A roommate. Marisol’s face immediately popped into my brain. We’d shared an apartment in Brooklyn Heights the year between my breakup with Gabe and when I started dating Adam. Looking back, those were probably some of my favorite days I’d spent in New York. Though we were both single, we didn’t spend much time dating. We went to sample sales, ate our way through Smorgasburg, and kept a very serious scoring system on the best pizza in each borough. We spent hours wandering the Met and entered ourselves into the lotto for seats at all the biggest Broadway shows, actually managing to score front-row seats to Hamilton with the original cast (still one of my biggest claims to fame). We watched Sex and the City on a loop in our tiny living room and tried out every crazy new exercise fad—my favorite, the Bounce N’ Burn trampoline workout, hers, Turbo Aqua-Cycling.
Sometimes if we were feeling particularly in need of a good laugh, we’d take an improv class at this small underground theater in Williamsburg. Marisol had absolutely no background in performing, but that never stopped her. In fact, even though it was completely out of her wheelhouse, somehow she always came up with the funniest, most clever material—the best lines, the most ridiculous facial expressions. It was amazing to watch her be so uninhibited and confident in everything she did. I admired that most about her. Maybe that was why it’d always stood out to me as so remarkable?
A roommate was a good idea, actually. It would help a lot with rent and offset some other expenses too, and considering my rapidly depleting savings, it seemed to be the soundest option. And who knows, maybe it would even be fun?
Mindy lowered the kitchen blinds and turned to me. “Can you close the bed-table back up again? I have another showing in an hour.”
And with that, Mindy turned on her Gucci loafers, waited for me to shove the mattress back in the closet, and ushered me out the front door, closing it firmly behind her as we started our epic trek back down the nine flights to ground level.
Chapter Thirteen
The next morning, Charlie waved me in to Mimi’s for my first day back at work with a warm and welcoming smile and handed me my old name tag.
I fastened it to my shirt. “Where’d you even find this?”
“Name tag graveyard. We hold on to them in case the person hits it big one day.”
“Orrrrrr comes crawling back after because she’s desperate and destitute,” I teased.
“Well, tom-A-to, tom-AH-to. We don’t judge here at Mimi’s Shooting Star Diner,” he remarked with a snicker. “Go put your coat away, grab a copy of today’s set list off the counter, and meet me in the back.”
I followed him into the long hallway leading to the kitchen, taking a moment’s pause in front of the audition-call bulletin board that had been a well-maintained staple of the diner dating back to even before my earlier days working there. I scanned it, checking for any upcoming non-equity calls, when Charlie realized I was no longer trailing behind him and doubled back.
“Anything catching your eye?” he asked.
“No, I’m not quite ready yet. But I’m hoping after a few more weeks of shifts here, I will be?” As much as I hoped that would be the case, the statement came out as more of a question.
“No better Broadway boot camp in the world. Here you go, this one here’s yours,” he said, pointing to the last door in a long row of lockers. “Make sure to actually lock it, though. We’ve had a few servers with sticky fingers.”
“Got it.” I nodded, mentally noting to buy a lock on my next trip to Duane Reade.
“Here’s where you clock in and out. Binder’s on the deeeeeesk.” He elongated the vowel as he reached across his work space to grab for the time sheets. “You stamp ’em and then return ’em to that same spot when you’re done.”
“All right, easy enough. How does it work with the song selections? Same as before? We get to choose our own for each set?”
“Pretty much the same drill. You perform one song every hour over the course of your six-hour shift. Generally, it shakes out to two solos, two ensemble numbers, and two duets, but that depends sometimes on staffing. I assign the ensemble and duet numbers, but you can choose your own solos. We don’t mandate costumes or props, but nothing’s changed—the more you’re willing to commit to the role, the bigger the tips. Speaking of . . . ,” he said, pointing to a short, curvy young woman in a dark wool coat that almost hit the floor and a large black hat adorned with two Hasidic curls fastened to its sides.
The girl took her place at the center of the diner’s stage and began performing the famed bottle dance from Fiddler on the Roof. I was more than a little impressed to see that she, unlike so many dancers before her, did not glue the bottle to the hat and instead actually mastered the balance she needed to perform the full choreography without any added assistance.
When the song ended, she tipped her hat as she took her bow, illustrating that the bottle wasn’t fastened to the top, and was met by even louder applause and a hailstorm of dollar bills from the crowd. She collected her tips and exited the stage to where we stood watching in awe.
“That was amazing,” I gushed.
“Another great set, Lyla. And this here is a new server, well . . . a new old server, Avery Lawrence—”
“Ouch,” I teased.
“Oh my God, the Avery Lawrence? Like high E above middle C Avery Lawrence?!”
“Wait, you know who I am?” I asked, certain I’d misheard her.
“Of course I do. Everyone does. Your range is legendary. So excited to meet you,” she said, extending her hand toward me.
“Likewise,” I said, offering mine in return.
“Well, I better get changed and check on my tables. Hey, Charlie, care if I head out a little early? I have to run home for another appointment.”
“No problem. I’ve got my fingers crossed for you this time.”
“Please! Fingers, toes, I’ll take any luck we can get.” Lyla laughed and turned to face me. “Great meeting you, Avery. Can’t wait to catch your set next shift.”
“Thanks, and same.”
Over the next few hours, Charlie reacquainted me with the diner’s opening and closing procedures, introduced me to all the new menu items, and walked me through the updated computer system. When most of the dinner tables cleared out to catch their eight o’clock curtains, leaving just a couple of diners, we finally took a break.
“Are you hungry? You must be. Let me grab us something from the kitchen,” Charlie offered.
I nodded, the sudden thought of food making me salivate, and pulled out a chair to relieve the pressure from my throbbing feet. He returned not long after, carrying a triple-decker sandwich stuffed high with turkey, lettuce, bacon, and juicy bright-red tomatoes, plus a bubbly soda. “A Kit-Kat Club and a Climb Every Mountain Dew,” he said as he placed them down and pulled up a seat opposite me.
“Nothing for you?” I asked, already starting to pick at the fries from the small basket.
“Nah, I’m good. I may grab a fry or two, though,” he said.
“My Edel-fries are your Edel-fries,” I joked and pushed them closer to him so that the plate resided evenly between the two of us.
“Danke,” he said with a grin and punctuated his gratitude by snagging a crispy fry from the top of the pile. “So, I can give you Mondays, Tuesdays, and Fridays for now. As you know, weekends are the most desirable shifts, so I don’t have any Saturday or Sunday slots at the moment, but that’ll most likely change in the spring.”
“I’ll take as many shifts as you can give me. And feel free to pass my number to the other servers in case they need any last-minute coverage. I’m in hustler mode,” I joked with a half-hearted chuckle, flexing my wannabe muscle from my pathetic excuse for a bicep.