“I’m afraid I learned that the hard way last night,” I said, and described the incident and what was stolen.
He shook his head. “It happened to you that fast? Something of a record, I think. Sorry to hear it, but you can’t dwell on it. Think of it as you would an audition that didn’t pay off.”
“I already have. You needn’t worry,” I said firmly.
He smiled. “Maybe you’ll make it here. The Brits do have grit. They held Hitler back until we got into it.”
He looked down at my feet. “Those shoes won’t work,” he said. “You’re going to be on your feet ten, twelve hours a day and walking to and from here and all over the city to audition for this and that. Ask Marge where to get the right shoes, and get them this afternoon either during your lunch hour or after work. I’ll have my bookkeeper, Mary Springfield, get your information today. She hasn’t smiled since she was slapped on the ass at birth, so don’t be put off by her manner of speaking. Her ‘good morning’ can bring you to tears. She doesn’t make mistakes, so I overlook it.
“Oh,” he said as he was turning to leave me. “I have a name, a number for you to call, someone who wants to share the apartment and expenses with you. She was in here yesterday for breakfast and saw the posting. I think she fancies herself a dancer. Maybe you’ll drum up an act together. I’ll get it to you later.”
“Thank you.”
He waved at Marge Arnold and then pointed at me. She studied me a moment, nodded, and smiled at Mr. Manning.
“Go to it,” he said. “Get the uniform first. She’ll do the rest, and she’ll let me know when you’re ready to wait tables, so be a fast learner. No real money until then.”
“Thank you, si—Donald.”
“Billy Wollard,” he said, nodding at me. “He was a dreamer, too, but got a case of realism faster than I did. He’s got the instincts, but New York is full of very talented people.”
If I heard that one more time, I thought I’d scream. I think he saw it in my face.
“Anyway, good luck, Emma Corey.”
He walked toward the counter, and I headed for the kitchen door, my legs trembling with every step. I found a uniform that looked like it would fit. It was a bit shorter and tighter around my bosom than I had anticipated, but as my father often said, “Beggars can’t be choosers.” I wasn’t a beggar, but I was close enough to it. I put my things in a locker and took the key. Then I sucked in my nervousness and stepped back into the restaurant. Marge Arnold was at the counter talking to one of the short-order cooks. She beckoned to me, and I hurried over.
“Emma, is it?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Marge, and this is Ralph Buckner, one of the day cooks. We call him Buck.”
“How ya doin’?” he said.
“Fine, thank you for asking.”
He laughed. “See?” he said to Marge. “There are people who give you a nice answer and not ‘What’s it to you?’ ”
“She’ll learn,” Marge said.
“With you as a teacher, she will.”
He went to put on a hamburger, and she turned to me.
“End of the day, after you start taking orders, it’s wise to give him a five. He’ll make sure to treat your orders quickly, even before some of the others here who don’t tip him. Word to the wise, tip well, live well. That’s New York, sister.”
“Works well in England, too,” I said.
She laughed. I was going to quote Samuel Johnson in Boswell’s Life of Johnson, but I doubted she’d read it. Johnson said he got a better, bigger cut of meat by giving the waiter an extra penny.
“Okay. I got a new table. We’re doing the first five booths from right to left and three of those tables across from them. You don’t let anyone slip over one of your tables. Some of these birds will peck away your customer if they see a chance. Never neglect one. If you’re busy, you tell him or her you’ll be right with them. You don’t let people think you’re too overwhelmed to give them good service, get it?”
“Yes, I do. Thank you. I appreciate what you are doing for me.”
“I like your accent. Work it right, and it will get you bigger tips. That, along with a good smile,” she said. “Let’s get you familiar with the menus, breakfast, lunch, and dinner. You’ll taste everything over the next week, so if a customer asks about a choice, you can respond without sounding like a phony. You should know what’s in everything, too. People come here with allergies, salt restrictions, whatever.”
“The ingredients? Of everything?”
“Yes. What’s the matter?” she asked, seeing the expression on my face. She smiled. “The job’s more than you thought it would be?”
“A little,” I admitted.
“I know. Anyone who doesn’t do this kind of work thinks we just jot down a few words, tell the chef, and make sure the customer gets what he or she ordered, always with a fat smile. Then they write us a big tip. Not always big. By the way, you can get stiffed here, especially here. It’s New York, the place that made ‘Charity begins at home’ famous.”
“Stiffed?”
“They’ll leave you nothing if they have some complaint about the food, the chair, where they’re sitting, your attitude, how long it took to get the food… on and on. And remember: the customer is always right, even when he’s a big idiot, or she is. Women are often the worst tippers. Another thing: we get lots of Europeans here, and they’re used to the tip being included. I usually underline ‘gratuity’ before I give them the check.”
She smiled. “All right, relax, Em. You’re turning pale enough to ruin someone’s appetite. Just follow me around for a while and listen,” she said, and headed for a table.
Em, I thought. Only my girlfriends in school called me that. Julia never would, and Mummy certainly wouldn’t, especially in front of my father.
Marge paused and tilted her head. I hurried to catch up to her.
Treat it all like a part in a play, I told myself. Memorize and perform. Every time I heard how difficult something was here, I could envision my father’s face, full of I told you so.
By the time my day ended, Donald Manning’s prediction had been hammered home to my feet and ankles. Marge, on the other hand, seemed energetic to the end, even getting stronger as the day wore on. The restaurant was always busy, and she barely took a break. She never lost her smile, even though a few of the customers were demanding and nasty. She raised her eyebrows and nodded at me.
However, many of the regulars who came into the Last Diner made sure to sit at her tables. No matter what work you do, I thought, you could become an expert at it. My father wouldn’t consider her profession something to pursue, but he would be fair enough to recognize she was good at it.
When we had a chance to talk, I told her about my ambitions. Donald Manning had already told her about Mr. Wollard and their history together. She listened with a strange, thoughtful smile on her face as I told her about my singing history and accomplishments. It was a strange smile because she didn’t look that pleased for me. She looked like someone who had heard a similar story so many times that it had become just another sack of nonsense, and by this time at the end of the day, her opinion had become important to me.