Bull Mountain(55)

A nice little Indian fellow named Ishmael Punjab ran the Grand Central diner. He was always there. Today was no exception. “Good morning,” he said. “Would you like to see a menu?” Without waiting for an answer, he laid a laminated picture menu in front of her and, almost like sleight of hand, produced a set of silverware rolled in a paper napkin from under the counter. Punjab was short and bald, with a few strands of wiry black hair slicked down to his tan scalp.

“Just coffee,” she said, “and maybe a job.” Marion placed the HELP WANTED sign on top of the menu and slid it toward the little Indian man. He looked at it, then at her. He clearly had trouble keeping eye contact without focusing on the damage done to her face, but did his best.

“Do you have any server experience?” he asked, and put the silverware roll back where it came from.

“I waited tables at the Red Minnow in Gulf Shores every summer during high school and almost two years after. Mrs. Gentry said she’d give me a great recommendation if you want to call.”

“That’s good. That’s good. My place is a little faster-paced than the Red Minnow. Do you know anything about short-order diners?” He took the menu up but didn’t move to get the coffee she’d asked for.

“No, sir, I don’t. But I’m a fast learner. I work hard and I’m extremely reliable. I can work any hours you need and any days. Even weekends.”

Punjab held a finger to the corner of his mouth and stared at her intensely. “Can I ask you why you didn’t just get your old job back from Mrs. Gentry?”

The truth was she had tried, but the Red Minnow was more upscale, and the Gentrys hired only pretty girls to parade around out front. Marion wasn’t pretty anymore. She’d never be pretty again. “Their staff is full-up right now, and the truth is, I don’t think I’d be a good fit there anymore.”

Punjab struggled with the next part of the conversation, so Marion picked up the volley. “I know I look rough, but I promise you it will get better. I’ll never be as pretty as I used to be, but I won’t always be this hideous. The problem is, the bills don’t want to wait for me to get better. They want to be paid right now, and I’m a heartbeat away from being out of options.”

“Young lady,” Punjab said, his face softened, “I don’t find you hideous.” He held her eyes that time. She could have cried right there.

“Thank you, sir. You’re sweet to say that, but I don’t think most people will share your opinion. I know I’m not a prime candidate for a job here, but if you were to take a chance, I promise you, I’ll do my very best.”

Punjab smiled. It was a genuine and warm smile. He didn’t look away once. From the same space below the counter he’d retrieved the silverware a few minutes ago, he pulled out a pad of generic employment applications, tore off the top one, and slid it over to Marion. She really could have just started sobbing all over this man’s counter. A break, she thought. Finally a goddamn break.

“Fill this out, and I’ll take a look. Okay?”

“Thank you, Mr. Punjab.”

“I’m not making any promises, dear. I will check your references and decide if you are the best qualified for the position.”

“Of course, sir.”

“But maybe I’ll just keep this in my office until I have a chance to look over your application.” Punjab picked up the HELP WANTED sign, folded it in half, and tucked it in his apron.

“Thank you,” Marion said again.

“You are welcome. Do you need a pen?”

Marion pulled a pen from the pocket of the slightly-too-small skirt she’d borrowed from Barbara. “No, sir. I got it.”

“Very well, then.”

She hadn’t finished writing her full name down on the application before Punjab returned with a mug and a small stainless-steel carafe of steaming chicory root coffee, a Mobile trademark. He filled the mug and left the carafe on the counter. The coffee was thick and hot and smelled like heaven.

“If you need anything else, feel free to ask. I will be just through that door.” He pointed at the double swinging doors leading to the kitchen. He looked at his watch. “Sarah, my head waitress, will be here any minute, which works out perfectly. She’s really the one that needs the help.”

“Sounds good, sir.”

Punjab tapped the counter with both hands and disappeared through the swinging doors.

Marion was on her third cup of coffee and the back page of her application when she heard Sarah Watson come through the front door.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Sarah said, and her voice soured the air in the room. Marion felt that the day and her luck had just taken a turn. The short, squat redhead flipped up the hinged counter, tucked her purse below the bar, and strolled up to Marion’s stool. Marion knew this girl from high school, from another life. She was a big girl then and an even bigger girl now, with a face covered in freckles, but not the good, sun-peppered kind. Sarah’s freckles made her look like the victim of a big truck speeding through a nasty mud puddle.

“Hello, Sarah, you look well,” Marion lied.

“A mile better than you. That’s for sure. How long’s it been? Three years? I suppose the rock star thing didn’t work out too good.” Sarah stared at Marion’s face as if she were watching a car wreck. “Jesus,” she said, her own pudgy face all twisted up. “What the hell happened to you?”