CHAPTER SIX
I’m cleaning glasses behind the Overlook’s bar, which isn’t my job. I told Danny no problem; I’d play both bar back and waitress while service was light. I laughed and said that he only had to pay me once. Danny laughed back. But he has an intense sense of fairness, and I could tell it bugged him.
I just want to keep busy.
And really, I want to keep busy without talking to people.
I had to talk to people all day at the Pit. Now I’ll have to talk to people all night, too. I’ll even want to, once things get rolling, because talking and being nice will earn me tips. But not yet. I’m here for two reasons, and tips are just one.
I want to hear the music. I want to feel like I’m part of something.
I left Hartford on some ill-advised errand to make something of myself. I could’ve stayed on the rails, churning through the system, becoming the blueblood I was raised to be. I had the Princeton scholarship, and when I turned it down and broke up with Brian in the same year, my parents looked at me like I’d lost my mind. Mom tried to analyze me, and Dad wanted to fight. I needed a damn good mission if I was going to run away — and, naturally, get cut off in the process, thus making my struggle to survive a real one. Creative freedom made the most sense at the time. I leaped without looking. And now here I am, twice the waitress I never meant to be.
But at least there are creators here. At least there are people making a living from what’s flowing inside them, even if I’m not one of them yet.
Mom has always been an overachiever. She raised three overachievers before she adopted me, and I figure she either spent all her helicopter parenting in those first gasps or I’m genetically different, because what happened with my siblings didn’t stick with me. I did well in school; I earned the prestigious scholarship; I even had a blueblood fiancé. But I wanted more — and now here I am, all chattel jettisoned, with less.
Mom said one thing that actually stuck: You are who you spend time with.
If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll soak up something from Danny and the people here. If I’m unlucky, I’ll absorb more waitress abilities, becoming some kind of table-service superhero. Until today, I’ve felt it was a wash at best, a loss at worst.
But the energy tonight is different. I’ve never been here on a Friday or Saturday, when the real talent performs. I came to Inferno Falls and heard of the Overlook in the same gasps as I heard about everything else happening in this quickly growing burg. Yes, the Falls seemed to be an up-and-coming town, sick with an overabundance of hip mentions on trendy TV shows. Even my roommate, Lisa, came here because of Inferno’s growing cool factor, though her siren song came from something decidedly more marijuanical. It made sense that I’d find my muse here. If I can get past all the glassware, and the customers who ogle my ass the drunker they get, maybe I still can.
For now, I want to be inside my head. I can feel something here that I want to percolate within me — something that Lisa wouldn’t make fun of me for but my mother would. Mom’s creative; I don’t know why she doesn’t believe it’s something you can catch like a spreading fire. Just the aura of this place makes me want to go home and sit in front of my computer and write … well, to write nothing as usual, probably, and to second-guess and over-polish every sentence like I always do. But one step at a time.
I polish glasses, head down, trying to feel the energy.
Random thoughts intrude. I think of Ed, my boss at the Pit, and how he’s always calling Maya inappropriate things “because she gets the joke and thinks it’s funny,” which she absolutely doesn’t. I think of Danny, my boss here, and how he had a hit once upon a time, wondering if all fame is ephemeral — or if a smart artist can find a way to parlay, if they plan well enough. I think of Roxanne and how I’d love to quit and never have to see her again, if I could get enough shifts here.
Or, no, that’s not right. If I’m dreaming, I need to dream big, in the spirit of this hall’s creative energy. You don’t fantasize about better shifts and tips. If I’m going to dream (or I should think of it as planning, not fantasizing), then I should dream bigger.
Somehow, I’ll finish writing my first book. After starting that first book, probably.
I’ll publish it, and it’ll become a hit.
I’ll write a second. And a third. And they’ll be hits, too.
I try to lose myself in fantasy, but it feels like dreaming about winning the lottery instead of building a sensible future. Ignoring for a minute that I can’t write anything beyond short stories and poems — and that I agonize over every word, paralyzed by analysis — you can’t make a book a hit. I’d have to get lucky. And that, even here and now, is depressing.
Within seconds, I’m again thinking of Ed. How he yells at me all day.
I think of Roxanne, how she thinks she rules the roost.
I wonder if I should have left home after all. Maybe I should have gone to Princeton. I could have become a lawyer or something similarly respectable, making my family proud rather than looking away like I’m a black sheep — a stupid black sheep. I could have gone through with marrying Brian, too. Sure, he was cheating on me with every girl who drew breath around him. But I could have still married him, become a kept woman, and used that free time and his money to realize my dream. If I got itchy, I could always have had an affair.
It’s so sad that Brian is the only man I’ve ever slept with.
That’s enough to snap me out of my perverse anti-ambition. I couldn’t have stayed. I couldn’t have been a cog in a machine. I love my family, but my genes are different from theirs, and these stupid freckles under my concealer are proof. My real dad might have been a talented painter. My real mom might have written plays, or sculpted from clay.
I shouldn’t settle for Brian, or an ordinary life.
My mind turns to my customer from early today. That’s the kind of man I should be with. It’s absurd, but this is my fantasy and I’m allowed to believe whatever I want. Sure, I could finish a book rather than stumping and producing nothing whenever I try. I could have a beautiful husband. I could roll over in the morning and instead of seeing Brian’s stupid, stiff-lipped face, I could see the man in the booth’s mysterious eyes, his serious brows, his dark stubble, his sculpted cheekbones and strong chin.
He’s probably got a great body, so I picture it now. I think back to his forearms, which seemed lean but scrappy — a practical body, not a hulk that’s all show and no go. And because it’s the only memory I have to work with, I imagine him where he sat today, in the back booth, only now with his shirt off. Then I move him mentally to my bed. And I imagine that life, and all that would come with it.
I’ll bet he’s always as funny as he was today.
I’ll bet he’s always kind, too. You can tell a lot about a guy by how he treats servers. And I watched, too, to see how he treated Tim, who circulates to refill water and coffee. Because maybe he was just flirting with me and is secretly an asshole … but no, he was friendly and talkative with Tim as well.
He’s probably an amazing man. Nice to animals and the elderly. Gives to charity. Holds his woman close — and of course he’s available, and interested in me. And rich. If I’m going down this rabbit hole, then I’m going to make him rich, too. He tipped me better than he should have, and this after Roxanne (probably in a display of sour grapes) declared him “definitely cheap.” So yes. He’s rich. And creative. And clever. And charming. And —
“Abigail.”
I almost jump. I turn to see Dimebag behind me. I hope he won’t ask me to talk to Danny for him. I have zero pull here, but I’ve already watched Dimebag talk to a few others, and the whole thing seems like a political campaign. He figures if enough people demand that he take the stage and lay some phat rhymes on the crowd, Danny might let him. But I’ve seen Dimebag’s set on many a Tuesday and Thursday, and if Danny keeps him off the stage, it’s because he’s doing the guy a favor. Dimebag would be laughed off at best, chased off at worst.
“Oh, hey, Will.”
“Can you make drinks? Or do I have to wait for Terry?”
I look down the bar. Terry already has a line, and staff rarely tip, so there’s no real motivation to help Dimebag out.
“I know how to mix rum with ice.”
“Maybe just a beer then?”
I turn. There’s a cooler behind me.
“Corona.”
I hand Danny the beer, realizing too late that I should pour it into a glass. I don’t mark it down because staff and performers eat and drink for free even if they’re off or not performing. Just one of many reasons Danny is likely to kill his business with kindness.
“Thanks.”
Dimebag moves off into the growing crowd. I should get out there, but I’m enjoying the simple, repetitive action of polishing glassware, letting my mind wander wherever it wants to go.
I try returning to my fantasy of today’s mystery man, but the bubble has popped. Now I can only get a feel for our real-life banter as it actually occurred.
I wonder if he’ll come back. I didn’t get his name, but I’d be able to spot him from across a busy street. Inferno isn’t huge, so maybe, even if he doesn’t return to the Nosh Pit and sit in my section and ask me to join him before taking my hand and pulling me into a warm embrace … well, maybe I can flag him down. Maybe I can be bold. Maybe, if it turns out he’s not seeing anyone, I can invite him for a cup of coffee. Why not? Mom certainly would.
Maybe this is a reason to keep my job at the Pit.
Or maybe, more accurately, it’s a suitable justification for doing so, even though I don’t want to.
Eventually, Terry breaks my moment and asks me to get back out onto the floor. I spend most of my shift juggling conversation and thoughtful moments alone. Something is definitely happening to me. I can feel it. It must be that creative energy I’ve been wanting. All these wonderful artists. All these singers and musicians, living their dreams while I stifle mine.
One after another after another. I’m nothing short of inspired. Floating on Cloud Nine, despite some lecherous looks from male customers and a few demands that I bring drinks faster. Nothing can break this mood, it seems.
There’s a break at 9:30, and someone mentions that the next act is the Overlook’s newest underground sensation, Gavin Adams. As with the kitschy foods and cool chatter I heard about Inferno before moving here, I’ve lately heard a lot about the talents of Mr. Adams. People whisper about him, saying he has a tragic story to match his wonderful soul. I’ve been meaning to get here to see what all the fuss is about, but every other Friday and Saturday night I’ve been working for Ed and fighting Roxanne’s bitchy insults and judgmental stares.
When the ten o’clock hour comes, a quiet man takes the stage in a simple sweater and an acoustic guitar. The crowd is quiet enough to let his silence feel like a weight.
He sits in a tall stool and begins to play.
He’s the same man I served earlier, in my back booth at the Nosh Pit. The man I’ve been daydreaming about ever since, picturing a schoolgirl’s fantasy about seeing him again, somehow, somewhere, and being swept away in his arms.