Naomi :: Cugino's :: May 2007
It was my birthday. Which made me think of one thing, usually.
My name, which was described in the baby books by three adjectives.
Beautiful like a blooming rose.
Pleasant like the easiness of a laugh.
Delightful like surprises-- but only the good kind.
My mom said she saw it in my eyes, the first time I really looked at her.
It was a lovely thought-- someone just knowing, believing in you and what you were going to become.
Of course, my mother thought I grew to fit my name perfectly, truly encompassing the definition of all three words. I had to argue with this, but names were almost always on the brain from the time I was a little girl.
I had ten new names picked every year, no matter I wouldn’t actually have children of my own until much, much later.
The pages of my baby name book were dog-eared and marked with Post-It notes that had lost their stickiness. Some things were highlighted. Even a few had comments written next to them.
I shuffled through the pages quickly, letting the corners brush against my fingertips. I stopped on a random section, like I always did.
“Cheyenne,” I said aloud, my finger tracing the name and its meaning. “To speak incoherently.”
I laughed and read a few other tidbits about it as Paolo chimed in, “Cheyenne speaks incoherently. That’s something.”
“I know, really. The worst part is, I know someone named Cheyenne. I wonder if she knows--”
Paolo placed a piece of graham cracker cheesecake in front of me, complete with a lit candle pierced in the middle.
“Happy Birthday, Nomi,” he said triumphantly. “Do you want me to sing, or do you just want to read me some more names?”
“Thank you, Paolo,” I said, kissing him on each cheek with the European flair he emulated. “I choose the names. I only have five minutes left, anyways.”
“Bella, you could spend an hour talking about just one name,” Paolo pointed out. “You must start actually to use them!”
I just shook my head, always ignoring his nagging to find a new guy. At times, he protested that I “must go out with his friends from culinary school!” And as much as I liked Paolo, his personality quirks made me doubt his matchmaking skills a bit.
Plus, I was still getting over Brian, and that was still sort of new.
Who was I kidding? I was twenty-eight, officially. All of my friends were either married or engaged. They all had respectable jobs, graduate degrees from fancy universities.
And I was stuck at Cugino’s, waiting it out to find work as a writer. My work had been nothing short of sporadic over the past two years, and everyone seemed to know that, whether I told them or not.
But at least I could name my kids that didn’t exist.
“I have my new list. It’s basically the same,” I informed Paolo, spinning around on my barstool. It was marked on the plain edges of a square of newspaper, five girls and five boys.
I saw a table come to my section, with all the usual getting settled sounds filling the air. “Shoot,” I said. “Gotta go. Thanks again for the cheesecake.”
I straightened my shoulders and took a deep breath. I shoved the name list in my apron pocket. Back to the swing of things, a constant motion that was now all instinct. I knew everything there was to know, but yet, I was still learning.
“Hi, Welcome to Cugino’s. I’m--”
Wait a second. I knew this couple.
Girl with the curly hair and the smile and the engagement ring.
Guy who didn’t notice said engagement ring.
With a second glance at the girl’s hands, I could see that all of her fingers were completely free of anything extra. Anything hidden.
Her hands were right on the table, in plain sight, with their bare fingernails and fidgeting palms.
One more glance, and she appeared different, much different than I pictured her before. She had on a deep green blouse paired with jeans, her whole look making a statement of confidence. Just like the blue-cheese dressing, I thought.
I also thought of how scary it was that I remembered everything about that particular lunch shift. They stood out in my memory, almost all the details except for their names, whereas I probably didn’t register with them as anything at all.
“I’m Naomi, and I will be your server tonight.”
I just looked at the two, a little dumbfounded. I fought the urge to say something, bring up the past, even though my mind was racing with little fragments.
I bit my lip. After all, what was I going to say to this guy? “Oh, gosh. Remember the time this girl broke your heart and then I gave you really crappy advice as I wrapped up pasta leftovers?”
But they were back here again, together. What had that been, three years ago, two?
A lifetime had passed since then, or so it seemed. Some might even say that I was a completely different person since then, even though I really wasn’t.
Still Naomi. Still trying to live up to my name, with all its expectations of perfection.
I was totally spacing out, not even sure of where I’d left off. I looked down at my order pad and saw that I had, in fact, not even taken their drink orders. Yet I was still standing there.
But they didn’t notice. They were talking. They were laughing. They were so nervously lovely that I just couldn’t help but watch.
They were just the same, only more certain. More definite and more real. He had found it.
“Um,” I started, voice low. Louder and more interruptive, “Can I get you both something to drink to start out with?”
Their eyes exchanged a smile, a rarity that I always appreciated seeing. And it usually meant one thing.
They were in love, just like Paolo had guessed before. Just like I knew before, assumed before, made an ass out of myself for believing in before.
I felt like a complete idiot, elated and curious as to how this had happened. Usually I didn’t have a vested interest in my customers beyond side dishes and refills and tips, but this was much different.
With just a few more minutes splashed into their lives, I felt a sympathy for the two, raging. This girl who was here again, the one I used to curse for being so ungrateful, was as real as me.
She’d made mistakes. And I’m sure, that in the three years or so since I’d seen him, that the guy had, too.
“Well, hi,” the guy said, completely oblivious to any prior conversation between us. He didn’t recall, didn’t want to. I wouldn’t have either, if I were him.
“I will have a Shirley Temple, please,” the girl said, unrolling her silverware from her napkin.
I scribbled it down, even though I could have easily known without a reminder. The guy raised his eyebrows and looked at his date.
“Woah, Beesly. A Shirley Temple? That’s a little radical.”
“What can I say, Jim? It’s my favorite, because Shirley Temple kinda looked like me as a kid.”
Jim.
I was further getting caught in the middle of something, and I never knew whether to leave or just stand there, grinning like an idiot and holding an anxious pen to paper.
“Don’t you mean you kinda looked like Shirley Temple?” Jim laughed, and in a split second, turned his attention to me.
“Can I just get a Coke? Thanks,” he said after I wrote that down, too, then he looked to the girl. “You know, Pam, Shirley Temple didn’t even like Shirley Temples.”
“Okay, great,” I replied, but it was almost inaudible over the playful arguing they had ensued in.
I went over and made the drinks. I wished I could fill in the blanks, but it was getting difficult.
It was my twenty-eighth birthday, and couldn’t even claim something like this. Something like love.
The way they looked at each other, the way her smile only grew instead of faded as she relaxed. The way he spoke and she listened. The way the opposite was the same.
Later, the blanks started to match faces, words, ideas and new memories started to attach with just a little gained.
“We are going to have a twelve-cut with mushrooms and extra cheese--” Jim started.
“And pepperoni, too.” Pam frowned at Jim jokingly. She grimaced for a quick second and told me, “I can’t stand mushrooms.”
“Oh,” I said in my quick-thinking, waitress persona, “Well, we can put it on half the pizza and then you can put whatever you want on your half.”
“No,” she said. “I think I can stand them enough to pick them off.”
Jim laughed and added, “Oh, the sacrifice.”
I grinned and knew, with the hurt I had seen, that many more sacrifices had been made, in addition to pepperoni and mushrooms.
Later, they proved themselves as an award-winning couple.
“Another Shirley Temple?” I asked Pam. They hadn’t really touched their pizza, just two slices sitting out on plates, ready.
“Uh, yeah. Sure,” she answered, washing down the last bit.
Jim said, “What, no second drink?”
She actually blushed a little and shrugged her shoulders.
“Only at the Dundies. That was a one time thing,” she informed him.
“Oh really? So you have to win an award for those rules to apply?”
She seemed to have forgotten about handing me her drink, so I turned on my heels and started towards the kitchen.
Later, they had dessert and showed me something I would have never expected them to.
A square of newspaper. My square of newspaper, name list.
They were in between shared bites of key lime pie and talking, and I was wrapping up their pizza in one of those trademark boxes with the ribbon, over at the next table. I heard an “Excuse me,” from the other side of their booth.
I turned my attention, caught off-guard. “Sorry. Um, is this yours?” Jim asked me, and I was already embarrassed and ready to snatch it back as soon as I caught a glimpse.
Pam sipped remnants of ice from her drink, a small smile on her face. She seemed so far away in her thoughts that she didn’t notice Jim speaking up.
“We like Aubrey Jane,” he said, even though I hadn’t claimed to be the owner.
Oh, God. They thought I was pregnant. That’s what I get for being so into naming.
“Jim,” Pam said, alert and elbowing him across the table. “We agreed not to say anything.” She looked at me sympathetically. “I’m very sorry. That’s just so personal-- We didn’t mean to interfere, we just found it on the floor.”
Pam stared at Jim expectantly.
He laughed and said, “I’m sorry.”
I laughed, too, letting everything swirl together.
Don’t worry about it. Be bold, ask.
“How long has it been since you were here last time?”
They exchanged a knowing glance and said what most would have considered cheesy, but it just seemed to fit.
In sync, in one breath, “Too long.”
On their way out, I heard them mumbling something about a can of Coke. They paid their bill and Jim told me that he remembered me and my advice. They wished me a happy birthday, though I wasn't sure how they knew.
Pam said that she didn’t usually talk to waitresses much, because she used to be one, and it always made her feel weird.
But it wasn’t weird, relating to people.
And I went to my next set of tables with energy and enthusiasm and I couldn’t exactly recall what had driven me to make those lists, the ones with all the names, in the first place.
Because it was just unfair to place expectations everywhere, especially when things could flourish without them.
I decided that if I didn’t exactly live up to my name, that it would probably be for the best.
Later, I told Paolo to set me up with one of his culinary school friends.
No expectations.
Author's Chapter Notes:
the real date :)
Chapter End Notes:
hope you enjoyed :) let me know what you think.
