My Name Is Venus Black(33)
The opposite of me, in other words. Plus, greeting every single customer would only raise my odds of getting recognized.
“Ma’am?” It’s Julie the waitress again, and she’s holding a coffeepot. “Can I give you a refill?”
“Sure,” I say, trying to seem relaxed this time. It feels so strange to be waited on like this. It’s also weird just to be allowed to have a second cup of coffee. At Echo we couldn’t drink coffee until we were sixteen, and then we were allowed only one cup—but you can see why, since most of those kids needed to calm down, not rev up.
While Julie fills my cup, I look at her face, knowing that will lessen the likelihood of her looking at mine. She seems about my age, slightly plump, with feathered strawberry-blond hair and long bangs.
After she’s gone, I realize I’ve probably been sitting here too long. I glance around and see that all the other booths and tables are taken. I guiltily gulp the coffee as quickly as I can and then head for the exit, located by the crowded order counter.
I have to say, “Excuse me,” several times in order to squeeze past people in line. When they glance at me, I’m newly conscious of my never-before-plucked eyebrows, which all of a sudden feel like enormous hairy caterpillars plastered on my forehead, screaming, It’s me! Venus Black, that girl you saw in the paper!
I’m so worried about being recognized, I almost miss the small sign on the door as I close it behind me: HELP WANTED.
Hilarious. I think my career just took a positive turn. And maybe Leo is somewhere getting rich.
Turns out Julie put up the HELP WANTED sign just this morning when another employee failed to show and called in fake sick for the umpteenth time. When I tell her I’m looking for work, she immediately says, “You’re hired!” Next thing I know I’m wearing a turquoise Big Dipper apron.
The next four hours pass in a blur. I simply do whatever Julie tells me to, learning to use the till during breaks in the action.
Later, Julie asks me to fill out an application. “Not that you’re not hired,” she says. “But my mom, June, is the one who owns the shop, and she’ll want that.”
I put down my new address and name—hoping they won’t recognize that the address is actually a hotel. I put the Crab Pot down as a reference, even though it doesn’t appear I need one. But who knows what Julie’s mom will think of her daughter hiring me on the spot like this. When it comes to my Social Security number, I go ahead and make one up. My guess is it won’t get noticed until Julie’s mom does her taxes next spring. I can only hope that by the time the IRS finally catches it, I’ll have saved enough to move to California.
After a few days, I have learned the ropes and been assigned a schedule. I’ll work Tuesday through Saturday from 5:30 A.M. to 2:00 P.M. Inwardly, I gasp at the early start time. But it’s a full-time job—with a tip jar we split. Maybe once I get a real apartment or room somewhere, my life will start to feel like a life.
After a couple weeks at the Big Dipper, I already know at least ten regulars by name. The place is a constant swirl of activity. A whole world unto itself—and I feel grateful to work there. But I still feel like I’m on the outside somehow, perhaps because I am so reluctant to be friendly or talk to folks. I feel like a marble rolling around a Chinese checker game that can’t find an empty hole to slip into.
Eventually, Julie invites me to hang out with her and her friends. But after giving it a couple of tries, I just can’t get comfortable and I resist further invitations. It’s hard to have fun when you constantly have to lie. Plus, even though Julie is twenty and most of her friends are probably older than me, they seem so immature.
It’s like I came out of Echo Glen knowing both too much and too little to come off as anything but weird. I feel like a tall, scary person people don’t want to get to know. But inside I feel as insecure as a ten-year-old who lost track of her mother in the big city.
I quickly fall into the habit of being alone a lot. I’m desperate for books, so even though it feels risky, I get myself a Seattle Public Library card for “Annette.” As usual, I stick to old-time comforting novels like Gone with the Wind and A Girl of the Limberlost. Or else interesting biographies of amazing women of science like Marie Curie. When I’m not reading, I go walking. It turns out that Seattle is good for that, and it’s fascinating to me. I learn to navigate buses and go all over—even visiting the park at the Space Needle.
By early October, I’ve settled in at the St. James quite nicely. I am loath to leave. But I also know my money is going to run out if I don’t find a cheaper room. On the second Saturday in October, I vow to look for and find a place.
After work, I take the P-I and a map of Seattle over to Volunteer Park, where I can sit on a bench while I look at the rental listings. After ruling out a bunch of apartments and rooms that I either can’t afford or are too far away from the Dipper…I end up with only two options—both single rooms inside other people’s houses.
Things are so expensive! Both of the rooms list for one hundred fifty dollars a month. I consult my map and decide to check out the closest house first. As I walk away from the hubbub of the city, things get more residential and there are some really nice houses. But when I get into the right neighborhood, things get junkier. Up ahead, I notice a ghastly lavender house with pink trim. Let it not be that one, I plead.