Keeping the Moon (5 page)

I looked at myself in the mirror; with my hair up I looked twelve. I took it down. Put it up again. Then changed my shirt and checked on Norman, who appeared to have fallen asleep, baking in the sun.

I changed my shirt again, put on my Walkman and went downstairs.

"Ready?" he said as soon as I stepped outside, startling me. He hadn't been sleeping, after all.

"Sure," I said, and got in. The seat was hot on the back of my legs. Norman opened the glove compartment, and about six pairs of sunglasses fell out, all different kinds: Ray*Bans, purple-framed old-lady glasses, wraparound seventies styles.

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"Oops," he said, reaching over and collecting them. "Sorry." He traded the pair he'd been wearing for some green ones and put them on, shoving the rest back into the glove compartment, which he slammed shut. It immediately fell open.

"Damn," he said, pushing it shut again.

"Are all those yours?" I asked, as it opened and another pair fell out.

"Yeah," he said, finally closing it with a good whack. "I collect them." He started up the car. "You need a pair?"

"No," I said.

"Okay," he said simply, shrugging. "Whatever."

We backed out of the driveway.

"Whatcha listening to?" he asked, pointing to the headphones around my neck.

"Fierces of Fuquay," I said.

"Who?"

"Fierces of Fuquay," I repeated.

"Never heard of them," he announced. Now he pointed to the tape deck. "Pop it in."

So I did. It wasn't really fair, because it came on in the middle of this song called "Bite," where the lead singer was just screaming over the drums. Norman's face looked pained, as if someone was stepping on his foot.

When the song ended, he said, "You like that?"

"Yes," I said, popping it out and back into my Walkman.

"Why?"

"Why?" I repeated.

"Yeah."

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"Because I just do," I said.

"Shit," he said loudly, and I was about to tell him I thought the same thing of whatever hippie music
he
listened to when I realized he was staring, mouth open, across the street at the Last Chance Bar and Grill. Two big buses, each with
Family Beach Getaways
painted on the sides, were pulling into the tiny parking lot.

"What is it?" I said.

"Gotta take a detour," he told me. He hit the gas and we lurched forward, pulling up just as the bus door wheezed open and people started filing off, all in visors and bathing suits with children clinging to various parts of them. Norman got out of the wagon and went around to the back, letting down the tailgate to pull out a pair of shoes. He started toward the front entrance, dodging the bus passengers.

"Come on," he said, dropping the shoes on the ground and stepping into them. "We might need you."

I followed him up the steps, where a line was already forming; bodies shifting, voices irritated. Norman pushed through, yelling, "Excuse me! We work here!" and people let him pass, with me trying to keep up behind him.

The first thing I saw was a stunned Morgan standing behind the counter watching the line form.

"Help us!"
she yelled at Norman, who waved her off and went back into the kitchen. Through the food window I could see another cook, an older man with bushy red hair.

Isabel walked up, carrying a stack of menus. "There are at least seventy total," she said to Morgan.

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"Seventy?" Morgan shrieked. "Are they kidding?"

"We can seat fifty-five," Isabel told her. "The rest can stand or wait. That's it."

"This is insane," Morgan said, watching as the tables quickly filled up. Isabel was already darting from one to another, handing out menus and silverware. "I can't
do
this."

"How many we got?" Norman yelled through the food window.

"Seventy," Morgan told him. "There's no way, it's too many and we only have two cooks and this place is too--"

"Don't break down on me," Isabel said as she pushed her way behind the counter. "I need you now, Morgan, okay?"

"I can't--" Morgan replied, wringing her hands.

"Yes, you can," Isabel said calmly. "Now you take half and I'll take half. There's no other way."

"Oh, my God," Morgan moaned, tightening her apron.

"Do it," Isabel said. She glanced toward the line, her lips moving as she counted those still standing. Then she saw me.

"You," she said, pointing. Everyone in line looked at each other, then at me. "Yeah, you. Lip girl."

So much for apologies. "What?" I said.

"Want to make yourself useful?"

I thought about it. I knew I didn't owe her anything. But then again, I had a whole summer stretching ahead of me.

"Good," she said, deciding for me before I even opened my mouth. And as I came closer she picked up the shovel for the ice, slapped it in my hand, and pointed to the soda machine. "Get to work."

53

***

chapter four

I
never set out to be a waitress. But just like that, I had a job.

It was Morgan's idea, of course.

"We do need some extra help," she said to Isabel, who was sitting at the end of the counter after that frantic lunch, arranging her money. Morgan was upending ketchup bottles, one on top of another, mixing and marrying their contents. "Ever since Hillary ran off with that Cuban guy we've been shorthanded. Bick and Norman can handle things back in the kitchen. But since Ron's in Barbados all summer, he's not around to run things, which leaves more for me and you to do."

"We're fine," Isabel said

"Oh, yeah," Morgan said, facing her. She had a smear of ketchup across one cheek. "You would have been just fine without Colie getting you all those sodas
and
answering the phone."

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"You have ketchup on your face," Isabel told her.

Morgan wiped her hand across both cheeks. "Gone?" she said.

"Yep." Isabel stood and stretched her arms over her head, her ample bosom rising and falling as she did so.

"So?" Morgan said. "Come on, Isabel. Another day like today with no backup and we'd be screwed. You know it."

Isabel picked up the stack of bills from the counter, folded it, and slid it in her back pocket. Then she looked at me. "We can't pay much," she said. "Just minimum, plus tips. That's it."

"It'll be fun, Colie," Morgan said. "You should do it."

"Waitressing sucks," Isabel told me. "A lot of people can't handle it."

"Oh, it's not so awful." Morgan shook a ketchup bottle, knocking out the dregs. "Besides, we have a good time, right?"

"I mean, it's up to you," Isabel said, walking toward the door. "I, myself, would think long and hard about it."

"Just say yes." Morgan whispered to me as Isabel pushed open the door, putting on a pair of red-framed sunglasses.

"Yes," I said. "I'll take it."

"Fine," Isabel said. "You start tomorrow morning. Be here at nine-thirty." The door slammed behind her, and I could hear gravel crunching as she walked across the parking lot to a beat-up black VW Rabbit parked crookedly across two spaces. She opened the door and climbed in, reaching up to pull a key from under the visor. The radio was already blasting as she sped out in reverse, spraying gravel everywhere.

"Congratulations," Morgan said, handing me a bottle of ketchup. "Welcome to the Last Chance."

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Later that afternoon when I was standing across the street from the restaurant, waiting for the traffic light to change, I saw something in the distance. It began as a speck, hardly visible, and then grew larger and larger as it approached, until I could make out a color--red--and a noise, too. A bell.

By the time I recognized Mira's crazy red bike, there was a group of customers coming out of the Last Chance. They were college girls, all in sunglasses and T-shirts with damp spots where their bathing suits had soaked through.
Day-trippers,
Isabel had said snidely, like it was a slur of some kind. They were talking, heading back to the beach, when they heard it, too.

Ching-ching!
It was high-pitched, one of those old-timey bells like paperboys used in the movies, and as the bike got closer it got louder. The girls stopped talking and we all watched as Mira came into view.

She was still wearing her yellow overalls, rolled up at the cuff, and a worn pair of purple high-tops. Her hair was flowing out behind her, long and red and wild, like some kind of living cape. And, finally, she was wearing sunglasses: black wraparound frames, like the Terminator. All of the reflectors on her battered bike glinted as she came closer.

And she kept ringing that bell.
Ching-ching! Ching-ching!

"Oh, my God," one of the daytripper girls said, laughing. "What the hell is
that?"

Mira was nearing the intersection. The girls started to move toward their car, still giggling and watching, but she didn't notice them. She only saw me.

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"Colie!" she called, waving one hand wildly, as if there was any way I could have missed her. "Over here!"

I could feel the girls looking at me, and my face began to burn. I lifted one hand, just barely, and wished the parking lot would open up and suck me in.

"I'm going to the market to buy some more biscuit dough!" she screamed as a big truck rumbled by. "You want anything?!"

I managed to shake my head.

"Okay!" she yelled, flashing me a thumbs-up. "I'll see you later, then!" And with that, she started out into traffic, pedaling slowly at first, dodging the occasional pothole, and then coasting down the hill toward the rest of town.

As Mira passed, the road began to dip and she started picking up speed, the wheel spokes blurring. People in cars were watching her, the day-tripper girls, tourists at the gas station, everyone, even me. We all stared as her hair began to stream behind her again, a reflector on the back of the bike catching the sunlight and sparkling before she took the next curve and disappeared.

"Mayonnaise," Morgan said, "is a lot like men." It was nine-thirty in the morning on my first day of work, but I'd been up since six. I kept thinking Morgan would forget me or change her mind but at nine-fifteen she pulled up in front of Mira's steps and beeped her horn, just as we'd planned.

The restaurant was empty except for us and the radio, tuned to an oldies station. "Twisting the Night Away" was playing, and we were making salad dressing, both of us up to our elbows in thick, smelly mayonnaise.

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"It can," she went on, plopping another scoop into the bowl, "make everything much better, adding flavor and ease to your life. Or, it can just be sticky and gross and make you nauseous."

I smiled, stirring my mayonnaise while I considered this. "I hate mayonnaise."

"You'll probably hate men too, from time to time," she said. "At least mayonnaise you can avoid."

This was the way Morgan taught. Not in instructions, but pronouncements. Everything was a lesson.

"Lettuce," she announced later, pulling a head out of the plastic bag in front of us, "should be leafy, not slimy. And no black or brown edges. We use lettuce on everything: garnish, salads, burgers. A bad piece of lettuce can ruin your whole day."

"Right," I said.

"Chop it like this," she instructed, taking a few whacks with a knife before handing it to me. "Big chops, but not too big."

I chopped. She watched. "Good," she said, reaching over to adjust my chops just a bit. I went on. "Very good."

Morgan was this meticulous about everything. Preparing dressings was a ritual, every measurement carefully checked. Isabel, on the other hand, dumped it all in at once, knocked a spoon around, and came up with the same results, dipping in a finger and licking it to double-check.

But Morgan had her own way.

"Peel carrots away from you," she said, demonstrating, "and cut off the ends about a quarter inch each. When feeding them into the processor, pause about every five seconds. It gives a finer shred."

I peeled, chopped, and stocked. I learned the perfect, symmetrical

58

way to stack coffee cups and sugar packets, to fold rags at a right angle against flat surfaces, clean side up. Morgan kept the counter area spick-and-span, each element in its place. When she was nervous, she went around correcting things.

"Take-out boxes on the
left,
cup lids on the
right,"
she'd shout, slamming them around as she restored order to her universe. "And spoons are handle side
up,
Isabel."

"Yeah, yeah," Isabel would say. When she was mad or just bored she purposely rearranged things just to see how long it took Morgan to find them. It was like a passive-aggressive treasure hunt.

That first lunch, when Norman and I had stopped to pitch in, was a constant blur of people and noise and food. Everyone was screaming at each other, Isabel and Morgan running past with orders, Norman flipping burgers and yelling things to Bick, the other cook, who stayed stonily quiet and cool the entire time. I shoveled ice like my life depended on it, answered the phone and took orders although I knew almost nothing about the menu, and messed up the register so badly it stuck on $10,000.00 and beeped for fifteen minutes straight before Isabel, in a fit of rage, whacked it with a plastic water pitcher. It was Us against Them, clearly, and for once I was part of Us. I didn't really know what I was doing; I had to go on faith. So I just handed out my drinks and grabbed the phone when it screamed, wrapping the cord around my wrist and stabbing the pen Morgan had tossed me in my hair, the same way Isabel wore hers, and fought on.

"Last Chance," I'd shout over the din. "Can I help you?"

And now, I was doing it every day.

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At first, just walking up to a table full of strangers had scared me to death. I couldn't even make eye contact, stuttering through the basic questions Morgan had taught me--
What would you like to drink? Have you decided? How would you like that cooked? Fries or hush puppies?
--my hand literally shaking as it moved across my order pad. It made me nervous to stand there so exposed, all of those people
looking
at me.