You only say is not because you’ve got a faulty memory.
Yes. Now I’ll agree with you there. It’s a faulty memory that keeps me plugging away.
It’s a faulty memory that’s going to land you in an institution sooner than you think. Alzheimer’s disease.
There’s perks though, I point out. For one: I keep forgetting I hate my work, and that allows me to keep going to it in the morning.
It’s probably what keeps you loving me too, by that logic. You keep loving me because you’re always forgetting that you hate me.
Not true. Not true.
Your problem is, Art…
Wait a second—I have a problem?
Your problem is…Let me finish here…your problem is, you’re faithful like a dog.
I didn’t know fidelity was a problem.
It can be a problem. Too much fidelity can definitely be a problem.
So can infidelity.
You’re too faithful to your wife’s memory.
It’s who I am.
Well.
Well.
Well?
I can’t forget her…
Nobody’s asking you to forget. I haven’t forgotten my mom. All’s we’re asking here is you learn to let it go.
Let what go?
Let the grief go.
It is gone. Poof.
It is?
It’s the fifth anniversary of her burial, that’s all.
It’s the fifth anniversary of mom’s, and look at me. I’m still standing. You look like you were just hit by a truck. You’re suffering too much. Put it behind you, Art.
Gee, aren’t you friendly today?
It’s just this job…
Rita sets a platter of eggs and bacon in front of me, refreshes my coffee, and gives me a small orange juice that she pulled from a dispenser.
And I’m tired. She attempts a smile. I never can figure out why they settled in Chicago.
Why who?
The original people who settled Chicago. Such a godawful place. Too cold or too hot.
Honey, what are you complaining about the cold for? It’s a beautiful day out there.
I felt winter out there today. And I don’t like winter. My joints permanently ache from the cold.
Then why don’t you move to Florida? Or some spa town with hot springs, Epson salt, and mud?
Epsom salt. Easy for you to say, Art. With all your millions…You can go down to Fort Lauderdale at the drop of a hat and snap up one of those mansions in…what do they call it? I saw a show on it the other day. Little Venice. Yeah. You with your millions! Solving crime. I’m trying not to laugh. Some of us, however, have to work for a living. Some of us actually have to do something to earn a living.
But Rita…Look, you don’t like the heat, either. You’re always complaining about the heat. It’s either too hot or too cold for you.
I like the heat, Art. Don’t get me wrong. It’s just this heat—this stupid, muggy Chicago heat—I don’t like it. Never have.
She frowns at me and sighs.
Chicago has an unrepenting heat. Just like it has an unrepenting cold. And I just don’t like it.
What’s unrepenting?
You know what I mean…
Are you talking about the Catholic Church? Unrepenting? Maybe you ought to see a priest.
And confess my sins?
You don’t have any sins.
Working in this dump is a sin. Staying with you for five years is probably a sin too.
Nothing in the Old Testament says staying with a guy like me is a sin.
Oh, it’s a sin, Art. Believe you me. This funny relationship we have is a sin. The way you smile at me these days. I feel it in my bones. It’s a sin.
Are you confessing something to me? Spill it out. I’m here to listen.
You know what I’m saying.
I do?
Let this be a warning to you, Art. My love only goes so deep.
What does that mean?
You know what it means.
And then I’ll be out on my ear living with my mom?
Just like all your other loser friends.
Speaking of Cal, he and his mom live off his father’s life-insurance policy. That was his big reveal today.
That’s nice. I suppose he plans on gambling it all away.
He doesn’t want to, but he can’t help himself.
He should get a job instead of mooching off his parents.
I think he’s tried. He had a job at Waste Management all lined up but he forgot to go to the interview.
Well then, he’s crazy. Tell him to see a shrink.
He’d never see a shrink. Are you kidding me!
No, I don’t suppose he would. Art, you sure know how to pick ‘em!
I eat my eggs and bacon and watch Rita work the line. She looks tired, exhausted. She looks like someone who left this place years ago, her eyes have left this place, but her body is still here. Her body is trying to figure out how to get to that place her eyes already escaped to. Her eyes went somewhere—south, perhaps—but she remains here waiting and waiting for something—for me perhaps, for her chances to up turn, for an opportune moment to quietly slip away when no one is looking. In the meantime she goes about her work and complains about the work, the customers, her tips…
I wish these idiots…
They’re idiots now?
Now? Where have you been Art? They’ve always been idiots and I wish they…
What?
I wish they knew the old fifteen percent rule. Unfortunately none of them know how to tip. The best I do these days is ten percent. A person can hardly live on fifteen percent, much less ten percent. I’m dying in this job.
Then get a new one. You could work anywhere you want.
Oh? And how would I manage that? Remember I don’t even have a diploma.
But you have experience. You have tons of experience.
That and arch support will get you nowhere fast in today’s economy. Believe you me, Art. And I would appreciate it if you figured out how to talk to me without belittling me.
Can I have another coffee?
Are you going to tip me?
Fifteen percent.
All right, then, you can have another coffee. But some folks come in here sit all day drinking my coffee and walk out leaving two dollars to cover the cup of coffee, no tip included.
Don’t worry about it Rita. Things are bound to improve. It’s only an unlucky streak is all.
But I’m tired of being unlucky. All day I watch people come and go and I can’t help feel they’re all luckier than me.
That’s not true and you know it.
It is true, Art. They get to come and go as they please but I’m stuck working all day in this shithole going nowhere fast.
You have me.
Like I say, I’m unlucky. And I did nothing to deserve it.
Smile honey. A smile is the beginning of a winning streak, I promise you.
She looks at me like she wants to kill me, then she crosses her eyes and sticks out her tongue.
I’m sorry, Rita.
It’s OK.
I love you, Rita.
I love you too, I suppose.
No supposing about it.
No, let me suppose, Art. It’s all I have. It’s my fifteen percent margin, this supposing.
Rita, hang in there. Business is bound to upturn. I promise.
You and your promises, Art. That’s all you have are promises. But you never seem able to deliver.
I look at my watch and smile at Rita.
Well, darling…
Well?
Am I going to see you tonight?
Not tonight, Art.
Oh, come on baby.
I don’t feel like it tonight. I’m sorry, Art. I’m tired.