“More coffee hon?” she asks. Her tone is sincere, too sincere for this hour he thinks. There’s also the matter of her judicious use of ‘hon.’ She had been using it from the initial greet to the presentation of the bill. Maybe Baltimore stereotypes do hold water, he thinks.
“No. I’m fine,” he replies with a guarded smirk.
He settles deeper into the plush vinyl diner booth. The striated back soothes his backside, which is nearly numb from the trip. Baltimore marked his fifth major city. Every morning he woke with a start; eyes darting to every corner and window, his cerebrum slow to piece together his exact locale.
Working in sales had its perks. The expense accounts, free rental upgrades, the seemingly endless sushi. Sometimes he swore he could tell exact temperatures of rooms from the mercury coursing in his veins. Clients lack imagination.
It also taxed. He hadn’t had a stable monogamous relationship in five years and dealt with loneliness with hotel bars, tasteful suits and reality TV. He avoided doing anything to excess; smoking and drinking claimed both his grandfathers before he was born.
Overall he is satisfied with his trajectory. Middle management seemed an inevitability once they put him to pasture from the road. He calls a comfortable condo on Chicago’s north side home. The furnishings had become less personal though upon every return. The bourgeoisie and the hotels they frequent lack imagination.
For vices he gambles on sports. Mostly professional, he fully embraces the country’s sports obsessed psyche. It gave him an internal excuse to spend evenings engrossed at sports bars and chatting up anyone who would lend an ear. Being in a town during one of their big games was definitive to his own story. Without the incentive of winning though, he would enjoy it less. Americans lack imagination.
The cab ride from the hotel to the diner had been soothing. Outside a February rain fell, chunks of frozen bits lubricated the windshield but the wipers squealed protests.
“New blades, huh?”
The driver bobbed his baseball-capped head slowly forward and back in recognition.
He chuckled to himself at the rhetorical nature of his question. The blades tracked perfect convex lines that gave the impression the windshield was a huge turntable spinning two vinyl records in tandem. He thought about tomorrow’s agenda. Hotel breakfast, ten o’clock meeting with the in-house creative services team, eleven-thirty lunch meeting with the ad sales team. Back to the hotel for a power nap and recovery from the several martinis sure to be consumed. A rare phone check-in with his manager would proceed an early dinner. Later he might find himself in a cab on the way to a diner. He failed to notice his lack of imagination.
“You in town for like… business?” The question forces his head and neck upwards like a heeling dog.
“Excuse me? Didn’t catch that….”
“Ya know hon, business. You have that bleary-eyed look. Your collar needs some starch and you’ve been staring at your check for quite some time.”
“I’m a little tired yea, but I don’t want more coffee. Could use some crayons though, ya know? To draw on these pretty placemats.”
“Crowns? Sorry we don’t keep those,” she turns back towards the bar. It is only then that he realizes he is the last customer in the joint.
“Wait… I was just kidding. I will take some more coffee actually.” She glides back to his booth with pot in hand. It is only then that he realizes she is somewhat attractive. A knockout no; baby crow’s feet grace her temples and her makeup is tired from an all day shift. Her plain floral dress snugs against the outside of wide, pleasantly pronounced hips. God, he thinks, I lack serious imagination.
“To answer your question, yes I’m here on business.” The pour hesitates slightly. The response is unexpected. “Are you some kind of psychic? A psychic who moonlights as a waitress.” A smile is earned. Her forehead crinkles and crow’s feet flex.
“No. I’m just plain Jane, serve ya coffee, serve ya sandwiches, Debby waitress.”
“So which is it, Jane or Debby?” More crinkling as she brushes her black hair behind an ear.
“I go by Sarah. And you, what do they cawl you hon?”
The ‘hon’ makes him blush this time. It disarms and no longer annoys.
“I’m Jonathan. So Sarah, this place looks to be somewhat deserted. Why don’t you put up your tired feet and share a cup with me?” No sense in retreating at this point.
“Well gee golly whiz, plain ole’ me conversing with a fancy business man. All, be.” She flips her hair mockingly one hand on her hip, the other cuffed beneath her ear. She returns with a porcelain cup and fresh pot.
“So Jonathan, what type of business are you in exactly?” He can’t tell if her tone is coy or sarcastic. She’s nervous and covering it, he thinks.
“Well, I sell advertising. See that billboard over there?” He gestures to the distant harbored cityscape glowing up through the window. “Well you can’t see it from up here, but I have a few products that I maintain around the harbor.”
Sarah leans forward on her elbow places her mouth on her wrist and takes him in for the first time. She makes eye contact. She gives slight pause.
“I hope it’s not Phillip’s. That place claims they make the best crabcakes, but I know for a fact they use more filler than they would care to admit. My ex took me there once – ” She breaks the contact and eyes dart to the black and white tile.
“We all have skeletons,” he offers. “No sense in parading them about, especially to people whom you’ve just met.”
“I agree, no sense in p’rading. Say, what’s your favorite color?” The false air had been dropped and a forced cheerfulness squeezed through muslin arises to take its place, altogether as forged.
This time he betrays himself with a gaze that peers away from her face to the neon of the harbor below. She obliges a smile and they both draw upon their mugs. Good intentions abound in the air.
“I should start my shift work, it’s really getting on.”
“Why don’t you finish up and we can continue this? I’m staying just up the way.”
“What…. what’s ‘this’ exactly?” They both mirror smiles. He cocks his head slightly and in doing so, acquiesces first. Without further word, she slides out into the aisle. His lack of imagination startles him.
For the next five minutes, he alternates between sidelong steals of her polishing and the bottom of his mug. He doles out cash for the bill and leaves a precisely appropriated tip. On go his coat, rich deerskin gloves and bowler. He walks stiff and upright down the length of a bar with a measured gait.
“Green. I’ve always been partial to green.” She pauses half-hunched and wipes a lone drop of brow sweat with a backhand. Her eyes loosely focus on the window with a view, neon fuzz growing and swelling until the diner itself is ablaze.
“That’s nice,” she whispers. Her gaze not breaking stride she delivers the colloquial epilogue reserved for all: “You come back now hon, ya hear.”
Jonathan glances at the empty whiteness of her eyes and advances quickly to the door. He shudders deeper than the night dictates as he scans for a cab. Suddenly the well-appointed hotel bar seems enticing; perhaps they will be showing a west coast game.
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