THE WAITRESS

By Bob Liter, Edited by Martie Liter Ogborn

Monica Arnold slid off the counter stool, placed her feet carefully on the floor and walked across Gina's Diner to the two women sitting in the window booth. She refilled their coffee cups and did the same at the next two booths.

“I see your special didn’t show up today?” Vicki Brattle said when Monica returned to the counter. A toothy grin lit up Vicki's face as she wrapped thin arms around her chest. “Where do you suppose he is?”

Yes, Mister Ackerman hadn’t shown up. Strange. He had been coming in every day around noon for a month or so. He always sat at the corner booth and ordered the special. He ate without enthusiasm, only nodded when Monica asked him if everything was okay, and left a two-dollar tip.

Waiting for Gina Springfield, the cook and diner owner, to dish up another order, Monica sat, wiggled her toes, and thought about Mister Ackerman. A scraggly beard partially hid his face, his clothes were wrinkled and baggy, and his eyes were clouded with sadness.

Vicki called him her special. Special? Nothing special about him. Still, she was vaguely worried because he didn’t show.

Gina came out of the kitchen and settled her ample bottom on a stool beside Monica. Monica started to get up.

“No, stay a minute. Did Mister Ackerman say anything yesterday?”

Monica shook her head. “He never says anything.”

Gina swallowed iced water and said, “I knew his wife slightly from high school. Her obituary was in the paper. They didn’t have any children.”

Monica turned. “Her death must be the reason he looks so sad, why he has let himself go. The poor man. Still, he should pull himself together. I hope he’s all right.”

“Your special probably found a new place to eat and a new waitress,” Vicki said as she stood behind them.

“Don’t listen to her, Monica. She’s just jealous because she doesn’t have a special customer,” Gina said.

Monica carried a couple of hamburgers to the women at table five, returned for more coffee, refilled more cups, and resumed sitting at the counter.

“Jealous,” Vicki said. “Who’s jealous of an old man who wears baggy clothes, always needs a shave, and looks like Mister Sad Sack himself?”

“Old? He's not much over forty. He just let himself go after his wife died,” Gina said.

Vicki drained her glass of Pepsi and said, “How do you know his wife died? Don’t believe everything these guys say.”

Gina said, “His wife did die. I saw the obituary in the paper.”

“Well, speak of the devil, here he is,” Vicki said.

Monica straightened her uniform and grabbed her order pad from the counter. She stood in front of Mister Ackerman at the corner booth and said, “What’ll it be today?”

“The special.”

“It’s sauerkraut and wieners,” Monica said.

“Okay. And coffee.”

Monica hesitated, feeling she should say something that might cheer him up. But what? He looked at her as if to say, “You still here?”

She waited on other customers, brought his food, and returned to the counter. He finished the meal in silence, except when he said, “Thanks,” after she refilled his coffee cup. He left the usual two-dollar tip.

A couple of hours later her shift was over, she’d made thirty dollars in tips, and her feet hurt. This was the night she was going to get out of her apartment for once and go to a movie. Maybe tomorrow, she decided. She walked the two blocks to AtRest Arms, took the elevator to the third floor, trudged down the hall to Unit 312, unlocked the door and entered. She flopped into the worn easy chair in front of the portable TV and sighed. She kicked off her shoes, wiggled her toes, and closed her eyes.

“You never do anything except go to work, come home, wash your uniforms, and stare at TV and sleep.”

She was talking to herself again. She hadn’t always been alone. She turned and looked at the shelf on the far wall. The best photo of her mother, the one when she was young and smiling, looked back at her.

Her mother. How long had she been gone now? Three years? Yes three years. Monica had cared for her mother for twenty years. She felt a burden lift from her when a third heart attack ended her mother’s life. She was ashamed of the feeling, but she couldn’t help it.

She had been tied down for so long. No love life, no adventure. How could she have any of that when she was sentenced to take care of her sick mother? Her mother, who had raised her with loving care, who never complained until the last couple of years.

Monica earned a meager living at Gina’s Diner, she’d been a waitress all those years, but why was she still there? Was she afraid of change?

It was past midnight when she awoke, still in the chair, hungry and stiff. She stumbled to bed.

At work the next day a man who looked familiar came in and sat at the corner booth, Mr. Ackerman’s booth. Monica carried a menu and a glass of water, sat the water down in front of the man, and said, “Hello, the special today is homemade meat loaf and mashed potatoes.”

The man looked up at her, smiled, and said, “I’ll have that.”

Monica’s hand went to her open mouth. It was Mister Ackerman. His eyes were as sad as ever, but he had shaved, gotten a haircut and wore wrinkle-free clothes.

“Mister Ackerman?”

“Yes. It’s me. I’m moving on. My wife always took care of me, kept after me to shave, get a haircut. Without her, I let go. It’s hard, you know.”

“I can imagine,” Monica said.

His hairline left him with a lot of forehead and his chin sort of caved in. Parallel creases topped his dark eyebrows. He raised them now as he said, “I been thinking of asking you for a date. Don’t suppose a pretty woman like you would go out with the likes of me?”

Monica dropped her order pad, stooped and picked it up and said, “I’ll be right back with your lunch.”

Her hands shook as she carried the order to his booth. She sat the food down and said, “I don’t know. I don’t go out much. Where'd we go?”

He smiled. She liked his smile. A person hardly noticed the dark tooth near the center of his mouth. And his eyes sort of lit up for an instant.

“We could go to a movie. Get to know each other. Wouldn’t have to stay out late.”

The date was uncomfortable at first. The movie was nothing special, something about a South American revolution. They had walked from the diner when Monica got off work. He appeared as uncomfortable as she felt. He did say, “Hope you like the movie,” and she said, “Oh, I’m sure I will.”

Outside, after it was over, they stood in front of the Crescent Theatre and looked at the posters of coming attractions.

“I was wondering,” Mr. Ackerman said, “if you would like to work for me, be my housekeeper?”

Monica put her hands behind her back and walked toward her apartment. Mr. Ackerman followed.

“It’ll feel good when I get home and take off my shoes,” she said.

“If you kept house for me your feet wouldn’t take such a beating.”

Mr. Ackerman took her hand when they crossed Elmhurst Street. She liked the feel of that. Keep house for him? What would that entail? What would he pay?”

She asked the questions, surprised she could be so forthright.

“Well, I could pay as much as you get at the diner. You could come in the morning, do what little cleaning had to be done, run errands like getting my clothes from the cleaner, do the grocery shopping, stuff like that. Oh, and fix the meals.”

“Where would you be? What kind of work do you do?”

Mr. Ackerman continued to hold her hand after they crossed the street.

“I operate a business on the Internet. Buy stuff, sell stuff. Used to have a regular store but when my wife got sick I had to operate at home.”

It turned out Mr. Ackerman lived only two blocks from Monica. She said she would think about the job offer and let him know the next day. But she didn’t wait.

“I’ll do it. I’ve wanted to do something different ever since my mother died. I’ll have to give two-week notice.”

Mr. Ackerman stopped walking, faced her, still holding her hand and said, “This is great. Almost like a proposal. I should have a ring to put on your finger.”

She hoped he didn’t notice the blush she knew appeared on her face. At home, after he had kissed her on the cheek and said, “Goodnight,” Monica wondered if she had done the right thing.

Four months later, when he proposed marriage and she accepted, she still wondered if she was doing the right thing.

“Thanks for bringing my slippers,” Mr. Ackerman said the day after the bare-bones wedding. Have you been to the cleaners yet? And I’ve got some dirty clothes in the hamper.”

A few weeks later Monica visited the diner. Vicki placed her hands on her hips and said, “Well Mrs. Ackerman, is that guy taking care of you?”

“Not exactly,” Monica said. “But it’s easier on my feet.”