Chapter Four
God, can I please catch a break? It’s like all the events that happened in the past twelve hours are ripples in the water after the catastrophic belly flop that was last night, and together they are trying to drown me. I can’t believe I have to go back to that awful restaurant. I even called them a couple times to see if the stupid wallet was still there, but of course the line was busy and they don’t have an answering machine. What kind of restaurant doesn’t have an answering machine?
L’italiano is open till midnight, so hopefully I’ll be able to pick up my wallet after my catering shift. With any luck, some alien life-form will have wiped the memory from all the employees there and no one will remember me.
As a woman with no skills and no direction in a big city, naturally I temp. Sometimes I cater, sometimes I hand out postcards to people on the street, sometimes I dress up like a hot dog and pass out little cups of relish to yuppies in Whole Foods. All these jobs have the same requirements: strip yourself of your personhood and do what you’re told.
I make my way into the New York Athletic Club loading dock since serving staff aren’t allowed to use the front entrance, and hang my jacket on a rack beside the kitchen door. NYAC is for people with old money. Everything has history, from antique trophy cases to busts of famous athletes. This place even smells rich. Lots of heavy furniture.
I’ve worked here a handful of times. It can be grueling, but the pay is well above minimum wage and most of the staff here don’t suck. Once, a cook saved me a full plate of filet mignon with pureed potatoes, roasted carrots, and gravy to take home after my shift, and it fed me for the following two nights. As long as management doesn’t see, I can usually eat for free, which is good, since my life is a huge embarrassing joke and I couldn’t get groceries today.
I’ve opted for my super-sexy black Dansko clogs this afternoon. I used to try to look semi-presentable when I came to work, but cute shoes aren’t good for your joints when you have to spend eight hours on your feet. Besides, there is a strict uniform at NYAC and that includes black shoes, a white collared shirt, black slacks under a maroon coat provided by the venue, and a gold bow tie. Today the coat given to me fits pretty well. The name tag says Anya . Sure, I can be Anya.
“You’re late,” a voice nips my ear. It’s headwaiter and asshole extraordinaire, Mr. Kirk. Yes, we are asked only to refer to him by his last name.
His scrawny body and narrow face tower over me, hands on his hips, lips tight. If a knitting needle came to life and started ordering people around, it would be Mr. Kirk.
“It’s two o’clock. I got here five minutes ago,” I retort.
His black eyes bear down on me. “That means you should be working by two. Not standing by the door looking lost.”
“I haven’t even been given an assignment yet. I don’t know what room the event is in.”
His thin, cracked lips form a straight line. “How many events have you catered here?” he asks firmly.
“I don’t know, ten or so?” I pull at the scratchy bow tie around my neck.
Kirk crosses his arms. “After ten events you need to be told what to do at every step of the way? Do I need to hold your hand? Is that it?”
“No, sir.” Kirk’s eyes narrow in on me. “I’ll start polishing the silverware,” I mutter.
Yeah. Most of the staff here don’t suck.
“Good. Don’t be late again,” he says, his voice nasal and grating.
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
Douchebag.
He whooshes away like a comic-book villain.
The kitchen is like a labyrinth. It’s probably big if you measured its size by square footage, but it feels as small as a bathtub with all the people, dishes, jugs of condiments, boxes of produce, and industrial appliances cluttering the space. When I enter, the smell of garlic and onions makes my mouth water.
I grab a bin of silverware, a clean kitchen rag, and a glass of club soda. I find my way to an empty corner and start to polish. Dip, wipe, dry, set aside. Dip, wipe, dry, set aside. I continue polishing until every fork and knife is sparkling and the sounds of my brain quiet into nothingness.
···
There’s a fine mist in the air when I finish my shift. It’s the kind of night that’s hot and cold at the same time. I can’t tell if my shirt is sticking to my back because of the rain or because of my sweat. I wipe my brow with the sleeve of my jacket as I cross the street to catch the train downtown. My stomach grumbles. Mr. Kirk caught me taking a plate of chicken cordon bleu and I was forced to give it back. I watched him toss it in the trash as I threw my maroon jacket and bow tie in the hamper by the door, trying hard not to say something that would get me fired.
It’ll be ten by the time I get to L’italiano, which is well after the dinner rush, but there may be some straggler tables. I hope there will be enough action going on that I will be able to sneak in and out with little fanfare, but not so much that I’ll have to wait for hours to get someone’s attention.
I ride the F train down six stops until I hear the conductor call “Delancey Street” over the rumble and screech of the tracks. I pass Rosencrantz & Guildenstern, a monument of my fear. The doors taunt me. Mock me. Screw you, doors , I think as I cross the street toward the warm glow of L’italiano. Screw you and all you represent.
It would be a hell of a lot easier for me to just cancel all the cards in my wallet and head home, but I know that I can’t let my fear hold that kind of power over me. I run my hand along the iron door handle until, finally, I pull it open.
The scent of buttered bread and lemon zest wafts through the air as I survey the restaurant. There are two tables with people in the dining room and one couple sitting at the bar—other than that, the place is empty. The couple are glued to each other in a very… intimate embrace. He’s practically got his fingers in her mouth.
I go to the bar, but I don’t sit on a stool. I don’t want to look like I’m staying for a drink. Instead, I lean on the bar and try to look busy by burying my face in my phone. It’s pathetic, really. No one has texted me in hours and I exhausted all the updates on my Instagram feed on the way down here, so I’m stuck studying a picture of Andy and Theo from their joint wedding shower. In college, Andy always insisted that it was silly and sexist to separate bride and groom for the shower because they’d mostly be getting kitchen appliances and houseware items, and it would be absolutely ridiculous that those gifts should be just for the bride in the twenty-first century. Do we not expect the groom to do housework?
She’s wanted to get married for as long as I’ve known her, and has had strong opinions on the wedding industry since she started watching Four Weddings on Sunday mornings when nothing else was on cable and Sam was at baseball practice. When I get married, I won’t separate the bridesmaids and the groomsmen, because I want Sam on my side. And when you two get married, I better be in both of your parties. I’ll be maid of honor and best man.
I bite my bottom lip, using the pain to cast aside that memory. The lost potential of that statement. Sam won’t be at either of our weddings.
Come on, Bennet. Keep it together.
Finally the soft-core porn next to me stops and the couple head out into the dark street, his arm pulling her flush against his body. It feels like hours are passing as I stand here awkwardly, refreshing my Instagram feed. How can they expect to make money with service like this? I could be a paying customer.
Just as I’m about to give up and leave my number at the host stand with a note to call me if they find it, my wallet slides onto the bar in front of me. My eyes follow the path of the person’s fingers up to their wrist, forearm dusted with light brown hair, up to a bicep and a tattoo peeking out from under a short-sleeved shirt.
Henry.
“Well,” he says with a raised eyebrow, “didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”