The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving by Jonathan Evison Page B

doughy Midwesterners, hopeful against all odds as they waddle up and down the aisles with their plastic tumblers heaping with tokens and their colons packed with reasonably priced buffet fare.
    Th e dinner theater is none other than the Bayside Circus, opposite the buffet and behind the dollar slots. Never mind that there’s nothing resembling a bay within four miles. Never mind that the place is practically empty. What impresses me the most about the Bayside Circus is how badly the proprietors have botched the circus theme. Th is is not the Cirque du Soleil. Not even the Teatro ZinZanni. If Chili’s opened a strip club, it might look something like the Bayside Circus. Th rough the narrow entrance and past the hostess station I see a slice of tawdry stage, lined with Christmas lights and speckled with glitter. Center stage, in a puddle of murky light, hangs the vacant trapeze bar. Nothing about this place—neither its busy decor nor its high ceilings nor its odor of fried chicken and mop water, nor the fact that it’s too dark to see your food—is appetizing. One look at the hostess in her tight pink leggings tells me that she could use a Brazilian. No sooner has this hairy attendant greeted me at the podium than I spot Katya across the dining room in her fringed blue leotard, serving oversized cocktails to a party of revelers.
    While there’s nothing particularly nimble or athletic in Katya’s comportment, she is not without a certain knobby-kneed grace as she circles the table balancing a tray in one hand and dealing out drinks with the other. Her big hair has been wrestled into a knot on the back of her head, presumably to keep it out of people’s food and avoid wind drag. Without that mess of hair to compete with, her dramatic jawline and big avocado eyes are all the more striking, even in this dull light at a distance of forty feet. My instinct is to turn and flee before she sees me. Instead, the hostess leads me the length of the dining room, seating me not ten feet from where Katya is delivering the last of her cocktails. It’s still not too late to lower my head and avoid detection, but why come this far? What do I hope to accomplish here? Am I really trying to win a girl or just unraveling my most recent failure to some pitiful conclusion so I can keep feeling sorry for myself?
    Th ough she passes within three feet, her chin held high, Katya does not recognize me. Not until she comes for my drink order. I see at close range that her leotard has a few snags in it and looks worn about the edges. Th e low light is agreeable to her complexion. Her crazy hair threatens to explode the little bun on the back of her head.
    â€œOh. Hey,” she says, almost like a question.
    â€œI tracked you down,” I say, regretting the stalkerish implications immediately. “Don’t worry,” I add, in attempt to right my ship. “I’m not stalking you or anything.”
    Th is doesn’t seem to ease her mind. “Um, o-kaay,” she says. “Well, that’s good. So, can I start you off with something to drink?”
    â€œJust a Coke, I guess.”
    â€œPepsi okay?”
    â€œSure.”
    She scratches the order out onto the pad.
    â€œSo, how have you been?” I venture.
    â€œNot bad. Really busy. My plate’s way too full right now, with school and work and everything else.”
    â€œDid you get my note?”
    She wants to say no—I can see it in her eyes as she hesitates.
    â€œOh, yeah, thanks,” she says.
    â€œI hope I didn’t scare you off.”
    â€œNo, it was sweet, thanks. I’m just really busy.” She steals a glance over her shoulder to the wait station, then toward the stage.
    â€œI didn’t know you were in school. Th at’s cool. What are you studying?”
    â€œJust basic stuff.”
    â€œMath? Lit? What?”
    â€œYeah,” she says glancing back toward the wait station once more. Her