Of Hooks and Pans
(Redux)
Author's Note: Aha! It has begun; the revamp era of my old tales. I hope you all come along and enjoy the journey. Oh, the original song is actually written by me. Obviously I only used a few lyrics, but still. Thought you gals and girls would appreciate that. Happy reading!
Of Hooks and Pans
Chapter One: Happy Birthday, to a Loser
Today is December 23rd, 2012. I turn eighteen in two hours, when the clock portrays a familiar midnight at a familiar lounge where I work. I am a waitress and get paid three dollars an hour, because I am allowed to take tips. The only problem is, in this lonely New Hampshire town, I barely make any extra money. Customers always smile, treat me well, but they don't tip as much as they used to. I guess the economy has truly taken a hit. One couple left me a two-dollar tip before turning red and leaving their table. Really, I need a change. I need to make more money so I can find an apartment before my current foster family kicks me out. I won't be in state care anymore tomorrow, and I know it will be a nightmare finding somewhere to live.
But I can worry about that in two hours.
The Sighing Canary is such an odd name for a lounge. The owners, Mallie and Norman have always said it was inspiration from a pet bird their daughter had. I guess the bird had some sort of health issue where it could not sing. It just sat on its perch and looked miserable every day. Honestly, I think Norman thought up the name while drunk one night. He seems like the type of drunk who thinks of crazy things while under the influence.
"Petunia, table 6 needs service."
I grab my notebook and head over to table 6. There is a round man sitting alone. His white beard is scruffy, untamed. He has a striped blue and white shirt on with a navy bandana hiding away a mess of white and black hair. A few strands stick out as if they were weeds in a flower garden. The man is studying a menu hard, as if he'd never ordered before.
"Good evening, I'm Petunia. I'll be taking your order tonight. Can I start you out with one of our house blends of tea or juice? We only use natural ingredients from our local farmers. My personal favorite is our blueberry pomegranate juice. It's not too sweet, and goes well with any salad or poultry meal."
Scruffy turns to me and smiles. "I'll have a glass of that, then." His voice is thick in an undecipherable accent. "I'll start with 'yer potato soup and have the rib eye with vegetables for dinner. Make the steak very close to rare, would ya'?"
"No problem sir. I'll go grab that juice for you. Enjoy the singers, too. I hear we have a few good ones tonight. Friday nights are open mic. I will be right back." I skip away, happy to have such an easy customer.
It is nearly midnight and our best customers come out of the woodwork. Typically on Fridays there are drunken college students looking to sober up and get a warm meal. Tonight, it didn't seem true. Of all the weekends I've worked in the past, tonight seems too quiet. A male musician sets up in the corner of the dining area where a microphone stands, ready for his voice to either attract or perturb our guests. He pulls out a guitar, introduces himself as Jacob, and begins singing a cover of the Beatles, Strawberry Fields Forever. One thing about The Sighing Canary is that Beatles covers are always done here. Our Small town loves oldies. I learned of The Beatles in my freshman year music history class. We ended up listening to over twenty songs throughout a week. I was in love with their lyrics. Every time I heard them, I felt transported back in time where innocence and peace were sought after like a rare bird.
Back to serving, I notice Scruffy-no-name has turned his chair to face the musician. Not a lot of people do that anymore. I think it shows a lot of respect. I place his juice in front of him and give a genuine smile.
"Thank yeh, love. This looks delicious."
"No problem," I reply. "If you end up not liking it, let me know and I will get you whatever else you want, on the house. That's a good thing about our lounge. We always make sure everyone who walks in those doors wants to come in again."
Scruffy shoots me a strange look and says, "I definitely think you are one of the better waitresses I've had in my life. Thank yeh' doll."
"Ha. Thank you, sir. I will be back with your food in a moment."
He adds before I step away, "I mean it. I've seen some hags in my life. You look like yeh' enjoy this place."
"Well, I'm just in a good mood. It's my birthday tonight." I smile. I only mention this in hopes for a good tip.
A glimmer shines in the old man's grey eyes. "Ah, well happy birthday to yeh."
"Petunia! Order's up." I had been sinking into my hand on my chin for a moment, studying the singer. "Please tell me he wanted this rare, right?"
"Yes, Chaz." I reply.
Norman comes into view, flashing his white teeth with a wide grin.
"Hey, birthday girl. After your table has their food, why don't you get up there? I know you have been dying to sing since we started this thing."
An electric shock of joy washes over me. "Yes, thank you! I will grab my guitar." I snatch up the plate of steak and the potato soup to bring over to the old man.
"Here you go sir, does everything look alright to you?"
Scruffy cuts in the middle of the steak and grins. "Yes, ma'am. Looks perfect. I can still hear it mooing."
I chuckle, "Alright, I will be back in a moment. If you need anything Mr. Norman Conners is walking around. He is the owner of this wonderful place."
"Thank yeh. I'm sure I'll be fine."
I run outside, ditching my apron on the main counter. April, our seater and greeter, gives me a snotty look when I return with my acoustic in one hand, lyrics in the other. Jacob, who had completed a few songs, was now sitting on a chair at the front table. I wasn't nervous about singing after his soft voice, but I was nervous about singing in general. Norman always heard me plucking around in the back parking lot before work. He knew it calmed me down after coming from my high school of hell and home of nightmares.
Lucky for me, that would all be over tomorrow. And school, I only had two months left before graduating.
"Hi. I'm Petunia Pane and I work here. Tonight, the wonderful Mr. Conners is allowing me a little break. I turn eighteen in twenty minutes, so I guess this is a birthday gift. Heh. Anyways, this is an original and I hope you all enjoy it."
I begin strumming a few simple chords on my guitar. The strap is comfortable enough where I can stand to play. I step up to the microphone and study my audience. All of the regulars have a smile on their face. Scruffy has a plain expression on his face, but nods when we meet eyes. I somehow feel like I knew him before tonight. I feel like he might already recall the story of my life. Or perhaps these newcomers can tell by the slow melody that I am a troubled soul.
My voice is soft, with a bit of old-school rasp tied in. I never learned how to sing professionally, I just naturally sang all of my life. And I take a deep breath, ready to share it with strangers.
Under and orange sky I feel the heat
On the broken path off my old street
Wind would howl just like a ghost
It was here I felt alive the most.
I keep singing my original and observe the audience gazing at me with satisfaction. Norman gives me a look of pride as if I was another daughter. As I fade off at the end, the entire lounge claps. Someone far off whistles through their teeth. For once, I am confident. For once, I am happy in my sanctuary at work.
"Thanks, everyone. Enjoy your meals."
"Encore!" Scruffy shouts.
My face goes warm with blush. I hadn't prepared anything else, so I decide to sing a cappella something that has haunted me since I could dream. I dig deep into my mind and a force of nostalgia entrances me.
Sing low, the tide washes o'er me, sing high, I drown in mystery. Waiting for morn', waiting for morn', here in the deepest of seas.
My very short blurb of a song captured all eyes, but I couldn't continue. I couldn't remember any more of my mother's lullaby from long, long ago. At this point, I feel awkward. There were scattered claps, but my weirdness definitely brought the house down. I left the corner, dragging my guitar behind me. Norman gave me a tap on the shoulder as I went back outside to put my guitar away.
"That last one was really good." April says as I return to work. "Very short and morbid. Good job, Pane."
"Oh you know me," I reply. "Morbid . . . and short, I guess."
She snarls. Enjoy your laugh, April.
I walk over to Scruffy, who has finished his meal. He smiles and I notice gold tooth. It must be nice to have money like that. Even gold caps are expensive. At least that's what Dominik, my foster father says. Clarice, his wife, had a gold cap put on one of her molars. That was the reason I never had ninth birthday party.
"The food was delightful," He says. "Your voice was, too. I liked that little song at the end. It reminded me of my life on the sea."
"Thank you, sir. Anyways, here is your bill. You can leave cash or I will take your card for you. Either way, it was nice meeting you. I can tell you're not from around here and I hope you enjoy your stay here in Apple Valley, New Hampshire." I place the bill down and pause for a moment.
He says he will be paying with cash. I give him one more smirk and tell him to have a good night. I walk away, towards the back room behind the kitchen, ready to punch out. I see the clock and notice it has just struck midnight. Happy birthday to me, I'm finally free.
"Hey," April comes up to me as I emerge from the back room. "Don't forget to grab your tip from that old geezer. I get it that you want to leave, but some of us need to clean up, and I don't want the bus boy to pick up your dollar." She laughs hard. I never liked her.
By now the lounge is clearing out. We stop making food at midnight and give fifteen extra minutes for guests to gather themselves. I do respect that. Most places you go, service and staff always rush you to get out. When I approach table 6, I notice that the bill is on top of the man's cash. That's always a smart thing to do.
He had scribbled something on the back of the receipt. Something extra for yeh, cookie.
A gold coin stares me in the eye. It's not a gold dollar coin. It looks more like a token from a children's game center, but larger and more worn out. I pick it up and study its sides. The gold is shining brightly, despite the dirt on it. I pocket it, not wanting April to laugh at me for this one. I walk out of The Sighing Canary to my silver Toyota. It's old, but it's the only thing I have to myself. Gas isn't great either, but what can you do? At least Clarice was nice enough to buy this for me . . . from a junk yard.
As I sit in my driver's seat smelling like garlic and onions, I feel the coin burning into my thigh. I am downright infuriated that someone who seemed so nice could literally leave me junk as a tip. I try to start my car. My car is not turning on. I take the keys out and put them back in, thinking that will help. Nope. Nothing. On top of this, it is dark and all my coworkers are ignoring my look of anger. They are all leaving. They don't give a shit if I make it home, just as long as I make it to work. That's the way of the world.
Finally, my engine revs. I am off to the horrible place I call home for one more sleepless night. Tomorrow, I am getting the hell out of here.