Running on Empty (9 page)

“You
born
stupid or do you hafta
work
at it?”

His face on fire, Ethan gritted his teeth as he held out the plate, the potatoes with the Roast Turkey Special silently mocking him. “Look, I forgot to ask, okay? He wanted fries instead of mashed. Sorry.”

Judging from Ike’s reaction,
sorry
didn’t cut it. The cook snatched the plate from him, scraped the potatoes into the garburator, and dumped a serving of fries between the turkey and the cranberries while behind him Rake examined the ceiling. “Try not to drop it!” Ike growled, shoving the plate into Ethan’s hands.

Ethan fumed as he returned to the dining area. Business was slow, probably because it was Hallowe’en. Even the university students who were always looking for cheap food had stayed away. With just two customers there, at different booths, Lil had taken a half-hour off to run some errands, and the only sound in the diner was the scrape of cheap cutlery on even cheaper plates. There was no way the customers hadn’t heard Ethan getting ripped a new one in the kitchen, and the grins on both their faces when he came out confirmed it.

“Sorry again for the mix-up,” he said as he set the plate in front of the customer who’d asked for the fries. It was the long-haired guy with the tattooed arms and eyes that seemed to bore holes through you. He looked to be in his thirties, which was unusual. Except for university students, most of the people who
came to The Chow Down alone were older types, many of them senior citizens on fixed incomes. Guys in their thirties who ate there usually dragged a pack of bickering kids along with them.

“No problem,” the guy said, pulling a well-chewed toothpick from the corner of his mouth and laying it on the table. He nodded toward the kitchen. “Ike’s still Mr. Congeniality, huh?” He ran his hands through his black hair, pulling it behind his ears, and the cuffs of his leather jacket slid back to reveal his forearms. The ink encircling his arms was intricately patterned, and Ethan thought again of snakeskin.

“You know Ike?” asked Ethan. He’d only made six bucks in tips so far that afternoon, and he was hoping some conversation might translate into cash later.

The guy grinned—more a smirk than a smile, Ethan thought—and said, “Yeah, me ‘n’ Ike go way back.” He reached for the ketchup bottle and slathered the red sauce on his fries.

Ethan wondered if the guy was just bullshitting him. Ike had to be a lot older than him. “Way back?”

“Far enough,” the guy said.

“How’d you two meet?”

The guy forked two of the fries into his mouth, then spoke around the gooey mass as he pointed the fork at Ethan. “You ask a lot ‘a questions.”

Ethan felt himself flush. “Sorry. It’s just hard to imagine Ike with a life outside that kitchen.”

“Oh, he’s got a life all right.”

The comment hung in the air making Ethan feel weird. Was that a remark about the cook’s
gay
life? “If there’s anything else I can get you, just let me know, okay?” he said, moving off to refill salt and pepper shakers.

Later, coming out of the kitchen, Ethan was annoyed to see the guy had left without paying, and he bit back a curse at the thought of having to cover the loss out of his own pocket,
especially on such a slow night. When he cleaned off the guy’s table, though, he found a ten-dollar bill under his napkin in addition to the money for the meal. It was the biggest tip he’d gotten from a single customer so far, and he suddenly felt like he’d reached a turning point—maybe the time had finally come for him to start applying at better restaurants, like he’d told Pete a few days ago. Of course, he grinned to himself, even Kenny’s Café would be more upscale than The Chow Down.

He thought again about the guy’s arms, wondering if that was his connection with Ike—buddies who got their ink at the same shop. He began wiping off the table and idly wondered what it was like to be permanently marked in such an obvious way. Seth had a tat on his right shoulder, a Harley-Davidson logo that bled into a burst of flames, and he was considering adding an image of his dream machine, a Harley FXSTSB Bad Boy, to his left shoulder. Seth had tried to convince Ethan many times to get a tattoo of his own, but Ethan had seen enough tats at the pool to realize very few looked good for the long term. He did a flash-forward in his head and imagined the ten-buck tipper fifty years from now in a seniors’ home, those inked arms like ruined sticks dangling from a wheelchair. He shuddered.

“Someone walk over your grave?” asked Lil, back from her errands and coming through the batwing doors carrying a large package of paper napkins. She grinned. “A little Hallowe’en humour, honey.”

Ethan grinned back at her. “You ever see a guy with sleeve tats come in here?” he asked. “In his thirties maybe?”

“Sleeve tats?” she asked, picking up the napkin dispenser on the table next to his.

“Tattoos that cover the whole arm. This guy had full sleeves on both.”

“Long black hair?”

He nodded.

She looked down at the metal dispenser in her hand and pressed a thick wad of fresh napkins into it. “Link Hornsby. Comes in every once in a while.”

Ethan thought he detected something in her voice, an undertone he hadn’t heard before. He showed her the ten-dollar bill. “Good tipper.”

“Mm,” she said. She put the dispenser back on the table and moved on to the next one, taking the large package of paper napkins with her. She separated a wrist-thick bundle from it, then hesitated as if unsure what to do next.

“What’s up?” he asked, shoving the tip into his pocket.

She turned to him. “This is none ‘a my business,” she began, then stopped.

“What?” he asked.

She shrugged. “My parents always told me if you can’t say somethin’ good about a person, don’t say nothin’ at all.”

“Okay,” said Ethan, intrigued. “You gotta give me more than that, Lil.”

The waitress turned to the single remaining customer sitting on the other side of the diner. “You okay, Benny? Need anything else?”

Benny, a tall man about fifty with stooped shoulders, looked up from his Bacon Burger Deluxe. “Maybe some more water when you get a chance, Lil. No rush.”

Lil walked to the sideboard next to the batwing doors and grabbed a pitcher of ice water, then carried it to the man’s table and topped up his glass. The
clink-slosh
of water and ice cubes seemed louder than usual.

Ethan moved toward the sideboard and waited for her to return with the pitcher.

“You need anythin’ else, sweetie,” Lil told Benny, “you just sing out, okay?”

“Thanks, Lil,” the man said.

The waitress didn’t speak to Ethan right away, busying herself first wiping the sides of the pitcher with paper towels. Then, lowering her voice, she said, “I’m not one for givin’ advice. Woman my age waitin’ tables in a place like this probably ain’t the best person to be tellin’ somebody else how to live their lives.”

Her comment made Ethan think how different she was from his father, who could definitely learn a thing or two from Lil about offering advice. Jack Palmer subscribed to the Give It Whether They Want It Or Not approach, followed closely by the Repeat Often methodology, although lately he had been too busy with gearing up the campaign machine to harass his son.

“You aren’t
telling
me anything, Lil,” he said. “I’m asking.”

Her next comment came in a muted rush. “I wouldn’t be too impressed by anythin’ Link Hornsby does.”

Ethan raised his eyebrows. “Why’s that?”

She shrugged. “Just rumours. Don’t know if any of ‘em hold water, but I’d steer clear ‘a the guy if I was you.”

“He left me a tip, Lil. He didn’t ask me out.”

She shrugged again. “I’m just sayin’, okay?”

“Okay.” He glanced at his watch and was relieved to see his shift was just about over. “Anything else you need me to do before I go?”

“Nah, it’s dead tonight.” More Hallowe’en humour, and they grinned at each other. “I got it covered,” she said. “You take off.”

“Thanks.” He went to the register and began cashing out. When he’d finished, he retrieved his jacket from the kitchen—and was floored when Ike actually grunted a goodbye—then went back to the dining room. “See you Friday, okay?”

“You bet,” she said, refilling more napkin dispensers.

Outside, the street lights were beginning to wink on, their pink glows easing into white, and the trees around them cast weird early-evening shadows on the pavement. Seeing the lacey
patterns of bare branches beneath his feet as he walked to his bus stop, Ethan thought again about the guy with the freaky tattoos. Link Hornsby.

I’d steer clear ‘a the guy if I was you
.

No problem. Ethan wasn’t exactly eager to strike up a friendship with someone whose skin made his own crawl. But he couldn’t help wondering about the connection between Hornsby and Ike Turner. Former boyfriends maybe? The sudden thought of the surly cook enjoying a passionate moment with
any
one—man
or
woman—made him laugh aloud, drawing quizzical looks from a couple walking past him.

But he was still thinking about the two as he boarded his bus a few minutes later. And wondering whether that person named Mike knew the guy with the sleeve tattoos.

“Here!” Ethan thrust the money into his father’s hand. “Satisfied?”

Jack Palmer’s fingers closed around the wad of bills. “This was
your
doing, Ethan, not mine,” he said as he looked up from his desk in the study, another Jackson Browne song playing through hidden speakers. Ethan recognized the track as “Running on Empty,” one of his old man’s favourites, and felt a fresh flash of annoyance; that title summed up his money situation perfectly now. His father’s voice softened. “Now that you’re all paid up, I hope we can finally put this behind us. What do you say?”

Ethan glared at him. “If you’re looking for another apology—”

His father shook his head. “Over and done with. Time to move on.”

Over and done with
, thought Ethan.
For
you,
maybe
. After working all those gruelling shifts at The Chow Down, he still had no car and, as of ten seconds ago, had no cash again either.
Hard to move on when I don’t have wheels to move on with
. But he kept his mouth shut. What was the point, anyway?

His father nodded toward the money. “I have to hand it to you, Ethan. I’m surprised you were able to pay everything off as fast as you did. I heard the pool was cutting back on its part-time hours.”

“I haven’t worked there in
weeks
,” Ethan spat. He hadn’t intended to say anything about his job, but his father’s comment pissed him off. Flipping through TV channels in his bedroom
last night, Ethan had seen his old man’s face appear on the screen, and he’d caught the last minute of a news segment on his father’s candidacy. A statement the commentator offered at the end about Jack Palmer having “his finger on the public’s pulse” had angered him. This about a guy who didn’t have a clue what was happening in his own home. Christ!

“Then where’d you get the money?” asked Jack.

Ethan thought about the robbery downtown that he’d just heard about. The second one in a month. “I hold up convenience stores,” he said. “The hours are crazy but the pay’s not bad.”

“Don’t even joke about something like that.”

“Might turn off the voters, huh?”

“Ethan—”

“I’m waiting tables at a diner. Happy?”

If not happy, his father looked visibly relieved.

“So that’s where you’ve been,” said Jillian, appearing in the doorway in an ivory pantsuit that clearly hadn’t come from Value Village. No question about it—the woman had a thing for white. Ethan imagined her wearing that outfit in the January room, pictured her disappearing against those Brilliant Cream walls. Wishful thinking.

“If you’d actually been
interested
,” Ethan snapped at her, “you could’ve
asked
me,” and he enjoyed seeing the wounded expression that appeared on her face.

“There’s no need to be rude, Ethan,” said his father. Then, as if to keep the tension from escalating, he asked, “Which diner?”

Ethan glowered at his father’s fiancée a moment longer before replying, “The Chow Down.”

“Near the waterfront?”

Ethan nodded.

“I’ve driven by it,” said Jack.

Of course you have
, thought Ethan.
Jack Palmer would never actually eat in a place like that
.

“Maybe I’ll stop in sometime,” his father added, surprising him.

So you can perform the perfect-father routine for the cameras?
“I wouldn’t bother stump-thumping for
that
crowd,” Ethan said, thinking of Ike. “You might get more than you bargained for.”

He turned to go. Lil had asked him to cover for her that afternoon so she could leave early. Something about a baby shower. Jillian stepped aside to let him pass.

“Ethan?”

Ethan stopped in the doorway and looked back at his father. “What?”

Jack seemed about to say something, then reached into his pocket. For a second, Ethan thought he might be returning the money, but instead he pulled out a set of car keys, got up, and walked toward his son. “Here,” he said. “Now that you’re all paid up, you can drive the Volvo again.”

Ethan stared at him, surprise rooting him to the spot. Then, just as he was about to reach for the keys, he changed his mind. “Turns out the bus isn’t so bad. No strings attached.” Then he left.

As much as he needed the money, Ethan regretted having agreed to fill in for Lil. Wednesdays were usually the restaurant’s slowest times, so they needed only one server, but for some reason there’d been a steady stream of diners through the door for the past two hours. At one point he was almost running between the kitchen and the tables, and Ike told him to slow down. Actually said it without snarling. Of course, not more than ten minutes later, Ethan upset a Spaghetti With Meatballs over an All Day Breakfast as he hurried to load his tray, and Ike’s roar seemed to rattle windows, giving new meaning to “Halifax Explosion.”

Toward the end of the shift, though, things levelled off and he even had time to chat with some of the customers. “The girls” had returned and immediately launched into questions about girlfriends, because the one with the bad wig had a teenaged granddaughter they all thought would be perfect for him. “Honey,” she told him, her synthetic hair glittering under The Chow Down’s fluorescent lights, “if this Allie person ever gives you any trouble, you just let me know, okay?”

Boots stopped by, too, ordering the Western Sandwich without the tomato. Ethan forgot to deduct the quarter, but he remembered just as he passed Boots the bill, so he took it back to the cash register and rang it up again. Boots told him not to bother, but Ethan could see he was wearing the same baggy pants and sweater, which, while clean, looked even more threadbare than before. Cleaning off the guy’s table, he found another lottery ticket. With zero dollars in his bank account, he might have been even more pissed than the last time, but he thought about the man’s sweater and just shrugged, sliding the ticket into his wallet.

All in all, he made over forty bucks in tips by the time he cashed out. Not bad for a Wednesday supper shift. Rather than heading straight for his bus stop, he turned toward Spring Garden Road. At the Ragged Ending concert he’d taken Allie to, the group had announced they had a new album coming out, and he wanted to pick it up for her at HMV instead of downloading it like he usually would. Maybe giving her the CD would help ease some of the tension that had developed between them after he’d cancelled plans with her a bunch of times to take extra shifts. Today was one of those times. Although she’d told him she understood, something in her voice suggested otherwise. She hadn’t sounded pissed exactly. Something else. Hurt? Hopefully, the CD would help make it up to her.

On his way to Spring Garden, Ethan passed the convenience store where he’d checked Boots’s first “tip,” and remembered
the ticket in his wallet. He was in a hurry to get to HMV, but he backtracked anyway and headed straight for the ticket scanner, pulling the rectangular slip of paper out of his wallet. He smoothed it between his fingers and slid the bar code under the red light, waiting for the machine’s display to tell him
Not a winning ticket
.

His mouth fell open.