that stays, even when he’s busy, like that’s his relaxed facial expression.
“No… I’m sure you’re not.”
When the regulars arrive, Joey greets them by name and prepares their drinks without prompting.
I’m a useless third wheel while they converse before leaving to sit alone at tables, staring at their drinks or at the TVs.
They don’t differ from the men who came to the diner, sitting, decompressing, and contemplating.
It was always difficult to watch. While the phenomenon has taken choices and freedom from women, the men have also suffered a parallel loss.
Since Eden is the destination for most women, the regular man has minimal opportunities to meet a woman.
So, they invest themselves in their work, and find companionship in other forms. They commune here together in solitude, since it’s less lonely than returning to their apartments before they wake up and relive the same cycle, day after day.
The midday wave of customers crowds the counter with their fingers and faces dusted dark with dirt, probably from some form of labour.
But they must work outside the city, since there’s a distinct absence of terrain here, and I’m unable to imagine a patch of soil free from cement in this place.
I’m caught off guard when the clock strikes two.
The busyness has distracted me from the tense build-up towards the Unity Siren, and I hadn’t even noticed the absence of music.
The man I was serving rotates towards the TV, like a record on a player.
They’re all watching the TVs. The French prime minister is first—as always—then English, Russian, Canadian, Spanish, Chinese.
The footage is eighteen years old. All standing at their podiums before their nation’s flags, declaring war on America.
The same song is on repeat four times a day.
The cheers aren’t as loud in here—just a couple of men shouting rather than groaning with distaste like the majority.
I back away slowly, pressing the small of my back to the rear counter.
It’s no less nerve-wracking when their anger mirrors that of tired, defeated soldiers.
Not a single one of them doesn’t watch the TV, and I dare a glance at Joey.
His jaw is tight, arms crossed, but he watches—because not to watch is to dissent.
But no matter what is expected of me, I point my face toward the screen, grit my teeth, and close my eyes.
I can’t bring myself to watch Beckett. His voice is chilling enough as I grind my teeth so hard they rumble in my ears, but it’s not enough to drown him out.
The men cheer, and I count down through the speech.
“They tried to defeat us. They failed.” Forty seconds. “Remain vigilant.” Twenty seconds. “Every day is another victory.” Ten seconds. “Thank you to the United State of America.”
The customers cheer, and I wince at the volume, opening my eyes to find the screen showing the United State of America flag blowing in the wind. The red and white stripes are the same as ever, but it gets no easier to see the lonely white star in the corner.