YOU walk back into the lounge after placing an order of nachos with the kitchen. It’s Saturday. A men’s softball team has taken over the Tavern’s small patio: they’ve gone through six pitchers of draught, four plates of chicken wings, and have now ordered nachos. Tonight’s the kind of summer evening people here wait all winter for; the sky will be orange-pink at 2am, just after last call, and the sun will barely dip below the horizon before rising again. As long as the mosquitoes aren’t too bad, the team will stay and drink more.
By this time in the evening shift, most of the Tavern’s regulars have arrived. ‘Newf,’ who’s from St. John’s but has lived in Northern Alberta for over a decade, tells stories at a table near the outside wall. Paul, who owns the town hardware store, sits on a stool and talks with Rita, your boss and the other waitress on tonight, who likes to flirt and sway her breasts as she laughs. Val, who was playing the VLT’s when your shift began five hours ago, has just won $200 bucks. She stands at the bar, close to Paul, with her chit. Rita places five twenties and four rolls of loonies in Val’s hands.
As you reach behind the bar for a big round brown tray to go clear empties, Val crumples $20 into your apron and says, “This is for you. For college.”
“Thanks,” you say and smile.
Val slurs, “Keep the Caesars comin’ honey. Feelin’ lucky tonight!”
Rita sighs so both you and Val can hear it. She pushes a stray piece of dyed-blonde hair back into her up-do and closes the register.
You nod at Val and go out on the floor.
The outside door opens and four young men walk in. They stomp gray mud and dust from their camel-coloured steel-toed work boots and you feel your cheeks flush. You haven’t had to see him for the better part of five years and tonight he walks into the Tavern. Even has the nerve to smile at you as he and his friends sit down.
You stand still for a moment. You put the tray on an empty table and find yourself walking over to them—to him. Your legs feel like they might give out.
You hear yourself ask, “What can I get for you?”
“What, no ‘hello’?”
“What can I get for you?” you repeat. You grab a coiled notepad and a pen out of your apron. Your hand shakes.
“Four Canadians to start,” one of the other men says. “Side of Clamato. And some menus.”
“Sure,” you reply. You turn around and on the way to the cooler behind the bar, you make yourself focus.
You deliver four brown bottles of cold beer and the little glass tumbler of red mushy juice. He sits at the end of the table. You hate that he’s so close.
He calls you by name. You ignore him.
“Seriously. I don’t even get a ‘hello’?”
You make yourself look at him but you don’t say anything. He has a mustache and goatee now. There are some lines around his eyes. He’s still handsome but he looks older than twenty-four.
He grabs your wrist as you place a laminated menu in front of him.
One of the guys tilts his chin and says, “Jesus Rick. Leave the waitress alone.” The other men try to gauge the situation.
He lets go. “It’s okay,” he says, without looking away from her. “We dated.”
The guy who ordered the beers laughs. “You and her? She’s like half your age and gorgeous. How’d you manage that?”
“I’m only a few years older than…”
“I was fifteen,” you interrupt. “Long time ago. You ready to order?”
“Man, I’m so sorry you ever had to date this bastard,” one of the men chimes in and punches him in the shoulder. “I have to throw pipe with Rick and that’s bad enough.”
The men laugh.
He tries to put his arm around your waist and you can’t help but recoil.
“Hey…” he says softly as he reaches for you.
An ice cube flies from behind the bar and hits him square in the forehead.
“You! Hands off or get out!” Rita barks from her perch. Everyone in the Tavern laughs. Everyone except you and him.
You walk back to the bar to thank Rita. The older woman says, “Take a break Sugar. I’ll get their orders. Let’s see him try that on me.”
You nod, thankful to Rita, and pass her Val’s crumpled $20 to go in the tip jar. This summer, you’re spending more time with Rita than anyone else. She’s lived here all her life and has worked this same job for twenty years. Rita likes to tell the story that when she started serving at the Tavern, there was a stuffed coyote on the bar: people could put quarters into its rump and hear it howl; she gets her hairdresser-daughter to set her platinum beehive twice a week; she offers unsolicited advice about men to all “her girls,” including you, and is a believer in true love. Rita looks out for you.
You walk through the kitchen and go into the small staff room at the back of the building.
The night-cook Abe is in here smoking. His feet are on the green laminate-covered table and his paper hat rests on the chair beside him. It’s past 10pm so most of the orders coming through are for fries and onion-rings; Abe will only take a break when his assistant can handle it—he’s particular about his food. Abe has told you that he used to be a chef in Calgary before he came up north. He has also told you that he’d like to create an “Evening Special” that’s different—red snapper or Cornish game hen—but these wouldn’t sell as well as steak sandwiches or the liver and onions with mashed potatoes.
You pull up a chair across the table from him.
“Hey, Sunshine.”
“Hey,” your voice cracks.
“What’s up? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Boy trouble.” Your hands shake.
Abe takes a drag from his cigarette. “Seems serious.”
You take quick shallow breaths. “Someone I don’t want to see is out there.” You motion for Abe to give you a drag.
He’s surprised but he shares. “Want me to kick him out?”
You think Abe might be serious. Although you’ve never seen it, you’ve heard from other waitresses and some of the kitchen staff that Abe has a terrible temper. People tell you things; they assume that because you are quiet, you are also a good listener. Abe has always been nice to you.
“Rita already threw ice at him when he put his arm around me.” You take a puff and exhale. You hand the cigarette back to Abe—your lipstick leaves a fuchsia ring around the yellow filter.
Abe takes another drag. “Some men are pigs.”
You nod and look down at the table. You’d been excited to go out with Rick. You were in Grade Ten and he had graduated two years before. You remember: being pinned under him in the back of his truck; the seatbelt buckle pressing into your shoulder and your jeans around your knees; your realization that even if you could get away and get out of the pick-up, there was nowhere to go except an empty already-combined field; his labored breath in your ear and his hand around your pinned-down wrist after you tried to scratch him; the blood; the permanence of it. You wish you had howled.
You look up at Abe. “He told me I would like it. I begged him to stop. I was fifteen.” Abe is the first person you’ve told.
Abe stares at you. He crushes the lipstick-stained cigarette into a black plastic ashtray and runs his hand through his salt-and-pepper buzz cut. “Point him out to me.”
There’s a rumour Abe spent time in jail. Something to do with a knife-fight. But people talk a lot here, especially about anyone a little different, so there may be no truth to it. It takes you a moment to answer him.
“It’s okay,” you say. “Ancient history. I better go back. Rita’s out there on her own.” You try to sound okay.
“Alright,” Abe says. He lights another cigarette. “Almost time for me to close up. Have a good night Sunshine.”
You smile at him, leave the staff room, walk back through the kitchen, and go to the washroom. You make it to a toilet in time to vomit. Your knees on the tile, you look under the stall and are thankful to be alone in here: you, Rita, and Val are the only women in the Tavern. You get up, leave the stall and go to the sink. You splash water on your face, wipe your mouth with a rough paper towel, and look in the mirror. You forgave yourself long ago for not telling anyone when it happened: the town’s doctor sat in the pew in front of your family at church; the high school counselor was also your math teacher; Dad was friends most of the RCMP guys. But you’ve never forgiven yourself for letting it happen in the first place.
You walk back into the lounge and stand behind the bar, next to Rita. She slurps Diet Coke through a straw in a beer glass. Shania Twain sings “Any Man of Mine” from the jukebox. Paul is still here, on his stool. Val is at the machines. The Newf has left.
Even though it’s nearly 11pm, it is still light outside from what you can see through the windows to the patio. The big Northern sky is welcoming in summer; the soft pink almost makes up for winter’s cruel ice-blue light. Most of the men from the softball team are still on the patio; you should go get their empties and orders.
“The slimeball left,” Rita whispers as she squeezes behind you to ring in Paul’s drink. “His friends just got their food and he didn’t order anything. He went outside a while ago. Just so you know.”
“Thanks.” You notice a new stain on Rita’s white blouse, just below a gaping button. You wet a cloth napkin with club soda and hand it to her.
Rita smiles and dabs at her breasts. “God,” she says, “Can’t take me anywhere!”
Paul laughs.
You peek into the tip jar stashed beside the cash register: it’s full of gold loonies, blue fives, a couple of purple tens, the crumpled green twenty, and a rolled-up red fifty.
Rita says, “It’s a good night for tips, hey Honey?”
Before you can respond, you hear someone on the patio yell, “Holy Shit!”
People turn their heads.
A softball player you don’t know braces the entrance to the lounge. “There’s a guy down on the asphalt near the loading dock. There’s a lot of blood. He’s not moving. Someone needs to call an ambulance. Now!”
People leave their drinks and rush outside.
Rita reaches for the phone on the bar and pushes the buttons with her chipped red nails.
You look towards the kitchen.
You whisper, to no one in particular, “A good night.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Diana lives in Edmonton, Alberta. Her debut novel Pilgrimage is out now from Brindle & Glass. Davidson's writing has been long-listed for the Canada Writes CBC creative nonfiction prize (2012) and has won the Writers' Guild of Alberta “Jon Whyte Memorial Essay Prize” (2010). Her work can be found in the 40 Below anthology and has appeared in Alberta Views, Avenue Edmonton Magazine, The Winnipeg Review, Women's Words as well as the academic anthologies Analyzing Mad Men and Spectral America. She has a Ph.D. in literature and has taught at universities in Canada and the UK. Davidson was chosen as one of Edmonton's "Top 40 Under 40" by Avenue Magazine in late-2011.
LF #049 © Diana Davidson. Published by Little Fiction | Big Truths, September 2013.
