Chapter Six - The Truth About Anticodons and Freight Elevators
“What do you think?” Gus cocked his head to the side and gave me a look that I have only ever seen before in the beady eyes of a tenacious chipmunk that once stole an entire pop-tart from me at the top of Angel’s Landing. I tried to shush him without taking my eyes off Paul, who was rattling of a complex sequence of proteins that were definitely not in the book nor in my notes. But he would not be shushed. “Come on, I did them myself this afternoon! I think they’re my best work yet.”

I sighed and looked at him, after all, he had taped the last study session for me. “What?” Paul stopped talking long enough to shoot me a dark look and I shivered. How is it that he missed Gus’ entire soliloquy and yet heard my single, whispered syllable?

“My highlights!” Running a hand through his black mop, I thought I saw a glint of something. I squinted as he continued, “I did some dark red with a touch of cinnamon and just a few streaks of blue for balance. Looks totally natural, right?” Right. So natural it looks exactly like his real hair color.

“It looks great!!” I scribbled on the top of his notebook that except for the helpful phrase - No backpacks allowed in test!!! - was empty. I even drew a little smiley face for him before returning to my own crowded sheet.

He waited a whole 30 seconds, which is forever in Gus time, before leaning over my shoulder again, “I think I’m going to amp it up a notch this weekend though.”

“Go wild.” I know I sound harsh but seriously – protein synthesis is occurring this very second!

“Yeah, ok, I think I will. What are your plans this weekend?”

“I have to work Friday night and I’m going home Saturday.” My heart raced at the glorious image of home that popped into my mind. The bright sunlight streamed down on my immaculate little house, the dog chasing the kids on the lawn (even though we don’t have a dog – mom says the last thing she needs is one more hiney to clean up after), and an angelic host serenading the returning wanderer with a heavenly LAAAAA! If you’ve ever been away from home for more than a few days, you know exactly what I’m talking about. The very word “home” takes on mythic proportions, symbolizing all that is clean in laundry, full in refrigerators, and, of course, right in the world.

Paul dropped his book loudly on the front table, indicating the study session was finished. As usual he left no time for questions and was already packing his stuff up, adamant that he would not stay one minute longer than the allotted hour.

Sighing, I looked down at my half-completed notes. “Gus, what’s an anticodon?” Looking down at his empty sheet for inspiration, he doodled a star with rays shooting out of it. It was apparent he didn’t know either. I stood up, chucking my books in my bag with the intention of chasing Paul down the hallway before he could leave the building. I was envisioning him cuffed to a metal chair in a dank room lit only by a single bare bulb swinging above our heads.

Me: Paul, give me the anticodon!
Paul: I won’t, you can’t make me divulge anything!
Me: But isn’t that what they’re paying you for?
Paul: Hah! Foolish girl! The paltry sum they pay me each month is just enough to remind me of my bitterness that is increasing at a rate directly proportional to my student loans!
Me: Then do it for truth’s sake! Share your knowledge to better the world.
Paul: Hah! I learned a long time ago no one really cares about the truth. That is why I am secretly working on biological agents of destruction in my dorm room.
Me: Just give me a clue, Paul. Please – the entire fate of the western world, or at least my biology grade which in my mind is as important as the entire fate of the western world, is at stake here! What is an anticodon??
Paul: Hah! You think I know! Apparently the only thing I know in your silly daydream is how to repeat the word ‘hah’ and end every thought with an exclamation point! Hah! Hah-hah!!

“You okay?” Gus was peering into my eyes as if checking for an alien possession. “I think you were talking to yourself.”

Shaking off the vestiges of Paul’s insane laughter in my head, I stood to go. “I’m fine, thanks.”

Tentatively, he asked, “Do you hear voices?” You can’t handle the truth! Hah!!

“Oh, no,” I replied as he sighed with relief. “I just hear one voice and I think it’s telling me to… steal your soul.” His eyes bugged out and he took a step back. I closed my eyes and held up a finger. “Ooops! My bad. It’s saying the Steelers will win the Super Bowl. Sorry. It talks with its mouth full sometimes.” Grabbing my bag, I headed for the door smacking my head and repeating, “Shut up! Shut up! Stop talking to me! You’re insane – the Packers are going all the way this year!”

Thinking how funny I am, I threw open the door and promptly collided with Paul who was standing right outside the door, talking to a fellow student.

“Aaagh!” He yelled, as I slammed right into him. Or maybe it was the girl he was talking to. Or maybe it was the voices in my head.

“Oh, wow! I’m so sorry,” I said as I picked up the book I’d knocked out of his arms.

Paul replied, “It’s fine. We were done here anyways.” The girl just shook her head and walked away.

Paul started to walk away too until I called out, “Wait! I have a question!”

Calling dryly over his shoulder, “If you’re going to ask me if you should change your major, I definitely think that’s a good idea.”

I ran to catch up with him, jogging a little to maintain his pace. “No! Wait! You don’t understand. I don’t want to change my major. I’m going to be a neurologist, you see. It’s what I’ve always wanted, ever since I was a little kid and shaved off Ken’s hair to prep him for a tumor removal.”

Without slowing down a bit he retorted, “While I’m sure Barbie was very relieved to discover that the source of Ken’s vacuous dinner conversation wasn’t just an empty skull like she’d assumed all those years, perhaps you would be better suited to something in the research area of neurology. Say, as a subject in a clinical trial.”

I followed him up the stairs, my voice getting louder. “Wait! I am completely serious about this. I’m willing to do whatever it takes.”

He stopped at a door that had his name, along with four others, taped to the door. Turning to me, he replied, “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve heard that? Of the thousands of you little overachieving ants that stream into my classes each year, a third of you will drop in the first week.”

“But I’m still here,” I pointed out helpfully.

“Another third will fail the first test and then either drop or continue to fail the class.”

“That won’t be me, I swear! I’ve been studying like crazy! Besides, I have never in my life failed a class.”

“Of the remaining third, maybe half of those will get accepted to the program. And half again of those will actually get into a medical school. And half of those will either drop out or burn out before they ever see their second year of residency.” I swallowed as he stared hard at me. “And neurology is the hardest program to get into as well as the one with highest failure rate. So forgive me if I’m not overly enthused about your little dream.”

There was an awkward pause as he opened his door and I still didn’t leave. “What’s an anticodon?”

“We covered this tonight already,” he muttered and tossed his bag into an uncomfortable-looking orange plastic chair that only had three legs.

“I didn’t get it, please tell me again.” I opened up my notebook and flipped to the appropriate spot on my notes to show him I was serious.

“A specific sequence of three nucleotides in tRNA which are complimentary to a codon for a specific amino acid in a mRNA.” I scribbled madly in my notebook, trying to get it all down so I wouldn’t have to ask him to repeat it. Watching me with an amused eye he continued, “That’s the exact definition from the book. Chapter 7, page 189.”

My face heated up as I realized he now thought I hadn’t even read the chapter. Which of course I have. Twice. “I know that. It’s right next to the picture of the three-pronged end of the tRNA.”

“True enough,” he nodded.

“But I don’t really understand what they do! For instance, why are there so many redundant codons that code for exactly the same amino acid?”

“It’s a mistake.”

“Huh?” I said stupidly. Was he actually saying the all-mighty textbook was wrong? That would definitely throw a wrench into my study plans.

Sitting back in his chair and tapping his fingers together, he stared thoughtfully at me leaning in the doorway. “Actually, it’s to prevent against the inevitable mistakes. If there were only one codon sequence for each protein then the chance of a mutation, which as you know could be the difference between survival and failure, would greatly increase. Not even Nature is perfect.”

“But what about the proteins for which there are only one codon?”

“That’s just the way it is,” he said with finality, staring at me over the top of his glasses.

I waited for something more but he turned back to his desk, flipping his computer on. “Okay, then.” I paused another second. Still nothing. “Thanks.” I turned to leave. Even I know when to give up sometimes.

I was almost out of earshot when I heard him snark, “Okay?” Slowly walking back into his range of sight, I crossed my arms and waited. Raising an eyebrow at me he continued, “Are you going to let me get away with that?”

“What do you expect me to do? My psychic abilities have failed me so I’ll just have to take your word for it. You’re the teacher.”

“I don’t care who I am.” He turned suddenly in his chair, the loud screech raising all the hairs on the back of my neck. “If you really want to succeed, don’t ever accept that answer from anyone!” He pointed at me, his measured voice rising, “When people tell you ‘that’s just the way it is’ it either means they don’t know and won’t admit it or they know but don’t want to take the time to tell you. And it’s your job to not let them get away with it! If they know, wring the knowledge out of them! If they don’t know, then find out! Do the work. The answers are all out there somewhere.”

“You can’t mean all the answers,” I replied tartly, wanting to be right about something. “There are some things we just don’t know.”

“Not knowing something and something being unknowable are two very different things. Never confuse the two,” he shot back.

“Well what about faith? Aren’t there some things we just need to take in faith and not question?” I hadn’t intended to take the argument in this direction but away it went anyhow.

Gripping the worn-out knees of his trousers with both hands, he leaned forward intently. “If you want to discuss this in terms of ‘faith’ then fine. Alma says that he who exercises faith, among other things, that, ‘unto such it is given to know the mysteries of God; yea, unto such it shall be given to reveal things which never have been revealed.’” I tried to keep my jaw off the floor as he finished. “Alma 26:22.” Paul, biology G.A., also known as Paul, Evil Incarnate is LDS? I can’t believe it. “Faith is a precursor to knowing. You have to have faith that the answers exist or why would you bother looking for them?” I was stunned speechless and he knew it. Throwing his bag off the wobbly chair, he motioned me over. “Let’s talk anticodons.”

………

Industrial dish soap. Fresh bread. Chopped onions. A recently struck match. Lilies. I paused with my eyes closed, one hand resting on the cold, steel exterior of the walk-in freezer and just took in the smells. I opened my eyes to see a dewy handprint, the result of my warm flesh and the icy door. Still cloaked in invisibility, I watched the ordered insanity around me. Ryan almost brushed my elbow as he rushed by, apron drenched in blood-like cocktail sauce, the victim of a tragic seafood accident. A few feet to the left of me, Jon was holding a small blowtorch over a ramekin and tapping the wooden heel of his clog to a melody only he could hear. In front of me, Yvonne snapped her gum impatiently as Calvin stalled out with a large rack of plates, blocking the aisle.

“Chickie!” Trinity unmasked me. “You’re here!” Ryan, Yvonne, Jon and Calvin turned to stare at me as I stood, specter-like, in the midst of their activity where I hadn’t been mere seconds before. “Get the lead out, girl! Tonight’s going to be crazy.” I followed her back to the locker room. As we swapped out jeans and t-shirts for uniforms, she filled me in. “We’re booked solid tonight. VIP parties in both back rooms, half the floor already reserved, and as if that wasn’t enough, tonight’s band night.”

“Band night?” I had my slacks and shirt on, and was now scratching at a dried tomato stain on my green apron.

“Yeah, once a month in the loft upstairs, where the bar is, Kafé Neo’s hosts a local band. Draws mostly college students for the cheap drinks. It’s the first one of the school year, so it should be packed.” I watched Trinity line her eyes even darker and then perform the ritual nose-ring relocation. “Tips should be hot tonight though, as long as you manage to stay on your feet!”

I nodded and pulled out the dreaded tie, the tomato stain looking slightly worse for all the attention I’d given it. Yvonne walked in, going straight to the mirror. “Where you stationed, Trin?”

“I’ve got all of Zone A tonight, you?”

Yvonne whistled through her teeth, “Man, what a night to have a whole zone! Nice tips though.” They both nodded slightly, trying not to smear their makeup. “I’m on the party in the Aphrodite room. Only 20 guests but it’s Russian service.” They both groaned loudly as she continued, “Still though, at least I’m not on the party in the Zeus room. It’s the quarterly meeting of the Board of Trustees for the University.”

“Ha, ha! Pity the fool!” Trinity mocked, making her best Mr. T face in the mirror, which ended up looking surprisingly good if you can picture a Goth Mr. T in drag. “They are the worst!”

“Why?” They both turned to look at me. Because of course, I’m on the party in the Zeus room.

“Is that how the kids are wearing them these days?” Yvonne raised an eyebrow.

“Check her out – she’s a total girl scout!” Trinity giggled. “Chickie! I didn’t know you could make a tourniquet.”

I had given up trying to tie the tie around my neck; I couldn’t see the mirror anyhow. So I’d decided to try it around my leg, thinking I could at least see it there and then slip it off and around my neck. At the moment I’ve got my foot propped up on the counter, one end of the tie wrapped twice around my thigh, causing my slacks to bunch weirdly and expose like an acre of white, hairy leg (oh, please, like you shave every day), and the other end held tightly in my teeth. Ever done something that seemed like a really good idea in your head and turned out to be infinitely more complicated in real life? Yeah.

Before I could defend myself, or even untangle myself, I heard a familiar staccato rap on the door and footsteps. “Oh, lovely ladies!” Lucien cried expansively as he walked in the room. Can you guess what happened next? Oh, I’m sure you can. I did a one-legged hop, trying to look over my shoulder, just as Trinity turned in the opposite direction. As we collided, she grabbed onto my tie for balance but instead teetered backwards into Yvonne who, blindsided, lost her balance and crashed into the lockers. I might have saved us even still had I had both feet on the ground. But of course I don’t. Trinity went down and swept my last leg out from underneath me, screaming as I crashed down on top of the both of them.

“Now that’s hot.” He laughed as my face burned. Giving the tie up for lost; I tried vainly to wriggle my way to freedom, ending up nose-to-toe with Lucien’s heavy black motorcycle boots. “Hey beautiful, can I help you?”

Beautiful? My throat suddenly full of phlegm, I tried to choke out an answer as he leaned over, holding out a hand. Which went right over my head to Yvonne. Idiot! Of course he isn’t talking to me! My face darkened a shade further as, now free of Yvonne, Trinity and I untangled ourselves, which unfortunately involved an excessive amount of rolling around on the grimy tile floor. Once we were all upright again and all ties, shoes and apron strings had been returned to their rightful owners, Lucien walked around the bench, wrapping his arms around Trinity and Yvonne. “I must thank you girls for the most fabulous thing that has happened to me all day.” Stepping back, he looked them over from head to toe, running a hand through his artistically disheveled hair and smiling just enough to show one heart-stopping dimple before continuing, “Now, I don’t see any serious injuries. So who has an owie that needs kissing?”

“Ugh!” Yvonne yelled, pushing him out of her way as she stormed out of the dressing room.

“Don’t you know the human mouth is a filthy hole?” Trinity said reasonably. “Right Chickie?” She quickly tied my tie and slung it around my neck adding, “She would know. She’s a regular girl scout.” With that, she grabbed my arm and, sidestepping Lucien, ejected us both into the heat and noise of the kitchen.

George was already in full manic mode by the time I caught up with him in the Zeus room. “NotCara!” Zing! He rocketed past me flinging delicately folded napkins on the tables as he went. “It’s just us - Leann called in sick! (Of course!)” Zing! He flew back past me again, slinging silverware. “Party of 50. Buffet.” Zing! If he goes any faster, he’s going to sprout wings. “Be here any freakin’ minute!” Zing! Crash! Scream! Queen Mary, amidst a profusion of very unqueenly language, picked herself up from the floor. She’d been coming in the door with extra silverware just as George had been running out to get it. Have you ever heard an entire tray of silverware crash to the floor? It sounds remarkably like glass shattering. A lot of glass shattering. Staff came running from all directions and I noticed that the first person Yvonne looked at was me. I smiled; satisfied that for once I was not the source of the disaster.

“That is like the tenth -,” Queen Mary bit her lip in an effort to restrain herself.

“Freakin’?” George supplied.

“Freaking accident tonight,” she finished. “And it’s only six p.m.!” Waving everyone away, she pulled her crocheted sweater back onto her round shoulders and started limping back to the front desk. “What a night this is going to be!”

During this interlude I had been hurriedly scooping silverware and placing it back on the tray to take it back to the kitchen. The last fork retrieved, I stood, groaning as I lifted it (all with my back, none with my knees, sorry OSHA) and perched it straight out from my stomach. George’s eyes bugged out of his head as he dropped a napkin he was refolding and rushed over to me. “Don’t you know how to carry a freakin’ tray?”

Right. All that waitressing experience I said I had? “No.”

“You’re gonna kill yourself. Here.” He pulled a metal stand out from behind the door, just like the one Yvonne had grabbed for me my first night here, and with a flick of his wrist set it up. “Put that tray on the tray jack.” So it’s called a tray jack? Good to know! One of those things I might have known - had I ever been trained. I complied. “Now go down on one knee next to the tray and put one hand in the center bottom of the tray.” I did so. “Good, now keeping your back completely straight, stand up slowly. You can steady the tray with your free hand if you want to.” My knee quaked a little and then I was standing, looking officially like a real waitress for the first time since I was hired as one.

“Whee!” I exulted. I am powerful! I am Master of the Tray!

“Bravo,” George said dryly. “Take a couple of practice walks up and down the room and then help me finish this silverware!”

“Do you want me to take this back to the kitchen and give it to Calvin?”

“What?” George screamed. Have I mentioned he’s rather high strung? “There’s no freakin’ time! We were supposed to be set 30 minutes ago!”

I squatted, my thighs burning more than in any step class I’ve ever taken, and slid the tray back onto the tray jack. “But these have been all over the floor!” As if he didn’t hear me, he grabbed a fistful of forks and started placing them on the table. “Is this sanitary?” I gasped as he returned for another load.

“Look, I’ll finish up in here. Go grab the dessert cart from the walk-in fridge and start setting the dessert table okay?”

Does this count as my first ethical dilemma in the workplace? Back in the kitchen, I ran into Calvin. “Do you have any extra clean silverware?”

He stared back at me with those wide, unblinking eyes. “Silverware? I adore silverware. Simply adore it.” Well, it was worth a shot. Mental note: wash my own utensils before eating here again.

By the time Queen Mary waltzed in three hours later, I’d forgotten all about the silverware in a haze of wobbly trays (it’s harder than it looks!), an entire platter of olives stuffed with goat cheese gone missing (and a suspiciously large, dripping handbag), and an unexpected run on carrot cake (who would ever eat carrot cake when there are three kinds of cheesecake to choose from?). Her spiky bangs obscuring her eyes, which were shockingly blue tonight, she practically oozed exhaustion. “Can you stay late?” She plopped heavily into a chair and ate a cluster of red grapes someone had left on the table.

Despite no breaks at all, I was still running high on crazy adrenaline. “Sure, why? This party’s almost done.” A few older men in expensive suits still sat talking quietly at one table but the rest of the room had cleared out.

“Here are your share of the tips tonight by the way,” she reached into her pocket and I got excited. With just George and I, we should be raking it in!

“This is it?” I frowned at the tiny wad of ones she handed me. I’d gotten twice this much Wednesday night from half the number of people!

Sighing, she said a little too loudly, “Sorry! This group is a bunch of tightwads, if you couldn’t already tell by the general state of affairs at the University!” She looked over at the old men but her comment had either missed the mark or fallen on deaf ears as no one even looked up. “Anyhow, Lucien’s drowning upstairs. He just called down for another five racks of glasses. Things are just getting started up there and we’ve probably already got 100 crammed in.”

“Alright.”

“When you’ve done that, come back down here for your dinner break and then you can help Trin cover her zone.”

“Okay,” I stood, my feet suddenly uncooperative after their brief rest. I headed to the kitchen to round up the glasses.

Have you ever been in a freight elevator before? Neither have I and except for scary movies, I’ve never really seen one either. The one going from the back of the kitchen to the loft upstairs is the real deal. So real I don’t know how to use it. The first problem is there’s not one but two sets of doors. And they close in opposite directions! And if that’s not hard enough to figure out, apparently there’s some kind of protocol here – at least that’s what I gather from the “Warning! Trained Personnel Only!” sign with a cute little pen drawing of severed fingers, complete with inked-in blood.

Just then a loud buzzer sounded and I heard an angry voice shout down at me from above. “Where are my glasses? Quit tying up the elevator! Somebody get me my glasses!”

“Close Sesame!” I waved my hands at the doors, wondering if they were motion sensitive. Nothing. Ah, well. I had to try something!

Ryan popped his head inside my corrugated metal prison, “Whatcha waiting for? Glasses are loaded – get going!”

“How?” I tried to sound dignified but it’s hard when I’d just been caught trying to use an incantation I learned off a cartoon when I was eight.

“Ah!” His eyes lit up and I could tell he was amused. “Hang on.” Reaching inside, he hooked his fingers in the grate of the inside door and pulled down on it with all his might. The bars came screeching down like the furies of hell before clanging shut and effectively locking me in. Next he tugged a black strap on the outside doors, pulling them together with a dull thud. Did I say this place was a prison? More like a metal tomb. As soon as the doors shut, the elevator lurched upwards in a completely disconcerting manner that made me wonder if it was being powered by monkeys with ADHD. The lights flickered on and off during the short journey and I was relieved when it ended suddenly even though it sent a rack of glasses crashing into the back of my legs.

“It’s about time!” I heard his voice before I saw him. He quickly yanked the doors open and threw the gate up saving me again from actually learning how to do it myself. “Come on, come on!” Sweaty and obviously irritated, he grabbed two racks and started briskly off down a dark hallway. I followed him as best I could with another rack, stumbling over the uneven carpet and through a swinging saloon-style door into…what?

I don’t know what I expected. I’ve never been in a bar before so I think I had some Hollywood image of glittering crystal, colorful bottles and Tom Cruise. This place was a tiny box crammed into the dimly lit corner of a tightly packed room, right next to the stage, which was taken over by a very loud band. I stacked the glasses in the corner by the wall and stood up. There was barely room for two of us behind the waist-high black counters that made the two remaining sides of the box and closed us in. As Lucien was occupied yelling at someone over the bar, I found my own way back to the elevator and picked up the remaining two racks. I grunted as I carried them back down the hallway but I didn’t want to have to make this trip any more times than I had to. As I backed through the door, I ran into Lucien (inevitable, really), bumping him into the counter and causing him to curse under his breath. Dropping the racks on top of the others, I turned to go.

“Where do you think you’re going?” There was an edge of panic to his voice and I stopped, turning around.

“Downstairs.”

“What?” he screamed over a loud guitar riff. I pantomimed walking back to the elevator and going downstairs. “Nooo!” he yelled although the only way I could tell this was by the expression on his face and the shape of his lips. Grabbing my shoulders and pulling me close he yelled into my ear, his breath warm on my neck causing all the little hairs to stand up. “You absolutely have to stay! I’m dying here!” He gestured to the bar and I could see people crowded around it at least five deep, all pushing and shouting at us.

“Mary told me to go back downstairs.” I shrugged helplessly.

“You can’t leave me here alone!” Glaring at me he grabbed a phone off the back wall, punching in a single digit and then waited, his back to the screaming mob, hand tapping anxiously on the mirrored wall. After what seemed like forever, while I stared uncomfortably at the throng who kept shouting orders at me despite my complete lack of action to help them, he finally got someone to pick up downstairs.

Yelling into the phone, “I’m keeping - ” He grabbed my arm, spinning me around to see my nametag. I saw his eyebrows shoot up briefly with surprise before he turned back to the wall to continue yelling, “I’m keeping her! No, I don’t care! I’m drowning here. No, she’s fine – she said she’d stay.” I what? “She says she doesn’t need a break!” Yes, I do! “Fine. Thanks.” He slammed the phone down before turning to me, “The queen says you’re to stay and help me.” As if that should be sufficient information, he turned back to the counter. After a second, he realized I hadn’t moved and turned back to me. “What?”

“I’m not supposed to be here!” The band ended their song with a tantric wail and started to walk off the stage.

“I already told you, Mary says it’s fine, they’ve got downstairs covered.” Loosening his tie, his words were measured and quiet as if he were reasoning with Calvin.

“No, I mean I think it’s, um, illegal.” People around the bar stared at me and I felt claustrophobic.

Squinting at me as if seeing me for the first time Lucien asked, “How old are you?”

“Seventeen,” I swallowed.

Groaning, his fingers bounced on the counter like water droplets on a grill. “Fine. Don’t touch the booze. You can handle the fountain drinks and the coffee. You can make coffee right?”

“Um,” I gulped. This was going from bad to worse. “I’ve never done it before,” I shrugged.

“What kind of idiot doesn’t know how to make coffee?” he growled, rhetorically I assume.

“Come on, man! I just want a beer!” A guy at the front of the counter banged his fist loudly as others yelled behind him.

The adrenaline was draining from my body and I suddenly felt very tired and, well, emotional. I turned away so Lucien wouldn’t see the obnoxiously girly tears creeping into my eyes when I felt his hand on my shoulder. I tried to explain, “I can’t help you. It’s just – well, I’ve never even been around coffee before. I’m sorry.”

Lucien’s eyes widened with shock as he threw up his hands. “What are you – Mormon or something?” My silence was answer enough. Throwing down his towel on the bar and grabbing his head he yelled, “I need help at the bar and they send me an underage Mormon?” I’m assuming that was rhetorical too. “Aaagh!”

“Yo!” the man at the bar yelled again, louder this time, “Have your little lover’s spat later okay and just get me a beer!”

Lucien snapped, slamming his hand down in front of the offensive guy, “You want a beer?” He spit in a cup then filled it up. “Here – it’s on the house.”

“Whatever, dude!” The guy grabbed it and took a large chug, laughing as he walked away but the incident seemed to settle the crowd for a minute.

With his fists clenched at his side he said quietly to me, “Okay. You’re all I’ve got to work with tonight so here’s what we’re going to do. You will take orders and make change.” He pointed to a steel lockbox on one counter. “Any fountain drinks or non-alcoholic drinks you will get, everything else pass to me.” I nodded as he continued, “As soon as it slows down I’m teaching you to make coffee. Until then, tell people we’re out. Got it?”

“Okay,” I squeaked.

“Now go!”

Grabbing my order pad and pen from my apron pocket I moved to the front of the bar. Everyone started yelling things out to me at once and I couldn’t get anything. “You have to form a line, please,” I called out but no one budged.

Lucien silenced the crowd with a glare, “You heard the girl! Form a line!” People gradually started shuffling into some semblance of a line in front of me and I took the first order. It was alcoholic so I passed it to Lucien, as was the next and the next and the next. It was quickly apparent that I was going to have to come up with a system. Spying a yellow sticky pad in a corner, I grabbed it and ripped the first paper in half, writing a one on the top piece and a one with the drink ordered on the bottom.

I handed the guy the top part, who looked at it oddly for a second and then stuck it to his shirt, proclaiming loudly, “I’m number one! I’m number one!” The bottom half I slid down the counter to Lucien. As the band took the stage again, I got into a groove with the numbers. After a while I noticed that they had taken on an iconic status as people were still wearing them even after they got their drinks. I laughed as a guy in a tight yellow t-shirt sauntered up to an attractive girl using the odd pickup line, “I’m lucky number seven, baby!” and pointing to his sticky note. To my surprise she giggled and replied, “And I’m lucky number nine…so I guess that makes us lucky, um, 18?” Okay, so her math is off but the numbers are definitely working!

To speed things up even more, I quickly counted out twenty dollars worth of small bills and change and, shoving them with the yellow pad in my apron, moved around to the front of the bar to take orders down the line. It worked like a charm and soon I had the line dispersed, all keeping an eye on Lucien who would flash the yellow number when the order was ready. Things finally settling down, I returned to the bar to hand Lucien the last stack of numbers. “This is it.”

He nodded, still frenzied. “Can you put two fingers of triple-sec in that glass and top that one with a splash of grenadine?” He quickly showed me how to measure the liquid against the side of the glass with my fingers. I nodded. Neither was alcoholic so I figured it was okay. We got in a system, me adding ice or seltzer or other ingredients on his command, he finishing them and then leaving me to distribute them to their rightful owners. Working quickly, we easily dispatched the last of the orders and then looked up, heaving a collective sigh.

After a few minutes of relative silence, he leaned back against the now empty glass racks. “Nice work with the numbers.”

“Thanks,” I tried not to blush or think about the implications of what I’d just done. Did I really just spend the last two hours serving drinks in a bar?

He nodded, smiling genuinely for the first time that evening, “Yeah, you really helped me out. You’re all right, C.C.” For a minute I couldn’t think what “C.C.” was supposed to mean – was that bar code for something? Seeing my confusion he asked, “Oh, is it all right if I call you C.C.? I just can’t say that name.” He stared pointedly at CaraCara. “I took a strict vow never to utter it aloud again.” He laughed and I realized he was making a joke. “You know, don’t want to bring down the curse of the evil eye or anything.”

“It’s fine,” I laughed. Cubic centimeters. My mind flashed back to my biology lab this morning. It seemed like weeks ago instead of hours.

The band finished for the night and Lucien tossed me a towel. “Let’s clean up and get out of here!” We made short work of the bar and quickly loaded the dirty glasses into the elevator. He stepped in, “Ready?” Just then the lights flickered out. “Agh! Piece of useless junk!” I heard him kick the wall. We waited a few seconds in the pitch-black silence as I hesitated in front of the yawning black hole. Laughingly he called out, “Take my hand.” The command was simple but I felt a strange twinge in my stomach as I reached out blindly in front of me. He caught my hand in his and helped me over the threshold.

“Now what?” My voice ricocheted off the metal walls, uncomfortably loud. I closed my eyes, realizing that he was still holding my hand. It’s the first time a guy has ever held my hand. Oh, I know he’s not holding it holding it. But still. I’m pink.

I felt him lean forward and close the doors and then a rush of air and a screech as the inside grate came down. “In the still of the night…” he sang loudly, his voice a little warbly but overall in tune.

“What are you doing?” I laughed and tried to pull my fingers out of his.

“No, no!” he gripped my hand tighter. “It’s tradition! We always sing in the elevator. Not only does it have great acoustics but it keeps the monster moving. The louder the better!”

Keeps the monster moving? I hadn’t even considered that it might stop moving. “Is that a possibility?”

“More like an inevitably,” he laughed. “Now, hurry up before she gets angry!”

I hesitated, “Can we sing something else?” Just then the cursed thing groaned to a stop.

“See? I told you to keep singing!” Lucien laughed. “And she only likes love songs. Come on, we’ve got to get her going again.” With that he jumped up, landing loudly on the metal floor, the noise ringing off the walls and mixing with the clinking of the glasses. The elevator groaned and shuddered.

“In the still of the night,” I added my voice to his, jumping in time with the song. “I held you, held you so tight…” On the third jump the elevator was back in action and we were down.

………

Hey Girl!
Where are you?? I haven’t heard from you in, like, forever. Check in tonight if you get this – IM me – I’ll be up late. I am so excited that you are coming home tomorrow! Although I won’t be much fun. I have to study for the SATs – aaaaaahhhh! You remember that nasty awful test that you sailed through like it was nothing? Yeah, well. Now I have to take it. Want to help me study? Want to take it for me? LOL!
Luvs,
Maura
- posted by Charlotte @ 2:57 PM