Diary of a Waitress by Carolyn Meyer

Author:Carolyn Meyer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Astra Publishing House
Published: 2015-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Sunday, August 15th

IT SHOULDN’T HAVE BOTHERED ME, BUT SEEING GUS having his picture taken with whomever she was took a lot of the fun out of the fiesta. I knew it was all in my imagination that he was interested in me. Like Phil Rayburn being my soul mate, just because we both plan to be journalists. And what do I have in common with Gus Becker, anyway?

So I had no wish to go back to the fiesta yesterday evening. The other girls looked at me like I was crazy, and finally, after we’d served the passengers on the five o’clock train and the customers who came later for dinner, I changed my mind and said I’d go. Cordelia and Maggie were excited, wanting to get there as fast as possible. I was glad to hang back and walk with Emmy. It’s possible to spend long stretches of time with Emmy without either one of us saying a word.

“You’ve probably been wondering about Carl,” she said after a while. “Well, I stopped writing to him, just like I said I would. I figure he’ll catch on pretty soon, and he’ll either write to me like he promised, or he won’t. So far he hasn’t, and so far it hasn’t mattered to me. Not so much.”

Then she asked me about Gus, and if I’ve seen him again. It was as though she’d read my mind.

I shrugged in what I intended to be an I-don’t-givea-darn manner. “I’ve seen him around, if that’s what you mean. He was at the fiesta this morning, but he didn’t see me.” I neglected to mention the girl in the flowered hat, and I was glad Emmy didn’t ask any more questions.

It was late evening; the sun was down, the sky a deepening purple, stars just starting to come out. Electric lights had been strung up along the main streets. People were strolling, enjoying the evening, most of them heading toward the big tent and the sound of music.

Cordelia and Maggie had saved us seats. Musicians were playing on a low platform in the middle of the tent— fiddle, guitar, clarinet, saxophone, accordion, mandolin, drums—and the dance floor was already crowded.

Suddenly the music stopped. The fiddler swept off his hat and began to make his way among the dancers. “Get out your dimes, boys!” he announced, and the men dug in their pockets and tossed a dime or two into the hat. When the fiddler decided he’d collected enough, the music started up again, and the couples resumed dancing.

Cordelia, in a yellow silk dress, long ropes of fake pearls, a band around her hair with a feather in it, cupid’s-bow lips, and eye shadow, was the center of attention. It wasn’t just the boys who were staring—the local girls were, too, suspicious and envious and somewhat disapproving. You just don’t see flappers in Belén, and Cordelia really stands out. I wished I wasn’t wearing my boring old middy blouse, but even if I owned flapper clothes, I probably wouldn’t wear them here.

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