“To set fires?”
“Ideally, no.” She walked over, picking up the fire extinguisher and examining it. “God! I have been looking everywhere for this. The kitchen guys are such kleptos, I swear.”
I walked over to one of the big windows, peering out. There was a narrow balcony, made of wrought iron, over which I had a perfect view of the street below. “This is nice,” I said. “Too bad you can’t seat people up here.”
“We used to,” she said, picking up the beer bottle and tossing it in a nearby trash can, followed by the cigarettes. “Way back in the day.”
“Really,” I said. “How long have you been here?”
“I started in high school. It was my first real job.” She picked up the milk crate, moving it to the opposite wall, then folded the chairs, one by one. “Eventually, I left for college, but even then I came back and waited tables in the summers. Once I graduated, I planned to get a full-time job with my double degree in dance and art history, but it didn’t exactly work out.” She looked at me, then rolled her eyes. “I know, I know. Who would have guessed it, right?”
I smiled, looking back out the window again. “At least you did what you liked.”
“That has always been my defense, even when I was flat broke,” she said, wiping off the milk crate with one hand. “Anyway, I was back here and unemployed when the Melmans decided they needed someone else to take over the day-today for them. So I agreed, but only on a temporary basis. And somehow, I’m still here.”
“It’s a hard business to get out of. Sometimes impossible,” I replied. She looked at me. “That’s what my dad says, anyway.”
For a moment, she was quiet, instead just taking the folded chairs and stacking them against the wall. “You know,” she said finally, “I understand he’s just here to do a job, and that we needed to make some changes. I’m sure he’s a good guy. But it just feels . . . like we’re being invaded. Occupied.”
“You say it like this is a war.”
“That’s kind of how it feels,” she replied. She sat down on the milk crate, propping her head in her hands. “I mean, with half the menu gone, and cutting out brunch. I think maybe I should have gone with the rolls. Out with the old, in with the new, and all that.”
She looked tired suddenly, sitting there saying this, and I felt like I should say something supportive, even though we hardly knew each other. Before I could, though, there was a bang from the stairs, and the skinny cook I recognized from the alley a few days earlier appeared on the landing, carrying a box. My dad, also with one in his arms, was right behind him.
“Yo, Opal, where you want us to put these? ” the cook asked.
Opal jumped to her feet. “Leo,” she said, quickly walking over to take the box from my dad’s arms, “I can’t believe you asked Gus to do this.”
“You said to get someone to help me!”
“Someone,” she muttered, under her breath. “Not the boss, for God’s sake.”
“It’s fine,” my dad said easily. To me he added, “Mclean! I didn’t even know you were here. How was the rest of the day?”
Opal turned, looking at me, confused, and I suddenly remembered I’d told her my name was Liz. I swallowed, then said, “Okay, I guess.”
“Gus, seriously,” Opal said to him. “I’m so sorry. . . . It will only take me a second to get the rest of those boxes up here, I promise.” She shot Leo a dark look, but he was just standing there, fiddling with the strings of his apron.
“What?” he said as she continued to glare at him. “Oh. You mean me?”
“Yes,” she replied, sounding more tired than ever. “I mean you.”
He shrugged, banging back down the stairs. Opal still looked mortified, but my dad hardly seemed to notice as he walked over to stand beside me at the window, looking out at the street.
“This is a great space,” he said, glancing around him. “Did it used to be dining room?”
“About ten years ago,” Opal replied.
“Why’d they stop using it?”
“Mr. Melman felt people were too slow going up and down the stairs. All the food was cold once it got here, because the kitchen was so far away.”
“Huh,” my dad said, walking over to one of the walls and knocking on it. “In such an old building, I’m surprised there wasn’t a dumbwaiter.”
“There was,” Opal told him. “But it never worked right. You’d put your food in and never see it again.”
“Where was it?”
She walked over to the wall by the stairs, pushing aside one of the tables there. Behind it, on the wall, you could see the imprint of something square, protruding slightly. “We had it plastered over,” Opal said. “Because people kept riding in it after closing. Serious liability.”
“No kidding.” My dad walked over, checking it out. As he did, Opal glanced at me again, and I wondered what she was thinking.
“So,” my dad said, turning back to the room proper. “What’s with the boxes? I didn’t realize we had a big order coming in today.”