Almost As Good
I could see it just as it happened. That bright red splatter against the plate-glass window, the panic as the door burst open, and the customers—those still living—bursting out into the streets. The Moonlight Diner is kitty-cornered from my apartment building. From my third-floor unit, I can look down directly into its windows. It’s an attractive place with a retro feel, like a movie set. The chrome twinkles in the sun and at night, the light from inside casts long golden rectangles onto the pavement.
Despite the diner’s popularity, I am an infrequent visitor—only rarely do I crave a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich these days and I can cook perfectly well for myself—but I watch the Moonlight often and I feel like I know the place and its clientele.
You don’t suppose it was the cook? It might have been. He was very unpleasant to me the last time I was in, surly even, practically shoving me aside as he hauled in a carton of onions, papery skins littered along his path. Right through the dining room! My father would have fired the man on the spot had he done such a thing at the Excelsior. There’s a perfectly good loading entrance around the back. I see the cook heading out there all the time, smoking, alone or with others.
The police are here, on the verge of restoring order. Good luck to them. Their sirens flash and spin, reflected in that big front window. I hope none of the customers are involved. There are several to whom I am very attached. There’s Divorced Dad, who brings his small son in for pancakes every other weekend. The child is still young enough to require a booster seat and is not the tidiest of diners, but he is quite charming. There’s Young Love, as I call them, a young man who takes a lady of similar age here every Friday night. They always dress up and that first time, he was so nervous I could feel it from all the way up here. And what about Serious Writer? She’s no longer quite young, with her thick glasses and her notebooks. She sits in a booth by the window and writes all afternoon. I admire her dedication.
I dine alone now. It’s fine, I’m used to it. I’ve had so many unpleasant dining companions, particularly when I was away, I’ve come to prefer my solitary meals. My favorite dinner was my eleventh birthday party at the Excelsior. The staff put many little tables together to form one long one, right down the center of the room, decorated with flowers and balloons, and I sat at the head, wearing a tiara made out of tin foil. I barely remember my childhood friends, girls from my school or church or wherever—they faded away rather quickly afterward—but I’ll always remember the feast Papa made for me. I was an only child and not the easiest of children, I suppose. My mother died giving birth to me and it was always Papa and me, despite the inconvenience, and no one else.
But that supper! Cornish game hens and roasted potatoes, a salad! That vinaigrette was one of the first things I learned to make when I entered the kitchen as a young woman. And the most wonderful golden cake, with icing as white and frilly as a wedding dress, wheeled out on a tea cart under a great glass dome. Do people still have cake plates? It’s been years since I’ve seen one.
The EMTs have brought out the body. There is only one and I’m pretty sure it is the cook, no one else is that size. If I zoom in with my binoculars, I can see one of his shoes, black, blocky things, splotched with whatever he dropped while he was cooking. He must be dead, the sheet has been drawn over his face and there is no particular sense of urgency, no need to send him on for further medical attention. One of the waitresses has followed them out and she’s very upset. It’s Gayle, I remember her name tag and how her red hair catches the sun. She’s crying, her skin blotchy and pink, and the police have to restrain her, holding her back from crawling into the ambulance with the chef’s body. She’s a nice girl. I’m aware of what I look like and I know it takes people time to adjust. She always hides her repulsion quickly, behind a too-bright smile, which I appreciate.
The waiters at the Excelsior were like that too. Always charming and helpful, well-groomed and professional. I remember the first time I heard them talking among themselves, thinking they were alone. When my father and I weren’t around, the staff sounded just like ordinary people, leaning against the wall and complaining—they were tired, their feet hurt, they wanted a cigarette, they wanted to go home—and sometimes they complained about us. I thought everyone was entranced by candlelight and crystal, by the flourish of a lid from a dish, by the special kind of dining experience my father had created here; I thought everyone loved my father as much as I did, and I was wrong. I was so shocked, I hung around them listening all the time, mesmerized by their true voices. They must have thought I was a dreadful little snoop, but really, I just couldn’t wait to grow up and join them.
Teach me everything! That’s what I would have said if anyone had asked. Teach me how to chop an onion, time a steak, clean a fish, carve a swan out of an apple. Teach me how to polish silver until I could see my own small fierce face, still undamaged, reflected in the blade of a knife.
The cook here at the Moonlight was competent, but there was no passion, no love. At least, not for the food. His lettuce wilted and his pies were two days old. He was a careless man and he didn’t hide his tracks well enough. I could see what he was up to every time I walked through the door.
Would it surprise you to learn that I had no particular aptitude for restaurant life? I choked on the chemical steam that enveloped me when I opened the dishwasher, and I dropped things when I got nervous, which only made me more nervous. I had neither the attention span nor the charm to be a waiter. And my vinaigrette? I overloaded the food processor constantly and it would ooze out over the counter and onto the floor, then Papa would shout at me for making a mess and wasting the olive oil. It broke my heart, but it was true, the place I had adored as a child had no place for me as an adult. I was no longer welcome there, at least, not in the same way. I was an outsider.
Another waitress has emerged from the Moonlight. Everyone claims they don’t hire waitresses for their looks, but it isn’t true. Both Gayle and wild, black-haired Rita, the second waitress, are very good-looking, even in their dowdy uniforms and flat shoes. I’m surprised Rita is a waitress, she doesn’t seem to be a good fit for the service industry, in which, no matter what, you are never allowed to lose your temper. She doesn’t look like she would serve anyone. She’s not in handcuffs yet, but policemen on either side of her keep a pretty firm hold on her. Rita isn’t the least bit sad. She’s furious⎯she breaks free and lunges at Gayle with her fingers outstretched, a hellcat, ready to scratch her eyes out right here in the street. I can’t quite make out what she’s saying, but I think I can guess. More policemen step forward to hold her back and now both women are screaming, their bodies desperate to be free to attack, they bend toward each other, drawn together like magnets.
I had seen Rita with the gun before, of course, observed her showing it around. The waitresses often got off late, after midnight, and it could be a long, lonely walk back to their cars.
On my last day at the Excelsior, it was such a small thing that happened, a minor humiliation, no one could have predicted how it would affect me. I had been folding napkins. They were such nice napkins, creamy white linen, like bedding you couldn’t wait to jump into. We used a fan shape and this, like everything else at the Excelsior, had been very hard for me to learn. I hadn’t known that all the little tasks I had grown up watching would be so difficult to actually do. Folding napkins, though, I thought I had that mastered. I had three of them in front of me, neat as the sails of a ship. If I close my eyes, I can still see them. One of the other waitresses looked at my work and sighed, “Oh, Frances, what is wrong with you? Please leave the napkins alone. I’ll do them.”
And she whisked them all away, folded and unfolded alike, and did and redid them herself, so quickly, the lines so sharp, much better than mine. I got up and walked into the kitchen where the staff was fully engaged with prep work for the coming evening. They were chopping parsley and garlic, washing lettuce, running back and forth to the freezer, knives flashing, sauces bubbling on the stove, voices shouting orders, Papa overseeing everyone, as cross as ever. Standing still, I was in everyone’s way. I wandered over to the stove and found the book of matches kept on a shelf just above it. I lit one with a long scrape and dropped it into the deep fryer. You can’t have steak frites without the frites, even I know that.
I’m told I’m lucky to be alive. Not everyone survived, and the Excelsior burned to the ground.
Today’s incident was similar in that it started with such a tiny gesture. Gayle was working the register today and Rita was my waitress. She has such a savage energy to her, with her exotic cheekbones and flashing dark eyes. I sat at the counter where I had a good view of both of them, as well as the cook. I noticed how often Rita looked back at the kitchen and at the handsome man working the grill and calling out orders. I could see him looking back through the service window, and who he looked at, the wolfish nature of his smiles through three days of whiskers and a fluttering curtain of order slips. No one has ever looked at me like that and no one ever will. My burn scars were quite extensive. I ate my sandwich and about half my French fries, listening to the conversation and the familiar sounds of a busy kitchen. I had missed them so much, it hurt.
I took a pen out of my handbag and wrote a note on my napkin (paper, not the same thing at all), “He’s cheating on you. Watch the redhead.” I left it under the plate where I knew Rita would find it, paid my bill, and hurried back home.
Once you put something like this in motion, it’s hard to predict just how it will go. I barely had time to settle in by the window and pick up my binoculars before she shot him. I thought she would wait, make her own observations, devise a plan, but Rita did none of those things. She was like me, she acted on her terrible impulses right away. This wasn’t the same—nothing is more satisfying than the smelly hell of a grease fire, the flames high and hot, and water only spreads them—but it was enough. It was almost as good.