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Lorna was dead on her feet. A long shift that had been made longer because the new girl had called in 'sick' for the second day in a row. She should've been home and in bed hours ago, but instead she was serving the night crowd later than she prefered. A plastered smile stuck on her face as she poured a third cup of coffee to a truck driver that stank of oil and fried foods earned her the irritatingly terrible pass at getting her phone number. The usual lie of having a boyfriend at home was offered and she moved onto the next several tables, checking the few patrons that still sat at the cheap tables and chairs.
Lorna bit back a yawn as she turned away from the tables to find the broom and start sweeping the far side of the diner that was mostly empty. She had to get a start on cleaning up that side, a group of rowdy teens out for a night of fun had made a mess there barely an hour before. Ketchup and fries smeared over the table where they had staged a flirtatious food fight between friends, and greasy stains dotted the white table top.
A few shuffling steps later and she was dropping coin into the juke box and punching in the numbers for what she had hoped would be a Beach Boy song, instead, her finger had slipped and pressed the wrong number. The result was Johnny Cash's song, Ring Of Fire. Started to play. She frowned, irritated and too tired to bother with trying to fix it.
A sigh fell from her rosy hued lips and she pushed back dyed brown hair behind an ear as she returned to sweeping the floor and keeping an eye on the few remaining customers that nursed their food in near silence.
*
The late shift gets all the crazies. In New York the truth veers a little off-course. Saturday night sees half the city out in theatres, bars, and clubs as their front room. More take solace in the parks, though recent odd events in Central Park don't make that yard very popular this week. While a gaggle of pretty people squeeze into a table meant for four, and there are seven, one of them breaks off to find her own place to sit.
"Aww, Bets, don't be like that!" calls a girl lolling in the lap of a man with a decade on her, the sort of 'artist' who stinks of cash, photography, and a string of broken promises. The set of them ooze that Pretty People vibe. The sort who wear fancy clothes and designer labels, attend parties, and generally irritate everyone in their general existence.
The woman walking away certainly fits the bill — black leather pants, black knit shirt (in summer!), and cool sophistication written all over her. She gives a little shake of her head to dismiss their cooing protests, not interested in being hanger on #5 for the two gents and their posse. Oh well, more to split between them. For Elizabeth, that means carving out a spot to cool her heels. Probably a stool at the counter, since having a table all to herself speaks of something mournful.
Mr. Cash's grousy voice rises. She palms something from her tighter-than-tight pants painted on her like an oil slick, and proceeds up to the jukebox to give it a look. While Lorna goes to sweep, she plunks the coin in and starts flicking through the pages of hits.
*
Lorna felt her head pound behind her eyes at the chortling group, looking at the other waitress on duty and pleading with her green eyes for the old woman to take up the group. She did, with a motion that screamed 'you owe me'. Lorna meanwhile, set the broom aside and made her way behind the bar. Her sneakers squeaking on the sticky linoleum as she rounded the bend in the counter and made her way over to the black clad woman.
Lorna's gaze swept over her, and her slapped on the fake smile of all servers in such an establishment when greeting a customer. Even if she was tired, and hungry and ached. The woman clearly wasn't the type of person that Lorna would ever seek out, and silently she judged the woman's attire and demeanor.
"Hello, I'm Lorna. I'll be your server for the evening. What can I get for you miss? Tonight's specials include meatloaf with gravy. The soup on offer is tomato with cheddar. And our blueberry pie is our specialty dessert for the week. We're quite famous for it." Whether anyone actually knew or cared about the greasy spoon's pie or not was up in the air, but it was one of the many things she was required to recite each time.
*
Marcus arrives from Queens.
*
Marcus has arrived.
*
Marcus leaves, heading towards Queens [O].
*
Marcus has left.
*
The jukebox flips another page full of 40s classics, oldies as far as the hip cats of 1963 are concerned. Who wants to listen to Dad's music? A yellow disk pops up reading "The Stripper (Rose") by David Rose and His Orchestra. Elizabeth offers that a quizzical look and the faintest sound of a laugh gets through the imperfect dam of her buttoned lips.
Then she promptly jabs the button to flip to another page. The next one on the turnstyle must serve her purposes. She selects one jazzy tune probably overplayed in here far too often. As the mysterious mechanical elements load up the little record onto the turntable in the timey-wimey music box, she waits. Then Little Eva's Loco-motion starts to chugga-chug from the speakers, the harmonies in the background blending with the singer's burnished, rich voice.
Hips shimmy slightly and the model turns. A good look at her face easily matches the photographs on the cover of Vogue, Harper's Bazaar… pick a popular American magazine in the last five years, and she has probably featured inside for some ad campaign or photographer's muse. Elizabeth is striking enough to make an impact. "Blueberry pie?" The tones of her voice are unquestionably English, properly refined, dodging being snooty by a thread. "I think that might be just the thing. Two slices of that."
Pausing for a moment, Elizabeth adds, "Is it expected to take the pie with ice cream, or by itself? You look as though you could use a piece yourself. I insist."
*
Lorna took up a pad of paper and pencil from behind her ear ready to jot down the order and blinking at the dulcet tones of English that flitered through the shapely lips of the model looking woman before her. Intimidation was a decided factor in Lorna's estimate of handling the rather posh woman. She certainly appeared more suitable to a fancy resturant than the cheap coffee and fake syrup that the diner served. A quick jot, in short hand script, for two slices of blueberry pie were written down with a practiced hand before Lorna paused in confusion.
A blink followed the insistance of sharing a plate of pie with the woman and she gaped quite openly in shock.
"Oh. Thank you. No. I'm still on shift. But ice cream is traditional, especially in the summer." She murmured, adding a note on the pad of paper.
*
Fancy food, fancy expectations in whipped mousse on a tiny plate. Cheap food, satisfying meal for a buck. Which would Lorna prefer?
Elizabeth meets that shocked look with typical English regard. Stiff upper lip notwithstanding. She has a cheeky smile forming and looks to the miserable group of photographers and models likely to end up doing terrible things in a Fourth Avenue apartment before the night is out. "I believe I'll be the second worst spectacle tonight, sitting by myself. You can tell your manager I absolutely insisted you talk to me." A glint to her eyes almost becomes warm. "Celebrity privilege and all that. Yes, I -accosted- you. Terrible me, not letting you do your work because here I sat, fork jabbed in the crust, yapping your ear off. Do you think they'd go for it?"
Mercies are a very strange thing indeed. Sometimes they exist. Sometimes they do not. "Ice cream and pie. Wouldn't it melt all over? How do you like to eat it?" She swings her fork side to side, and then sits upon the stool while the singer insists everybody swing their hips now. Come on, baby, do the loco-motion….
*
Lorna floundered openly at that, her eyes darting at the rowdy group as the older waitress took their orders and ambled off to the cooks behind the counter. There would be no help from the sleepy eyed old woman, who barely had the energy to deal with the lonely truckers that came through at this hour of night. Much less boisterious artists and models.
"You'd be wrong, you'd be the third worst. The teenagers that had a food fight earlier claim second place currently." She smiled, and shook her head.
"The ice cream has so much sugar in it that it wouldn't melt in direct sunlight. And the pie doesn't come hot. It's in the fridge. At this time of night, you'll have a good lump for a while." She shrugged, and stifled a yawn behind the back of her hand.
"I won't eat pie, but I can talk if you want company while I clean up the counter here."