5:02. Jules glared at the clock on the floor near the mattress. The battery-operated digital box mocked her. She groaned and rolled over. 5:02. Did she have to wake up at 5:02 every day? It was like a horror movie. Could she not for once open her eyes at, say 5:03? It used to be humorous. Something she laughed at, told jokes about, back in happier days. She’d done it for years. Now, it cursed her.
She blinked in the silence of the room. No friends calling, no mindless agendas, or schedules to meet, no household mementos tearing her soul. The hours stretched out before her, and she sighed, pressing her head against the pillow. The whole day. Just like the one before. And the day before that. And the two weeks previous. She exhaled a shuddering breath.
What occupied her time before? Her teaching job. She closed her eyes. The mere thought of that profession seared her like a hot brand. Thinking about it would only serve to expose the wound once more. But a job? Her eyes snapped open, and she glared at the discolored ceiling. Perhaps…
She rose, pulled on her tennis shoes, and wrestled the front door open. Jules yanked the heavy monstrosity shut and went north, turning left toward town. She studied the mediocre houses and their weedy landscaping as she headed for Main Street.
Once there, it was just as she remembered from her first drive through. Downtown consisted of three blocks of Ma and Pa businesses that probably barely made ends meet. She groaned. Why had she stopped at this small burb? Here, in Southern Indiana?
What commerce existed in Oaktown? A pizza place? No, two. Did this town eat that much pizza? No, wait. Another pizzeria on the highway sold pizzas. That’d be three, and by her calculations, two too many. A broken-down hardware store occupied the northeast corner with dusty, forgotten merchandise spilling over in the front window. Across the street, an exercise place gleamed with new paint and a quirky sign. Several empty buildings displayed ‘for lease,’ signs. Yeah, right, who’d invest their money in this deadbeat town?
Then, a brick bank, fairly new, with a drive-up came next to an eye doctor’s place with somewhat up-to-date façade, sporting urban upholstered chairs lined up on fashionable carpet through the huge paned window. She pictured the landscaped library down two streets, and the grocery three more blocks farther south. One store for food. Only one. The post office was located behind the empty building on the northwest corner, and opposite from where she walked, a new fire station had its doors open. Three white-shirted firemen tipped back chairs in front of two shiny red engines.
She sighed, tripping yet again on the sidewalk. The old sidewalk. It’d probably been here a hundred and fifty years. The front part of the concrete slab lifted three inches. Her gaze traveled down the walk, noting the unevenness. Weeds grew in between in spiked tufts as if she were in a third world country. What am I doing here?
Biting her lip to keep from crying, she blinked at a place of business that had escaped her notice. An eatery…well, a greasy spoon. Fodder for roaches. But in the window hung a “help wanted, apply inside,” sign scribbled in barely legible handwriting.
She paused and exhaled through pursed lips. Waitressing? Or worse, cook? Bile gathered. She’d waitressed in high school. Such hard work. These days, her feet would ache like after a particularly long school day. She was thirty-nine, possessed a four-year degree, and she contemplated being a waitress. Yes, with her hard-earned master’s in education, she entertained the thought of bringing people coffee, food, and whatsoever else they desired. Stomping the rest of her pride into the uneven sidewalk, she pulled her weary body up the three steps and entered.
The diner was a madhouse. Jules glanced at the huge Coca-Cola clock as antique as the concrete outside. A lovely layer of grease clung to its protective plastic cover, yellowed with age, and dust littered the top. Lunchtime. Several people stared at her.
She spun toward the large clock and sat on the last stool at the counter. Waitresses hurried back and forth, slinging coffee and iced tea at an amazing rate. Through the crowd, Jules eyeballed eight booths, nine tables, all full, and ten stools at the long green-flecked counter, almost filled. The place buzzed.
An older waitress approached. Her puffy hair led with claw-like bangs. Sweat streaks marked her foundation, and blue eye shadow encircled her eyes like clown make-up.
“Be with ya in a minute, hon,” she announced as she flew by, clutching a piece of apple pie over her head to avoid running into other workers.
The space behind the counter left little room for the waitresses to maneuver. Near the floor, Jules noticed the old-fashioned stainless steel freezers with the lock-handled pulls and above, silver ice cream-topping lids slanted for easy access. The new appliance on the far left was the soft ice cream maker next to a double sink, filled with soiled glasses. They still had the old soda fountain spouts with porcelain handles. Had she just stepped back in time fifty years? Who utilized such ancient equipment?
The bleach-blonde waitress returned, pulling the stub pencil from behind her ear with one hand while removing an order pad from the front pockets of her apron. Jules blinked. Apron? They were all wearing them. White ones, decorated with grease and grime. The waitress chewed her gum as she glared at Jules.
“Now, what can I gitcha?”
The gum popped. Her hair floated around her head like cotton candy. Yellow cotton candy. She was thin, tall, but she snagged Jules with shrewd eyes. Faded blue.
“I came in about the job.”
The woman’s left brow rose, and the gum chewing ceased in mid-motion, her bottom jaw slightly opened and cocked to the right. Then she shut her mouth, leaned forward, and dropped her brows till her eyes squinted. Thick doubt clouded those pupils. “You ever waitress?”
Jules took a deep breath and straightened “I have. It’s been a few years, but I know the basics.”
The woman chawed her gum slowly as she studied her. “You got a clean background, no funny stuff, no drugs, no drinkin’, no federal offenses, things like that? Be sure I’ll be checkin you out.”
“Well, you’ll look in vain. There’s nothing.” Jules steadied her gaze.
“Vain?” A brow rose again. “Fancy talk.”
Why had she used that word? Jules swallowed. “I’ll work hard. You won’t be sorry, I promise.”
Suddenly, having this job meant everything. It was a way to get back. Back to a life.
The yellow cotton candy head dipped a bit as she reached in behind the counter and brought out an apron. A white one, minus the grease marks.
“Fine. Put it on and get to work.” She spun and hurried off.
“Wait. You mean now?” Jules tasted vomit.
The woman returned and stopped in front on her. “Hon, there’s customers waitin’ even as I talk. You wanted a job, you got one. Go back to Hattie, and she’ll brief ya. She’ll give ya a pad, pencil and basic instructions. She’s in the kitchen.” The woman slung her arm toward the rear of the building, stepped to the window, and tore down the sign. Off she went.
Jules closed her mouth and glanced at the people staring at her. Her stomach did the wave as she rose. She clutched her apron and walked between the nosy customers to the steamy, greasy kitchen. Saloon doors separated the dining area from the work area. Jules didn’t even have the strength to think how ironically passé it was. She bellied up to the window.
Hattie turned out to be the cook, a short grouchy one, set to retire some twenty years back. Wrinkles etched deep in her stiff face and her mouth pulled low in a permanent scowl. Her hair resembled rusted gray iron, probably reflecting her will. She handed Jules a menu covered with their own brand of lard, plus a pad and pencil. While flipping about twenty burgers, grease settling on everything in a haze, she explained the tax system.
“You gotta memorize this chart. We don’t got no newfangled computery thing here. Ya punch in the taxes into the register by hand. You listening to me?”
Reality fuzzed. Jules’s mouth grew dry. She felt her head nod.
Hattie turned and barked orders to her chop assistant behind her. “Get me more cheese slices. Can’t you see I need more cheese?”
She swung back to Jules and muttered. “Hard to find good help these days. Lazy girls just wanta jab on their fancy phones and don’t pay no bit of attention to working.”
Jules glanced at the young mousy assistant with big owl glasses heading for the dirty white refrigerator at the far end of the kitchen.
Hattie pointed her dripping spatula at her. “You hear me about learning that there chart?”
“Yes.” Heat suffused her face.
The cook turned to the grill and flipped several burgers. Fat and moisture hissed anew and more steam rose. “Well, don’t just stand there. Put on your apron and get to it, missy. I ain’t got no time for lollygaggers.”
Panic gripped her. “I need to use the restroom first.”
Hattie’s face puckered with displeasure. “Oh, for Pete sake. Back there.”
Jules pushed through the squeaky batwings and stumbled across the kitchen to the unpainted door on the left. Once inside, the noises faded to the background, and Jules leaned on the chipped porcelain sink. No vanity, just rusty pipes and mildew. What a pleasant place.
Anxiety gnawed at her midriff, and her skin flashed hot, then cold. She stared in the mirror. Why, she looked positively ill. Her eyes were wild and flyaways haloed her face. Not a drop of makeup hid the dark circles or the splotches. On her flushed cheeks, sweat glistened. My, how thin she’d become.
At one time, the scary witch in the reflective glass had possessed a few appealing features, though that thought skittered from her mind at this point. Several deep breaths helped calm her nerves. No going back on her word now. It was all she had.
She turned on the water, moistened her hands, and laid her cool fingers against her fevered face. Quickly, she pulled a paper towel from a bent rusty hanger and dabbed her face.
She slid the ponytail holder from her hair, collected the strays, and wrapped the band with an extra turn to pull the thickness into a ballet bun. It was going to be hot. Within, she boiled. She pulled the door open and stepped into the drab kitchen. Her stomach lurched at the nauseating smell of searing raw meat. She would get her life back. Somehow.
And it was going to start now.
* * *
Jules trudged down the three steps of Marsha’s Snack Shop. Her head whirled and wooziness caused her to stagger. She hadn’t eaten today. But her first day at the rodent’s lunch counter had ended. In her hand, she clutched a tax table telling how much to add to each customer’s check. Marsha had a fetish for things old, so the cash register was an antique push button monstrosity with a pull handle. The waitresses manually punched in the tax at the end of the tab. It was insane. What business operated in such a way? Jules growled aloud. Obviously, Marsha’s Snack Shop.
She barely took three steps when she stumbled. Those sidewalks. She inhaled a good sharp breath and gritted her teeth against the tears forming in her eyes. Her first day was finished and she’d survived, mainly bussing tables during the lunch rush as her cluelessness made it impossible to wait on people.
Then Marsha trained her, as it were.
“Memorize the menu. Smile. Get the customers their food and drinks. Orange-handled pitcher of coffee is de-caf and black is regular. Don’t take guff from Homer and punch in the taxes on each lunch at the end of the order. Tab sheets go on a nail hammered through a small piece of one by four by the register.”
A one by four? Yeesh. And it all sounded so simplistic. Yet Jules knew until she had a few weeks under her belt, it wouldn’t be. Oh, and to sweeten the bowl of cherry pits, her pay was a dollar below minimum wage. Her massive tips made up the rest.
Jules jingled the three dollars and fifty-six cents in her pocket―her tips. Yes, that certainly made up for lost wages. She shook her head. It didn’t matter. This job represented more than money. It’d pass time and allow her space to heal. As soon as her house sold, she’d be fine. She scrunched her face and chewed her lip. Dizziness descended, and she gasped more oxygen into her lungs. At least the small town air smelled fresh and smog free.
That’s it. Count my blessings and all that jazz. Jules sniffed as obnoxious tears bit her eyes. She couldn’t think beyond generic assistance. And she wouldn’t delve from where those blessings came. It was one small step.
Once home, Jules found her keys and burst through the door. She locked it behind her and collapsed on the air mattress, still unmade and covered with mounds of blankets and pillows. The clock showed only 8:00 p.m. She sighed and snuggled deeper, allowing pent-up tears to wash her face. Her stomach clenched in hunger. And while weariness hung on her, it was a good tired. Not a sick exhaustion brought on from too much sadness and misery. In five minutes, she fell fast asleep.