Rina :: Good Eats Diner :: May 2007
The notion that I had helped someone was something I encountered almost daily.
With every, “Thanks.”
With every satisfied expression that told me, without words, that they had enjoyed their meal.
And with every two dollars I found tucked carefully under plates and glasses on tables, I knew I had helped someone.
I had helped them get something to eat.
No major societal contribution, but it was a job. And it was mine.
My profession was basically all there was to me. It was me, in a sense.
A born and raised waitress, from the minute I was permitted by law to work-- it was the force that drove me. It was the one, definite thing I could claim as a talent.
Waiting.
In my thirty years of it, I saw and heard and tasted and smelled and experienced more things than most people ever would.
Taking pride in that fact was almost difficult. Like admitting to being more worldly by always staying in the same place. Strange, but that was how I saw it.
In one day, I’d taken orders from a guy with a purple mohawk, a feuding couple from France who yelled insults in a language they thought I didn’t understand, a man convinced he was a superhero, a husband and wife who had a total of thirteen kids between them and brought them all along for their annual breakfast out..
But the day wasn’t even close to starting. It was only twelve, and it was only fitting that I grow tired already.
My arthritis was flaring up, and I’d been warned not to continue on with my job-- by my doctor and basically every other person in my life.
Customers commented on the haggard appearance of my hands, and they didn’t even know the pain I felt when I delivered them hamburgers or poured them fresh coffee.
The rush started to pour in, and after an exhilarating hour of constant “get me this” and “get me that,” everything, every check, every plate, was gone.
Just like that.
I was alone to clean and restock, all the while waiting for the next batch of people to waltz in. People must have really gotten in sync about random times to eat.
The day cook, Zeke, told me to take a break. I wouldn’t hear him, only focusing on getting every last crumb out from under booth six.
My hands ached and my head was starting to, too. The perfect time for the place to be dead.
Filling salt shakers seemed to make the pain subside. I wished I had brought my specialized gloves that made me look old.
But I didn’t care, as long as I could keep waiting.
The bustle of New York City was just visible outside the tinted windows. Sometimes, I imagined myself dancing, twirling around in all the sparkling lights of the night. Or even the dim sunlight of the day.
Then I had to keep waiting.
I watched people pass on the streets during slow periods. Some looked like they were going to stop in, then changed their minds.
It was just like me to wonder why.
I’d seen that exact scenario that day, when I’d gotten down to my last salt shaker. My eyes kept going back to the man that passed outside, again and again.
I almost wanted to go outside and invite him in.
When he finally decided, pausing before opening the door, I was elated. Another customer, another story, another one to add to the ever-growing, never-ending list of people I’d waited on.
I loved that list.
“Hello, hon!” I called from behind the counter.
The man, tall and skinny, said hello back and took a seat on a swivel chair in front of me.
“Beautiful day today, isn’t it?” I asked him, provoking no response. He held a piece of paper in his hand with something shiny attached. He wouldn’t look up.
I walked over to the sink and rinsed a pile of ketchup-encrusted plates. I walked over to the dish bins and called out to Zeke that they needed to be washed thoroughly.
I walked over to the young man (a baby, really. Must have been about twenty-seven.) at the counter, and he still wasn’t ready.
I gave him his time.
Maybe five minutes later, he looked up from the piece of paper and smiled, almost laughed.
I took in his presence, tried to sort him out by his appearance. Never definite, though. Only possible.
No ring. Not married.
Suit and tie. Successful.
Newly cut hair. Girlfriend.
Smile on his face. In love.
He spoke, taking me aback. I hadn’t expected him to say anything.
“Can I get a glass of ice water?” he asked me quickly, almost rushing the words.
“Sure thing, hon. You betcha.”
I made the glass in record time and didn’t even flinch when my head reacted to the sound of crushed ice.
I set it down next to him, and seconds later, he had finished it in one swig.
Usually, we had a “no eat, no seat,” policy, but I had been known to make a few exceptions.
“So, that’s a nice suit you have on,” I commented after watching him stare into space for a moment, his expression changing gradually to something I couldn’t figure out.
“Going anyplace special?” I looked over from the coffee urn where I was preparing filters.
He looked down at himself, as if he didn’t remember what he had on. Or knew what I was talking about.
“Oh, this?” He shrugged and crinkled his forehead. “Not a fan of it. Really.”
“Well,” I started, running a cloth over spilled coffee grinds and flicking them in the sink. “You sure do look nice in it.”
“Thanks.” He raised the water glass to his lips, and chased down the exact one drop of liquid left. “What’s your name?”
“Me? Well, I’m Rina, hon.”
“Have you ever been in love, Rina?”
I cautioned myself. Had to tell him what he needed to hear.
"Yes.”
“Isn’t it awful?” he said, grinning.
I grinned at him right back, and put a hand, instinctively, on my heart.
“Yes.”
“I am in love,” he proclaimed, clear and concise. “But it’s been awful, and now it’s..”
I took a breath, anticipating the finish of this. It’s awful. A young man didn’t need to say that. He didn’t need to experience that.
Me, on the other hand, well I--
“Now, it’s not awful anymore. Finally. After all this time.”
He surprised me. Intrigued me. Made me forget how worn I was and made me remember, with the glint in his eye, Howard Tellman and his convertible, summer of 1974.
Why people felt so comfortable sharing the personal, inner-workings of their life in restaurants would always be a mystery.
Whether they’d planned on sharing or not, they always did.
But this amazed man in front of me seemed to rationalize the absurdity of it all.
They needed to tell someone-- to know that it was really real.
“I’ve got to head home. I’ve got to ask her,” he said, still smiling. He handed me ten dollars and I instantly pushed it back to him, arguing that water was one of the few things in life you could get for free.
“No, really. Keep it,” he insisted but I refused again and then I realized something that I should have seen before.
That look on his face, the one I didn’t recognize-- was the look people had after they’d finally been accepted.
This man was tired, exhausted, done-- with being refused.
I slid the bill into my pocket and thanked him.
“My pleasure, Rina.”
His name, I’d never know, but his story, I’d carry.
Not only did I add him to the list of people I’d served, but also to the list of people I’d helped.
I’d given him the final push. The final say-so. The final, “Yes.”
He hadn’t told me much, but enough to know that the girl in his life was a lucky one. She had a man who loved her, she had a man confident enough to say what they had was worth the struggle and the pain.
I’m sure, whoever she was, that she would agree with my answer.
Whatever the question may have been.
Author's Chapter Notes:
after Jim's job interview in NYC :)
Chapter End Notes:
thanks for reading! reviews are appreciated :)
