“I’m being efficient! And, anyway, the closet stunt was Helen’s doing.” We always got blamed for each other’s mistakes because we were inseparable. A couple of weeks before, when our shift had gotten slow, she’d told me to find Jon-Jon and ask him if he’d fixed the door to the linen closet. I’d known she was up to something.
When Jon-Jon had opened the closet, Helen jumped out and yelled, “Wah!” He’d fallen back on the floor and clutched his heart immediately; a man with his kind of dumpy little body was totally a candidate for sudden cardiac arrest. Luckily we hadn’t been responsible for his untimely death . . . yet.
“You were part of it,” he said.
“No, I really wasn’t.”
Helen came bouncing through the kitchen. “Dude, you have flags up on, like, every one of your tables. People have no dignity.”
“I’m going, I’m going.”
Jon-Jon was right. Tortilla soup should not be served via pitcher, but if anyone asked, I would say it was part of the charm at Blackbird’s.
After our shift slowed down, I pulled a little closet caper of my own. I knew when Helen went on break that she’d sometimes make out with Luc in the linen closet. They’d been sucking each other’s faces off for about six months. He was a French dude who had flunked out of some hoity-toity pastry school in France and now was stuck at Blackbird’s, making pies for the masses. He was actually surprisingly proud of his job, despite the fact that he made minimum wage. His pie technique was incredible, and he had the freedom to make every kind of pie he wanted. Somehow, this aroused Helen. I tried not to judge, but I could barely watch Helen’s face whenever Luc said anything. He pronounced her name Huh-leen, and every time he said it, she practically had an orgasm.
The first time they met, he’d kissed her hand and whispered in her ear, “You and I would make beautiful babies.” Helen had turned into a pile of goo, and she was Luc’s ever since. He’d helped both of us get hired at Blackbird’s—I was between careers, and Helen hadn’t landed a substantial acting gig in eight years—so I just rolled my eyes and kept my mouth shut whenever I saw Helen throwing him seductive looks.
But when I swung the linen closet open, it was just Helen sitting on a stool, puffy-eyed and holding a bottle of vodka she’d clearly swiped from Jon-Jon’s famous Bloody Mary bar.
“What are you doing?”
“Luc broke up with me.” She sniffled.
“What? Just now? Why?”
“He was rambling something in half French, half En-glish, so I didn’t catch it all. Something about a ship running its course, and overripe peaches. He was smiling the whole time, that bastard.” She took a swig and hiccupped.
“How do you know he was breaking up with you?”
“Because he said, ‘Huh-leen, it was a beautiful think, you and me, but eet is over.’?”
She unintentionally made Luc’s accent sound Mexican, and it made me laugh. “I’m sorry, but honestly, you’re better off. I mean, those bright-pink tennis shoes and that permanent five-o’clock shadow . . . come on. I bet he wears Speedos.”
“He does!” She burst into tears.
I bent and hugged her around her shoulders. “Don’t worry, babe; there will be other, less stinky fish in the sea.”
She straightened up. “He smells, doesn’t he?”
“Like body odor mixed with pie dough. It’s offensive.”
“I need a rebound.” Her eyes shot open and she raised her index finger to the closet ceiling. “That’s it, we’re going out tonight.”
I shook my head. “I’m too tired, and you shouldn’t be going out tonight, either. It won’t make you feel any better. The first night of a breakup should be about Chinese food, ice cream, and bad TV.”
“I’ll let you dye my hair tomorrow,” she offered.
“Wait. Really?”
Helen nodded like an excited puppy.
“Ugh. Deal.” I had been contemplating going to cosmetology school, but I didn’t have enough people to practice on. Helen changed her hair color after every breakup—it was currently a pale shade of purple—but she’d never let me near her hair before.
“I’m thinking chartreuse,” she said, rising from her stool.
“Chartreuse will look great on you!” I gave her a bone-crushing hug of gratitude. “We’ll get some Manic Panic tomorrow. So, where do you want to go tonight?”
“Ladies!” Jon-Jon barked. “Out of the closet. Do I have to remind you that this is a place of business?”
We peeked our heads around the door. “We weren’t doing anything, Jon-Jon. We just wanted a break in peace,” I said.
“Well, take your break outside. You two are getting phased for the night.” He made a circular motion with his hand in front of his face, which was the symbol for, Wrap up your tables because you’re going home.
“Thank you, Jesus!” Helen shouted. Once the rush was over, every waiter wanted to get phased. You didn’t really make any money after the dinner rush, and the waiters who had to stay late ended up doing boring side work, like filling up saltshakers and ketchup bottles. It sucked.
“Did we decide where we’re going tonight?” I asked Helen while we wiped down our empty tables.
“How about Villains?”
I gave her a wide grin. “Perfect.”
2. Muse
Villains was an unpretentious tavern with live music about five blocks from our apartment in the Arts District of Downtown LA, where Helen and I had been living together for the last eight years. I’d heard of other people’s friendships imploding after they became roommates with their BFFs, but Helen and I were always joined at the hip. We’d known each other since we were little kids growing up in the same suburban cul-de-sac, and we’d been together through twelve years of grade school and four years of college at UCLA. If we had any problem, it was that we were maybe too comfortable with the idea of becoming spinsters together.
Helen loved Villains because, deep down, I was pretty sure her Plan B was to become some rock god’s muse. Whenever we’d go to a concert, she’d stand in front of the crowd near the stage and sway back and forth in an attempt to get the attention of the lead singer. It wasn’t subtle. I’d usually sit at the bar and watch the spectacle from afar.
When it came to dating, I always waited to be approached. I’d had boyfriends, but nothing had lasted longer than a year. I had a way of turning every date into a yearlong relationship instead of getting out early, when I knew it wouldn’t last. I just couldn’t get into the one-night-stand scene. But Helen had no rules about anything. I envied her for that.
After our shift ended, we went back to our apartment and peeled off a layer of tortilla soup, got ready, then headed to Villains around ten. I was wearing my party uniform—black blouse and jeans—and Helen was in a red, high-waisted, A-line skirt and sleeveless white blouse with platform heels. She always looked way hipper than me.
Once inside the bar, she shouted, “Damn it!” I followed her gaze to the stage where an all-girl band was setting up.
“Bummer,” I said.
“Let’s leave, Charlie. This is lame.”
“No, I like it here. It’s so close to our apartment. Don’t make me go back out there.”