Excerpt:
1975
I recognized his voice from across the room. When I
handed him a menu, he looked up absent-mindedly and went on talking to some
guys, then did a double take.
“Cookie?” he said.
I tried on the name like an old article of clothing
to see if it still fit. It felt like a suede fringed jacket. “Yep,” I said.
“Wow. You look so different.”
“I cut my hair.”
“Everyone did.”
“I’m older,” I said. “Everyone’s older.”
“You look exactly the same,” I said. He was wearing a
beat-up leather jacket over a green T-shirt, maybe the same jacket and T-shirt
he had always worn. His thick black hair was shorter now and curly, skin still
tan from summer, small mouth with perfect teeth. He still looked tough and
handsome, but in a creepy way, like someone you couldn’t trust.
“Cookie, what the hell are you doing here?”
“I work here. I’d rather you didn’t call me that. My
name is Rachel.”
“I thought your name was Cookie.”
“Nope. Do people still call you Rat?”
He
laughed. “Nowadays I go by Joey.”
“Okay, Joey,” I said, since this was nowadays.
“Miss?” a voice called from a nearby table. The voice
brought me back to where I was standing, in Diana’s Grotto, a Greek diner on
57th Street, with ten tables full of customers. For a moment, I had thought I
was in Casa Sanchez.
It took me a while to make it back to Joey’s table. A
divinity student had found a fly in his milkshake, and it wouldn’t have taken
so long if I hadn’t made the mistake of saying, “So, how much can a fly drink?”
Like most academics, this guy had no sense of humor and gave me a lecture on
hygiene. It was amazing that knowing as much about hygiene as he seemed to, he
would continue to eat at Diana’s Grotto. By the time I got back to Joey’s
table, the men he had been sitting with were gone. Off-duty police, from the
looks of them, I thought, or plain-clothes. We got a lot of cops in Diana’s;
they slumped on stools at the counter with their guns hanging from their belts,
sucking down free coffee. Back in the sixties, the sight of their blue leather
jackets had always made me nervous, like I’d committed some crime I’d forgotten
about.
“So why are you working here?” Joey asked. “I thought
you were a college girl. A co-ed.” He flashed his white teeth. “I don’t mean to
be nosy.”
“The problem with college is they make you leave when
you finish.”
“And here I thought it was a permanent gig.”
“Nope.”
“But why aren’t you doing something a little more—”
“Collegiate? Don’t ask.” I slid into the booth next
to him. From across the room, Nicky, the maître d’, shot me a poisonous glance.
I ignored him. “I like it here.” I smiled a crazy little smile.
“Hey, different strokes.” His eyes swept the room,
resting on a mural of a white windmill on an island in the Aegean. The
windmill’s blades were crooked. I remembered this eye-sweep from Casa Sanchez,
where he had always sat facing the door so he could constantly scan the whole
restaurant. His eyes returned to me. “Didn’t I hear a rumor you were supposed
to be getting married? Some guy in California?”
“Just a rumor. Glad to hear the grapevine still
works.”
I felt someone hiss into my ear. Nicky had slunk up
behind me. He looked like a garden gnome in a plaid jacket and baggy pants,
reeking of aftershave that had tried and failed. “Rose!” he snapped. He never
called anyone by their right name. “What’s in a name?” I always murmured.
“Be right with you.” I gave him what I hoped was a
reassuring smile.
“This is a classy place,” Joey said as Nicky ambled
away.
“He’s the owner’s brother-in-law.”
“Diana?”
“There is no Diana. She’s a mythological figure.”
“Like Hendrix?”
“Kind of.”
“Hey, you want to have a drink after work?”
“Actually, I don’t drink any more.”
“You want to come watch me drink? What time do you
get off?”
“Nine thirty. You could come help me fill the
ketchups.”
“What?”
“You know, take the empty Heinz bottles and pour
cheap generic ketchup in them.”
“Sounds like fun, but why don’t you meet me at
Bert’s? Back room?”
I thought for a moment. This did not seem like a good
idea, but I didn’t care. “Okay, why not. So, can I get you anything?”
“Just coffee.”
“You want a side of taramasalata with it? It’s made
from fish roe.”
“I’ll pass, thanks.”
When I brought him his coffee, he said, “You’re still
a hell of a waitress, Cookie.”
“You’re still a hell of a waitress, Rachel.”
“Whatever.”
“Thanks,” I said.
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