It was the summer after her first year in college—she was a history major—when she came home and worked at her father’s restaurant, waiting tables and smoking cigarettes out back, that she met Jacky.
“Can I bum one off you?” he said, coming up from behind and making her jump, because she wasn’t supposed to be out there, her father didn’t know she smoked and there’d be hell to pay if he found out. Her father didn’t spend much time at the restaurant anymore—neither of her parents did, they mostly pottered around at home, busy with gardening and TV and whatever else—but she was still paranoid. “Left mine at home.”
She pulled the pack from her apron pocket and passed it to him, more out of surprise than anything else. No one had spoken much to her since she’d started—she was the boss’s daughter, after all, and a stranger—and she wasn’t sure how to react to the friendly face.
“Thanks,” he said. “Appreciate it.”
“Yeah, of course.”
He stood beside her, leaning back against the green Dumpster, one sneaker propped up against the metal side. He wasn’t handsome, but there was something about his face that made her want to look at him more, something about the way he moved. He had a slip-slidey way about him, like a crab running on the beach, sidling along in the sand.
“I’m Jacky,” he said. He didn’t hold his hand out for her to shake, which she liked. Too many people had weak grips and sweaty palms, and she’d always want to wipe her hand on her skirt afterward but couldn’t, because they’d think she was rude. “I wash the dishes.”
“I know.”
“And you’re Gloria, right?” he asked, peering at her sideways with his bright eyes. “One of the waitresses?”
“Yeah.”
If she were a different girl, she’d have something to say. She’d comment on his watch, or the weather, or the way it always smelled so bad out here, especially during the summer, no matter how much boiling water they poured on the concrete pad—something, dammit, anything to keep the words going. Or if she were beautiful, like her mother, she wouldn’t have to say much at all. He could look at her, and that would be enough. But she could only be herself, and Gloria had heard one of the girls at school say that ugly girls had to try harder with guys, and the girl had meant it as a joke but it was true. But Gloria couldn’t think of a thing to do, she wasn’t beautiful and she wasn’t clever, so they just stood beside each other, taking long inhales of their cigarettes and blowing clouds of smoke at the sky.
Three days later, Jacky invited her on a date.
“Why’d you ask me out?” she’d questioned. This was after the movie he’d taken her to, something about spaceships and aliens that she didn’t understand. You have to see the first two, Jacky had said, shushing her when she asked questions. He’d bought her a popcorn and a Coke, and the butter had been greasy on her hands. She’d thought about licking her fingers, but Jacky had been watching her, so she’d used a napkin instead.
“Why wouldn’t I?” he’d said. “I was surprised that a girl like you didn’t already have a boyfriend.”
Her cheeks were hot.
He took her out again the next weekend, to dinner at a nice restaurant, where it seemed like the entire staff stopped by the table to chat. She’d never met anyone like Jacky, who remembered everyone’s name even if they’d only met once three years before, who could recall details and dates and events everyone else had forgotten. And he was always asking questions—about a person’s work, their school, their family. People loved that, to talk about themselves. Later, she realized that Jacky saved information like a squirrel saves nuts for the winter—in case he needed it later.
“Did you used to work here?” she asked at dinner. This was after one of the prep cooks had left their table, wiping his hands on his apron and grinning. He’d been trading dirty jokes with Jacky for the last five minutes, while Gloria picked silently at her salad.
“No. Why do you ask?”
“They all know you.”
“This is the first time I’ve met any of them,” he said, smiling a little. “But now we’re all friends.”
*
Jacky collected friends like some people collect coins, or stamps. All the time, he was on, like a stage actor, and some people were repelled by that, sometimes all that energy came across as disingenuous, but most people were sucked right into his orbit. And she was too—charmed by his stories and jokes, and he always knew the right questions to ask, the way to turn a conversation around so the other person felt like the center of the world. He was made to work in sales, or politics, not washing dishes in a restaurant, but when she told him so he shrugged, and smiled.