A Room on Lorelei Street by Mary E. Pearson Page B

Beautiful Mama.
    Grateful.

Fifteen
    â€œEasy on the mayo!” Zoe reminds the cook. It’s on the ticket, but if he forgets, she is the one who will pay the price, and tonight more than ever she needs the tips. Her voice is cheerful. She cannot sound like a nag, either, or her pleas will backfire. She walks a tightrope as thin as spaghetti as she turns, smiles to the sleazebag at the counter who cannot keep his eyes off her off-limits breasts, and asks, “More coffee?”
    â€œIf you’re offerin’,” he says, “I’m takin’.” His voice suggests everything his eyes ask for.
    Zoe pours. She knows where she would like to pour it, but that would probably nix her tip. Maybe. She moves on to table seven, three elderly women who are finishing up soup, rolls, and water. Not a high tab, but Zoe knows how they tip anyway. Fifty cents from each of them, no matter what they order. It’s the same routine every Thursday night after their Bible meeting. She pours them more water and lays their bill on the table. At table six she refills a young couple’s iced teas and lets them know their Island burgers will be right up. She smiles, maybe even from somewhere deep, at least as deep as a beef patty can take you. Island burgers in the middle of Ruby. A few months ago it was Fiesta dogs. That one didn’t last. You had to love Murray.
    Her tables have been light tonight, but she can’t complain. Charisse and Deirdre have had even fewer tables. Zoe has kept count. Every time Murray seats someone she notices. She has to. The counter is seat yourself, though, divided half and half between Charisse and Zoe. At dinnertime most folks want to sit at a table, so it is not too busy. Only the sleazebag on Zoe’s half and another customer occupy it now. Zoe wishes she had the other customer. She glances at him when she can, notices his worn blue jeans and his clean white T-shirt that fits him way too nicely, but his attention is held by a thick book open on the counter beside him. She guesses he must be twenty or so, maybe Hispanic. His hair is dark, and his arms are the same rich color of the toasted almonds she nibbles from the top of Murray’s coffee cake. He alternately scoops forkfuls of mashed potatoes and chicken-fried steak. She wonders what could be so damn interesting in his book that he can’t be friendly, and then she wonders why the hell she cares.
    She returns to the sleazebag and, though she hates to ask, she knows she must before she can lay down the bill. “Anything else I can get for you tonight?” Her voice is pitch-perfect, her smile sterling, and she knows if Reid were watching he would applaud her. She has never worked so hard in her life.
    The sleazebag shifts in his seat. He grins. She can tell he is so pleased with the setup. She supposes she shouldn’t give him another thought. He probably has the teeniest, weeniest penis, and this is his way of making up for it. We all have ways of compensating, she thinks.
    â€œWhat else have you got for me, honey?”
    She scrutinizes his oily face. He has to be twice her age, somewhere in his thirties at least. His hair is thin and stiff, sprayed in place so his scalp won’t be revealed by an unexpected breeze. He holds his hands oddly, like he doesn’t know what to do with them. They are large and meaty and awkward and don’t match his thin, angled body. What else have I got for you?
    â€œJust what’s on the menu,” she says.
    He leans forward and lowers his voice. “Is that all? I thought maybe you had some special desserts you wanted to tell me about.” He says “special” like he has invented the word. Like he is a come-on genius and she will melt.
    It must be so small, Zoe thinks. No bigger than a gherkin .
    â€œNo,” she says. “Just what’s on the menu.” She stays cheerful, happy. Oscar-worthy. Reid would be proud. Oil changes take priority