I kind of always forget where I am when I'm working there... it's the complete polar opposite of the southern style place where I wait tables.I read something once in one of those ridiculous books that supposedly can tell all about a person by their birth date. One bit of it rang true, and that was something to do with the fact that I'm creative... always getting lost in these imaginings in my head. It can be a good thing, sometimes this irrepressible talent for daydreaming.
Anyway, I feel like I'm in a big city... maybe New York. That would make a lot of sense. It's cold out, and everytime the doors open, I welcome curious faces, confident faces, familiar faces, regular faces... and a blustery burst of cold air they bring with them. It's impossible to smile at one and not the other. So out of route I think I start smiling at the cold. It doesn't feel so festive, though it's lit up like a Christmas cave. It's got that arms length comfort of a big city. And yet, the smiles and the tender tones of speaking give away that we're south of the mason dixon, and you find yourself a bit more at ease. It's a busy little place filled with conversation... Until the kitchen gets it's fires going... The boys start yelling. Those Italian boys. And I keep stealing glances...
This is the part where things get fuzzy. It only helps to embellish my wandering thoughts when the owners walk past. They own the role and speak in New York tongues. I am teleported instantly. And somehow, I feel closer to home. The thrill of excitement that if I step out of these doors, I'll be dwarfed by skyscrapers and swallowed by lights. Cars turn to hasty taxis. And the quiet retreats into swells of conversations all rolling over each other like waves and undercurrents. Inside, I'm adjusting to and getting acquainted with the girls with loud laughs, deep husky voices and starry young eyes... but I'm never sure whether I'll meet the inside of their sarcastic jokes or their cold shoulders. Probably why I tend to retreat to this torrent of thought. The other men are warm. Just warm smiles. Even in the midst of a rush of tables and a check list of a thousand things and steps of service, they will emerge from their tunnel vision, if only for a second... like a submarine surfacing, just to smile at you. A smile that changes the whole demeanor of the room. I like these boys. Most of the girls are hard... lacking a certain softness. And I wonder if it's because this supposed city of hospitality has made them that way... or if they're all transplants from other cities that have bred other girls as such... I wonder at their protective armour as they walk from place to place as though they own the room. Thing is, not many of them are at ease. But, I think it's something only a girl could notice. I wonder if boys notice. I should ask them.
Nevermind, I'm too nervous to ask much of anything... I'm like a child distracted by the first visit to the circus or a carnival. Wide-eyed wonder at the simplest of things... because you aren't exactly looking at just a carousel or carnival lights, but you're immersing yourself into a story... a magical one in which it makes sense. The normal everyday outside of a mall parking lot dissipates, and a world of wonder unfolds. Too much, I think... perhaps I've made a mountain of a molehill here. Nevertheless, I am nervous, and a I am a little starstruck.
I'm the new girl in school trying very hard to make the grade... wanting very much for the other girls to like me. But mostly, stealing little glances over my shoulder at these riotous boys in the class. Er, kitchen.
Imagine a family where the men in the family tree go something like this. Frank Sinatra
is the father of two sons that look like Al Pacino and Andy Garcia...
And these brothers have a few sons... that all work together. Bantering cousins/brothers. Got it? Well, these are the boys in question that have caught my eye... in fact, they keep catching it. My behaviour is elementary. I'm absolutely delighted by them and smiling a bit too much when one of them pays me a bit more attention. By that, I mean, when one speaks to me. I laugh heartily at their jokes and their antics and their ridiculous songs and voices. I am a smitten little kitten. And I probably won't do a thing about it... and neither will they. But I like the look of those boys... and I wish they'd notice I was alive. sigh and cue some broadway musical song.
I do like the way the older gentleman has taken me under his wing. He's like a protective grandpa. I like his stories. I like his accent. I like it when he's working, because even if wires get crossed, I'm his baby girl, as he says. He's quite convincing. He wears suits. He's always so smart looking. (Smart here, being the english term... dapper, perhaps? ok.) He reminds me of someone that would be in a cartoon. His face is expressive. He's equal parts professional and warmth. And I can deal with all of that. I like being protected and looked after, even when I'm perfectly capable of handling something. I've craved that sense of security my whole life... which is maybe why all this oscillation and unsteadiness and all of these inconstant variables are wearing me out. especially relational ones. because when relational consistency is there, the other constant changes feel more like adventure. but when everything is unstable and hope is the thing with feathers evading your grasp, and you wake up with an elephant on your chest every morning, it leaves this unshakable fragile feeling.
I still daydream of being found the loveliest girl in the room... of being won over by one of the handsome ones. Of some fantastic love story unraveling and weaving itself into reality, until it's part of my fabric. It's these little moments of respite that get me through the mundane bits of being a working girl... and then I remember I work with a stunning redhead, and a model that's been on one of those america's next top model spinoff shows, and a gaggle of other sweet young things. HAH!
And on that note, I'll laugh it off as folly and foolishness to amuse you with and say goodnight.