Glory reported to the Misty Cat at five minutes to eleven o’clock the next morning, wearing a pair of jeans and a snug, short-sleeved flowery blouse she’d picked up for a song (not literally, though if she could trade songs for things, all her problems would be solved) at Walmart a few years back.
Sherrie intercepted her at the door. “Good morning, hon. Don’t you look pretty! Now turn around.”
For one wild moment she thought Sherrie was telling her to get out, and for one wild moment, Glory was tempted to take off at a run down the street.
And then she realized Sherrie was brandishing a barrette. “We need to get your wonderful mop up and out of the way so it doesn’t wind up in the food. No one likes to flosswhilethey’re eating. If you turn around I can put it up for you.”
“Oh, letmedo her hair!”
Casey Carson from The Truth and Beauty had just crossed the street. She was the local expert on all things fashionable, and she could do anything you wanted to any hair on your body, whether it was cut swingy layers, blow it silky straight, wax it into a heart shape, pluck it into submission, bleach it, ombre it, or tease and pin and spray it into a two-foot high red-carpet updo. Glory visited Supercuts about twice a year for a competent but no-frills trim since her budget didn’t quite run to Casey’s expertise. But they liked each other. Casey was a strapping golden blonde and her sunny confidence was like a major C chord to Glory’s major G.
“Morning, Casey!” Sherrie handed her the barrette. “Send Glory back inside when you’re done with her. I’ll go see if Giorgio has your to-go order ready yet.”
Casey pulled Glory onto the sidewalk, turned her by the shoulders, whipped out a brush, and used it to drag Glory’s hair back from her forehead. Glory felt her eyebrows go back, too.
“Easy there, Casey.”
“Sorry, hon. Sherrie said to be quick. I’ll just do a French braid,” she announced. “Fancy but not complicated. Always wanted to get my hands on your hair! Just didn’t think it would be outside the Misty Cat. You taking Britt’s old job? What happened to your San Francisco plans?”
“Let’s... just say I experienced a little setback. Resulting in a slight delay.”
She saw Casey’s reflection shrug in the Misty Cat’s window. “I like to think of setbacks as trampolines. They eventually bounce you up a little higher than before.”
Glory was arrested by this image.
And then she immediately started thinking of all the things that rhymed withtrampoline.
“I think you gave me an idea for a song, Casey.”
“Well, if Rihanna can sing about umbrellas and Sia can sing about chandeliers, there’s no reason you can’t sing about trampolines.”
Glory laughed. “You gonna stop in for the open mic night? I haven’t done one in a while. I have a new song I might spring on everyone.”
“Oh yeah, I’ll be there. There’s that chamber of commerce reception right before it, too. Free booze! I’m going to try to get in to see The Baby Owls, too, aren’t you?”
“Oh yeah. I’ll be at The Baby Owls show, for sure.” Glory surreptitiously crossed her fingers about that one.
Casey spun her around again. “Okay, every last one of your hairs is strapped in there and you look great. Good luck!”
Glory’s hands went up to her head in a sort of exploratory alarm. Her eyebrows felt an inch or two closer to her hairline. Casey was pretty strong from hefting blow dryers and ripping wax from bodies and that braid was as tight as a trucker’s hitch.
Glory figured that she’d just have to get used to it the way a horse has to get used to a bit.
Casey gave Glory an affectionate little shove back into the Misty Cat, and Sherrie intercepted her as if she were a baton, looped a chummy arm around her shoulders and steered her about the restaurant, narrating Glory’s duties like a Universal Studios tour guide. She pointed out the difference between the caf and decaf pots of coffee, introduced the little creamer pots as if they were celebrities, demonstrated how to stuff the little jellies and butters neatly into their caddies as though it was an E-ticket ride, and there was a whole part of the tour involving lemon slices and straws and napkins and tabasco and so forth. It was pretty clear Sherrie had given this spiel a few dozen times over the years to various waiters and waitresses. She barely stopped to breathe. Glory hoped for her own sake and Sherrie’s she wouldn’t have to give it again to some other waitress tomorrow.
Glenn signaled Sherrie with an eyebrow wag and Sherrie gave a nod and wrapped things up. “Take their drink orders first. Bring ’em water only if they ask. The specials today are eggs Benedict, which comes with potatoes and white, whole wheat, rye, or sourdough toast, and the turkey club, which comes with a salad or fries—and tell them the specials right after you say hi like they’re your long lost best friend and dazzle ’em with a smile. Oh, and push the pumpkin muffins. They’re delicious and Glenn made a big batch of ’em. You think you can handle it?”
“I will!” Glory vowed, momentarily infected by Sherrie’s zeal. “I can!”
“Okay, you take that side of the restaurant, I’ll take the other, I’ll be in charge of seating, and if you have any questions, ask me on the fly. Here’s your order pad, hon. And... go!”
She gave her a little nudge toward a table occupied by one person, which seemed like the perfect way to dip a toe in. Fueled by a peculiar mix of hope, dread, brio, and truth be told, a little thrill at the novelty of it all, Glory strode over.
The world went slo-mo as she registered who was sitting at that table.
Hell’s. Teeth.
Or, to quote a song Mikey McShane had played at an open mic not too long ago: “fuck small towns.”
