“I’ve worked here two years.”
“No, I’ve seen you somewhere else, I think. Have you ever worked in Evanston or Winnetka?” she asks, naming a couple of the northern suburbs.
“Nope. The Loop and Lincoln Park, mostly.”
“No, that’s not it . . . Maybe you were in high school with one of my kids.”
“I didn’t go to high school in Chicago. Maybe I just look like someone you know.”
Her face shows dissatisfaction. “Maybe.”
Lili’s been close enough to hear this whole conversation, so she contrives to follow me to the kitchen. “Sasha! She remembers you! From before!”
“Well, I don’t remember her.”
“I guess you can’t remember everybody you’ve ever met.”
“I think she’s just a stranger.”
Armand, who is in back taking a fifteen-minute dinner break, glances over at us. “A bit of your past caught up with you?” he asks in a neutral voice.
For no reason, it’s even more annoying when he says it. “No,” I answer in a brusque voice. “She’s nobody.”
Armand shrugs. “Well, everybody’s somebody,” he says. “Even if she’s not somebody to you.”
I’m so irritated I don’t even answer. I just grab a fresh pitcher of tea and go out into the dining area.
There are no more uncomfortable conversations with the unfamiliar woman. There are no other ghosts from my past who make their way to the diner. The day ends, we share out our tips, and Lili and I head for the L together. We don’t live near each other, not in this lifetime, but we still catch the train together as part of our nightly ritual. It still makes me feel safe.
Though I know I’m not safe.
* * *
—
Tuesday is almost as crummy as Monday was fine. It’s raining, Lili has the day off, I don’t like the other two waitresses whose shifts overlap with mine, Juwan is in one of his rare bad moods, Sanjay has called in sick, and Armand is Armand. Because we’re shorthanded, we’re behind all day, so customers are crabby and everybody tips poorly. I have a headache by two and a blister on the back of my foot by four.
“Smile, sweetheart, it can’t be that bad,” says a smarmy-looking junior-executive type who manages to touch my hand three times as I lay silverware, napkins, and food on his table.
I feel my eyes narrow as I give him a cold, level stare. You obviously have no idea how bad it can get, I want to say, but I swallow the words. “Would you like anything else? A slice of pie?” I ask in a brittle voice.
He leans back against the seat and leers at me. “Pretty girl like you,” he says. “I bet you have lots of boyfriends.”
“Just the right number of boyfriends,” I say. “So is that a no on the pie?”
“Sasha, that’s your name?” he asks. It’s embroidered on my apron; of course it’s my name. “That’s pretty. Is it Russian?”
“Nope. Just American. Do you want your check, then?”
“I’m Bill. I work down the street. I haven’t been here before, but I think I’ll be coming back.”
“We’re always happy to have repeat customers,” I say.
“Are all the waitresses here as pretty as you?”
“Prettier,” I reply. If I talk to him one more minute, I will break into a screaming frenzy. “Just pay me when you’re ready,” I say, placing the check on the table. Without another word, I turn and head straight to the kitchen.
I’m working hard not to let the fury get to me, so it takes me a second to realize Armand has followed me through the door. “Take your dinner break,” he says quietly. “I’ll handle his check.”
Surprised, I look at him over my shoulder. “You don’t have to do that.”
He shrugs. “Guy’s an asshole. And you’re overdue for dinner. I’ll take care of him.”
I let out a long breath, deliberately unclench my hands, and then nod. “Okay. Thanks. But he says he’s going to come back. Like, be a regular.”
“We’ll deal with him then,” Armand says, and heads back out through the door.
Juwan looks up from the stove and gives me his first smile of the day. “He likes you,” he says.
“Who, that creep at the table? He doesn’t like people, he preys on them.”
Juwan makes a scoffing noise. “No, you idiot. Armand.”
Now I’m the one to whuffle with disbelief. “Uh, no he doesn’t.”
“Uh, yes he does.”
“Because he’s taking care of a jerk-off customer? That’s his job. He’s the manager.”
“Dude looks out for you all the time. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
I open the refrigerator to hunt up dinner. I’m starving, as it turns out. “Oh, for God’s sake” is my only reply.
“You ask Lili. She’ll tell you the same thing.”
I’m halfway through a cheese sandwich and a side salad when Armand sticks his head back through the door. “He’s gone,” he says briefly. “And there’s a new four-top at table five.”
I cram the rest of the sandwich in my mouth and set the salad aside for later. “Thanks,” I say. “I’m on it.”
* * *
—
My shift ends at ten, and I have to admit I’m just slightly nervous as I take off my apron and hang it on a hook in the kitchen. I’m wishing I’d asked Juwan to work an extra hour so he could walk me to the L stop. Today’s unsavory customer was pretty mild, all things considered, but something about him made my skin crawl, and I’ve learned not to ignore my instincts. Would he be the kind of man to hang around and follow a girl home? You hear stories like that all the time. Someone just catches a psycho’s eye, and then it’s all over. There’s no reason for it. Just chance and misfortune.
I push my way through the kitchen door and back into the dining area, which is pretty full. The place doesn’t close till midnight, and some of the biggest crowds come in after eight. I’m surprised to see Armand leaning against the front counter, talking to the night manager; his shift ended when Juwan’s did. He breaks off his conversation when he sees me, and heads over to meet me at the front door. I don’t wait for him to open it, because that feels stupid, but he’s right behind me when I step outside. The rain has stopped, which is an improvement, but the air feels colder than it should in late spring. Well, that’s Chicago for you.