Jane told me she loved me, I think. My Spanish is shit.
It was in September we met. I was still young then, twenty- something, but working on the line had turned me into an old-boned young man. My shift ended at midnight but by ten-thirty customers were few and far between, and as usual I found myself out at the bar watching beads of condensation sweat around the base of a glass. I was three deep, maybe four, when the midnight rains brought her to me.
She came in alone. I was sitting far-corner nearest to the kitchen and opposite the entrance. I watched her shake her brown face dry as she pulled back her heavy wet hair and found her seat opposite me. Her body was good, rich. Her thick chest stared back at me as she dropped her coat away. She noticed me staring and smiled.
The kitchen door shot open behind me and out came Miguel. Miguel worked beside me on the line. I ran the sauté station while he tended to the grill. He was a small man from Guajaca but had a mouth that ran forever. No doubt he was a thorn in my ass but I had to respect him, he was a bulldog all through. My first week on the job Miguel was slicing prosciutto and he slipped up and took the tip of his thumb clean off. Just seeing it from afar I almost hit the floor myself, but damned if he didn’t just wrap that nub up and keep right on working. Once you watch a man shrug off a severed digit you’ve got no choice but to have his back. He sat to my right.
“Que pasa Gringo?”
He always greeted me the same. I just nodded. By now the bartender had taken her order and was walking back my way. With a full glass in hand I ordered another and a cerveza for Miguel as a gesture of good faith. Over the years I’ve learned that if you open with an offering, a Mexican will be much more pleasant.
He said “Gracias”.
I said “Sure”.
Miguel started to talk. He was complaining about something, I’m not sure what, I was across the bar. Jane was reading mail. Opening envelopes, that’s all. Colorful envelopes that were wrinkled and worn. She used a butter knife from the bar to break the seals and once opened she only glanced through each letter with a short smile before moving on.
Miguel saw where my attention was and he intervened.
“Ju like dat girl?”
“What?” I was suddenly aware of myself.
“Come on Gringo I see ju looking. She’s very sexy si?”
I let out a spurt of breath and returned to my drink. Scotch no ice. I hate Scotch, but Hemmingway drank Scotch. Bukowski drank Scotch. All the greats of our species have a vice and none more humbling than Scotch. I drank hard then. Miguel talked again and I swallowed the bitterness down quick.
From the kitchen the bartender emerged holding Jane’s meal. She ordered soup; my soup. Sweet potato and smoked paprika. He sat the bowl in front of her and I was genuinely nervous. She sipped and she smiled and I smiled and I drank. When her lips pursed around that spoon she slurped like a child with no pretense and no regard for anything. There was pure pleasure in her like she was leaving everything behind for just one more sip.
“Ju gonna go talk to her?”
“I don’t want to bother her.”
“Pussy.”
When she finished her soup she sat back in her chair and took in a deep breath, letting her lungs expand and her chest rise out like warm dough. Her arms stretched over her head with clenched eyes and arched back until it seemed she was content. She threw her jacket on again and left some loose cash on the bar before standing to leave. Before she made it out into the rain she shot me one last smile that made the remnants of my Scotch go down smooth.
The doors closed behind her and for a while I felt lost. I called the bartender to me. By this point I was quite drunk, but that was nothing unusual.
“Another?” He said this as though I wasn’t staring him down with bright red eyes and an evil plasma stink coming off my breath and for this I respected him. The sign of a good bartender is to recognize when a man has had too much but truly needs another.
“Yeah.”
One more, just one. He poured my drink slow, slow enough to let me hear the drizzle of my self-respect trickling away.
The next night I was back again, on the line. The dinner rush was a killer that night. I had four pans going at all times with no time to even stop and feel the grease burns as they speckled my forearms drop by drop. The boys on the fry station didn’t show, so me and Miguel were stuck running the whole line ourselves. I was running full till between the stove and the fryer just to turn out half decent plates and all along the wait staff was up my ass for falling behind. It wasn’t long before this that I was coming out of school looking up at the world with big eyes ready to be somebody and now here I was, just a speck of life in the salty wet dream of the masses wiping sweat off my brow and grease off my knuckles so some yuppie investor could have his flank steak the way he likes it.
When the rush was over I wasn’t even relieved. It’s like a tire with a tiny hole; eventually it’s going to get flat. I was sitting on the floor behind the line smoking a cigarette and blowing the smoke into a broken oven when I looked over at Miguel. He was pouring a beer into a paper cup and he looked out the window to the bar.
“Hey Gringo, ders dat girl.”
“What?”
“Dat girl from last night, she’s out der again”
The smoke poured out of my nose like steam and I jumped up quick with no regard for my tired bones. I pushed Miguel aside and peeked through that small glass window and there she was. Same seat, same face. Just then the ticket cranked out of the machine and I looked down to read it. Soup; My soup. White gazpacho with clams. The sound of those tickets creaking out of that machine haunts me in my sleep, but not this one. I took one more long drag until I was damn near smoking a filter and plucked that ticket out.
The bartender pushed open the kitchen door and made his way over to the soup station. Something in me knew then that I had to act and act now. I handed my dead cigarette to Miguel and walked over to the barman. He already had the bowl full when I snatched his shoulder and stopped him cold.
“I got this one.”
Maybe it was because we had rarely spoken without a thick deck of mahogany between us but I could tell he was startled. I tried to smile but it only seemed to confuse him more. The long hours on the line and at the bar had turned my face into a hard one and a simple smile wasn’t enough to shed the scars. I loosened my grip and patted him in that friendly way that people do when they’re not sincere and I took the bowl from his now limp fingers. I peeked out the window one last time and she was there opening those envelopes one by one.
As I brought her soup to her I remembered why I had never been a waiter. My hands shook hard spilling soup out onto the under-liner with each step. By the time I reached her a quarter of her soup had disappeared and she couldn’t help but laugh. She smiled that big halogen smile and I was a moth.
I said “Hola.”
She said “Hi.”
I sat her sad soup in front of her and shrugged my shoulders in remorse.
“Sorry I, I don’t usually carry plates.”
“Iz Okay.”
At that it seemed the sudden surge of confidence on which I was riding had expired and I slowly began to back away. She took one sip and then looked back my way.
“Did you make dis?” she said.
“Yeah.”
“It’s beautiful.”
The sound of that word echoed off my every sense.
“Thank you.”
“Do you wanna sit?”
I could only nod. I pulled up a seat to her left and climbed up all the while watching as she so casually slurped at her spoon. My first thought was that I needed a drink and fast. I smiled at her from the corner of my face and waved over the bartender who seemed to be avoiding me by choice. As I waited for him she put down her spoon and turned to me.
“I’m Jane.”
“Brian. Can I get you a drink?”
“Si.”
The barman arrived and I ordered a Scotch no ice and whatever the lady will have.
“Ize tea” she said. I was embarrassed but she didn’t let me show it for long. “So are you the Chef?”
“No, I’m just a line cook.”
“And they let you make the soup?” She said this with a playful tone that softened my nerves.
“It’s kind of my specialty I guess.”
“Really?”
“There’s just something about a great soup you know?”
She shook her head in a way that begged for me to go on.
“So many elements simmering slowly together, each one adding just a little hint of change to become something so simple and pure. I know it sounds silly, but it just puts me at peace.”
The way she looked at me then let me know I had struck something in her. She nodded at me with the softest eyes the night has ever seen and for a moment we were quiet.
“To be honest, it’s the only time I’m really happy here.” I let this out without really intending to but in moments of adoration I always find myself more candid.
“You don’t like your job?”
“It’s not really the actual work that bothers me, as much as the obligation. I think the worst part of my day is the drive here, knowing what’s ahead.”
“Dat’s a shame.”
“Yeah. What about you?”
“Me? The shower I think. There’s a moment between when the hot water stops and I wrap up in a towel when I am standing there shivering, alone.”
“I’ve never thought about it that way.”
We had hardly said hello and we had already managed to make each other so sad. We both did our best to shrug it off. I drank, she sipped. I ordered another and tried my best to lighten the mood.
“So, Jane, where does a girl like you come from?”
“Puebla. It’s in Mexico. You?”
“Lowell, Massachusetts but I’ve been out here for a few years now.”
“You come all the way across the country to be a cook?”
“That part just kind of happened. I came out here to find something but I guess I just never really did.”
“I always tell my son that California is too big to lose yourself.”
My son. Two words a man like me never wants to hear a woman speak.
“Oh, you have a son?”
“Dos.” Just then she patted her waist and for the first time I noticed the slightest little bulge in her front. With her build it was barely noticeable but it was damn sure there between us.
“Congratulations”
“Gracias”
Why I stayed beyond that point I’m still not sure. Sometimes all signs point to retreat, and yet when it comes time to make the call there is only go.
“Your husband must be happy.” I said this as all men do, hoping for one answer only and somehow always expecting to get it. She gave me exactly what I didn’t want to hear.
“Si. He’s very proud.”
Now I can’t say I’ve never taken another man’s woman, in fact they’re usually the easiest ones to get, but it never feels quite right after it’s done. There’s always something lingering behind that sticks in your soul like bad morning breath.
“Where is he tonight?”
“Home… in Puebla.” There was hollowness in her voice that let me know I had struck something delicate.
“On vacation?” As I said this as I smiled like a drunk and my childishness rubbed off on her. I could feel her laugh was unexpected and I loved that.
After that we talked. We talked long enough for me to polish off a half dozen drinks and for her to tell me all about her hijo. The boy’s name was Reyes and he was going on four years old. He was at home in bed with her sister Luz who moved in after her husband died. We talked about her trip to America, crossing the river when the water was low, pregnant and cold in the night, not knowing what awaited on the other bank but being sure it was better than what she knew. She told me about her job, cleaning houses in the suburbs for rich folks who wouldn’t so much as open the door for her unless she was holding a bucket and rags. I made her laugh and she made me think.
After a while we looked around and realized we were all alone. I looked over to the bar-man and his wide eyes told us it was closing time.
“I should go” she said.
“Don’t.” Neither of us was ready to go back to life, not yet. “Stay with me.”
The bartender was too close not hear me. “I gotta lock up man…”
With my last good drink I took Jane by the hand and summoned up some rare pocket of valor. She must have seen strength in me then because she hardly hesitated and with a simple nod and a chewed lower lip she was up. We left some loose cash on the bar along with a few old envelopes and then burst through the kitchen doors.
I showed her my station and Miguel’s. She laughed at me for being so messy. Before long we made our way out back to the walk-in. The tomb-sized cooler had to stay at a sharp 38 degrees at all times according to health standards; Ours was usually around 45 to save on the power bills. Jane wanted to see where we kept the food and I just wanted her.
I followed her inside and she helped herself to some raspberries left over from the rush. She was toying with me and she was damn good. I’m a patient man if nothing else and Jane liked to make me sweat. Finally I broke and reached out to pull her to me. She turned and smiled as if she had won.
I said “Te quiero”
She said “Me too”
She threw her lips at mine. We kissed hard, like children, thrashing back and forth into the shelves. From above a crate of blood oranges tipped and showered down on us, bouncing off our backs. We undressed each other quick, trying not to lose contact all along. Her bare body looked every bit as good as it had in my mind. I ran my hands over her cold skin, tracing the outlines of her soft figure. My fingers drifted from her cheekbones down across her shoulders and chest and finally found their way down to the soft roundness of her stomach. I tried to move them further but something in me made me stop. She moved in closer and went to work on me yet when she reached down for me there was nothing. Maybe it was the Scotch, or the cold, but it wasn’t. I stood at a loss while she tried to press on until finally she gave up. I tried to force out some apology or excuse or even just something to make her laugh again but instead I stood silent. When I looked down at her there was an empty sadness in her eyes that made me want to buy her an island but before I could choke out an apology she stopped me.
“Esta bien.”
We stayed there that night wrapped in each other’s warmth. We peeled some oranges and talked about names for her baby. We decided on Ramon and then we slept. When I woke up she was already dressed and walking to the door. I jumped up after her with all my extremities numb and pale.
“You’re leaving?”
“Si.” She nodded to my feet.
“Can I see you again?”
With a sad smile she shook her head. “Otra vida, otra vez.” She kissed me soft on the cheek and walked out the door. I watched her leave and as the door closed out the light from the sunrise I was left there shivering, alone.