At this restaurant I worked at back in the day, right, there's this little area off the kitchen where they made deliveries. People who worked there would go out to have a smoke, if they smoked, or talk about customers they just had in.
One guy started working there as a server. Skinny dude, ladies liked him but he wasn't built enough to be a bartender. Anyway he comes out -- I didn't know he smoked -- and lights one up. We start to talking, but then his phone goes off and he's got to be somewhere down the street. It was Sunday and we only had two customers, so I said I'd make sure they got refills and enjoyed the view of the water until he came back.
He takes his cigarette. Throws it.
"You just gonna throw away a whole cigarette you just lit," I asked him.
He half smiled and blew the smoke in his lungs out sideways.
"I'll tell you about that when I come back," he said, walking off as one of the cooks came out to tell me there was some lady at the bar asking for me.
"She's all like 'No, I'll wait', like I don't know how to make a fucking mimosa."
"Well you don't, but that's not why. If it's who I think you're talking about she's a little OCD -- wants the drink made with the exact measure, but you can't use the jigger to do it. I don't know why you call every drink a mimosa," I said, hearing the flick of her lighter as I walked back inside to the bar.
It didn't take much to keep people happy there. The scenery did most of it, and the alcohol did the rest. The bar was half open to the outside, with a view of the dining floor where I could see dude's couple sitting. The man was looking at the menu, even though they already dined. Probably deciding what to get next time -- some people do that. The woman was looking at her phone, which she put on the table after a moment with a smile in those eyes behind her glasses frames.
Fifteen minutes later, my customer at the bar eyeing me carefully as I measured another "mimosa" by osmosis, dude came back and closed out the couple he was serving. Our manager came out of the office to tell us to prepare for a crowd around 10.
"I'm going to call for backup."
Retired cop. I laughed like I always do.
"I'm going to need more zip ties here at the bar, then," I replied, and the manager laughed. I try to come up with a different response every time, but when I'm busy or not in the mood it's a thumbs-up or an "Alright then."
Dude comes up to me to separate his tips from what he had in his pocket from his walk. I looked over to see a couple 20's with creases folded into them.
"Help that old lady out?"
"Yeah," he said. "Doesn't take that much time, and she's right there."
"Ralla wants to know why you threw that whole cigarette away too," I said, as our cook walked up to pour herself a soda water. She raised an eyebrow at him.
"It's nothing. I mean, it's just something you do. But I was down in New River before I moved up here, and before I left I went to this palm reader -- crystal ball, gypsy curtains and all that. It was my girl's idea to go, since she had plenty of advice on her future from family and counselors but then felt she should have a-- a kind of askew input on what to do with her life after graduation.
"She got her cards drawn, then the lady read her palm and told her that if she didn't follow her dreams she would never find true happiness. But-- that true happiness didn't always come from where you think it does, nor do you always have to go so far to find it."
"Nor?"
"Nor. Anyway she's done with her reading, and she turns to me..."
"The gypsy," Ralla said.
"The gypsy, yeah. She turns to me and says 'And you, young man, have an aura about you. You will find your true calling, but you have to learn how to go after opportunities when you see them -- Otherwise, they will be lost, and so will you.'"
I refilled Ralla's cup with soda water, which she ignored.
"So," dude went on, "one day when my girlfriend and I were deciding whether to break up or wait for each other or whatever, since I said I was going to move and she was going to stay to run her dad's business, there was a knock at our door. I was closest to it, sitting on the closed-in porch talking to her through the inside window, and I had just lit a smoke. I get the door and there's this dog sitting there, staring up at me. Nobody else around, right? She's like 'Who is it' and I'm like 'This dog just knocked on our door' and she goes 'What?' and I go 'A dog just knocked on our front door' and she comes out to see it. She bends down to see if it's got a note attached to it's collar, or to pet it, and I'm holding the door open with one hand, cigarette in the other, and I look at the back of her head -- her hair -- and in a moment I saw our future."
"What did you see?"
"That's not the point," said dude. "It was where I was. I flicked the cigarette out into the yard -- I went and picked up the butt later, but -- if I had let go of the door, it would have closed on her knee, and I couldn't move her hair with a lit stick in my hand. I just knew that would be the last time I would ever see that. That part of her, like that. I barely moved a bit of her hair, away from her ear toward the back of her neck. I think I knew that somehow that would become a memory; and as time goes on they get easier to spot. Like deja vu, but nothing to do with having seen it before."
"That's it?" I asked.
"Yeah. I mean--"
"I get it. You get it, Ralla?"
"Fuck off, Sam, that was sweet."
Those were the last words I remember hearing before the speedboat crashed into the rocks outside. I'd remember them after the place quieted down, when the people in the crowd had decided to stay or leave, when the emergency crews had taken the injured away, when the manager had given the police a statement, when dude got somebody to bring an extra pair of shoes from his house because he had run down to help.
We had quite a few people come through that night. I went home, smoked a bowl and passed out.
Thank goodness, it's finally Monday. Today's my day off.
One guy started working there as a server. Skinny dude, ladies liked him but he wasn't built enough to be a bartender. Anyway he comes out -- I didn't know he smoked -- and lights one up. We start to talking, but then his phone goes off and he's got to be somewhere down the street. It was Sunday and we only had two customers, so I said I'd make sure they got refills and enjoyed the view of the water until he came back.
He takes his cigarette. Throws it.
"You just gonna throw away a whole cigarette you just lit," I asked him.
He half smiled and blew the smoke in his lungs out sideways.
"I'll tell you about that when I come back," he said, walking off as one of the cooks came out to tell me there was some lady at the bar asking for me.
"She's all like 'No, I'll wait', like I don't know how to make a fucking mimosa."
"Well you don't, but that's not why. If it's who I think you're talking about she's a little OCD -- wants the drink made with the exact measure, but you can't use the jigger to do it. I don't know why you call every drink a mimosa," I said, hearing the flick of her lighter as I walked back inside to the bar.
It didn't take much to keep people happy there. The scenery did most of it, and the alcohol did the rest. The bar was half open to the outside, with a view of the dining floor where I could see dude's couple sitting. The man was looking at the menu, even though they already dined. Probably deciding what to get next time -- some people do that. The woman was looking at her phone, which she put on the table after a moment with a smile in those eyes behind her glasses frames.
Fifteen minutes later, my customer at the bar eyeing me carefully as I measured another "mimosa" by osmosis, dude came back and closed out the couple he was serving. Our manager came out of the office to tell us to prepare for a crowd around 10.
"I'm going to call for backup."
Retired cop. I laughed like I always do.
"I'm going to need more zip ties here at the bar, then," I replied, and the manager laughed. I try to come up with a different response every time, but when I'm busy or not in the mood it's a thumbs-up or an "Alright then."
Dude comes up to me to separate his tips from what he had in his pocket from his walk. I looked over to see a couple 20's with creases folded into them.
"Help that old lady out?"
"Yeah," he said. "Doesn't take that much time, and she's right there."
"Ralla wants to know why you threw that whole cigarette away too," I said, as our cook walked up to pour herself a soda water. She raised an eyebrow at him.
"It's nothing. I mean, it's just something you do. But I was down in New River before I moved up here, and before I left I went to this palm reader -- crystal ball, gypsy curtains and all that. It was my girl's idea to go, since she had plenty of advice on her future from family and counselors but then felt she should have a-- a kind of askew input on what to do with her life after graduation.
"She got her cards drawn, then the lady read her palm and told her that if she didn't follow her dreams she would never find true happiness. But-- that true happiness didn't always come from where you think it does, nor do you always have to go so far to find it."
"Nor?"
"Nor. Anyway she's done with her reading, and she turns to me..."
"The gypsy," Ralla said.
"The gypsy, yeah. She turns to me and says 'And you, young man, have an aura about you. You will find your true calling, but you have to learn how to go after opportunities when you see them -- Otherwise, they will be lost, and so will you.'"
I refilled Ralla's cup with soda water, which she ignored.
"So," dude went on, "one day when my girlfriend and I were deciding whether to break up or wait for each other or whatever, since I said I was going to move and she was going to stay to run her dad's business, there was a knock at our door. I was closest to it, sitting on the closed-in porch talking to her through the inside window, and I had just lit a smoke. I get the door and there's this dog sitting there, staring up at me. Nobody else around, right? She's like 'Who is it' and I'm like 'This dog just knocked on our door' and she goes 'What?' and I go 'A dog just knocked on our front door' and she comes out to see it. She bends down to see if it's got a note attached to it's collar, or to pet it, and I'm holding the door open with one hand, cigarette in the other, and I look at the back of her head -- her hair -- and in a moment I saw our future."
"What did you see?"
"That's not the point," said dude. "It was where I was. I flicked the cigarette out into the yard -- I went and picked up the butt later, but -- if I had let go of the door, it would have closed on her knee, and I couldn't move her hair with a lit stick in my hand. I just knew that would be the last time I would ever see that. That part of her, like that. I barely moved a bit of her hair, away from her ear toward the back of her neck. I think I knew that somehow that would become a memory; and as time goes on they get easier to spot. Like deja vu, but nothing to do with having seen it before."
"That's it?" I asked.
"Yeah. I mean--"
"I get it. You get it, Ralla?"
"Fuck off, Sam, that was sweet."
Those were the last words I remember hearing before the speedboat crashed into the rocks outside. I'd remember them after the place quieted down, when the people in the crowd had decided to stay or leave, when the emergency crews had taken the injured away, when the manager had given the police a statement, when dude got somebody to bring an extra pair of shoes from his house because he had run down to help.
We had quite a few people come through that night. I went home, smoked a bowl and passed out.
[ L A T E R ]
Thank goodness, it's finally Monday. Today's my day off.
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