Alligators in the Trees (5 page)

“Go.”

“You don’t—”

“Get out. I don’t want to hear another word.”

Brawny closed his mouth and opened the door. He walked out and stopped on the other side of the threshold. “You need me, Sammy, just as much as I need you. But you’re just afraid to admit it,” he said.

Priscilla barked at his erroneous assumption. “If I ever need you, Brawny, I’ll be sure to let you know. But between now and when hell freezes over, you can rest assured I don’t really need anyone. And if I can manage to steer clear of men for the rest of my days, I’ll consider myself lucky,” she said.

“I think you’ve got the wrong attitude,” Brawny said, sounding suddenly superior.

“Oh, spare me,” Priscilla said as she closed the door in his face, locking all three bolts for emphasis.

She was alone now, but the negative effects of Brawny’s visit lingered. It irritated her that he could barge in on her and drive her totally batty in under thirty minutes. It had to be God’s little reminder that she should never allow herself to be persuaded by sweet-talking men, however good looking. No matter what they promised, their own needs were their true agenda.

Again, she was reminded of Phil, which increased her irritation. She didn’t want to think of Phil that way. Phil was too nice a guy to have to put up a barrier against. That made it a double affront to her. Why should she be put in the position of having to be the hard-ass in order to keep herself out of harm’s way?

There ought to be some sort of mechanism to send signals from one person to another, advising which avenue to take before approaching. She would like to have a sign flashing on her forehead that said, “Sure, I like you, but keep your distance.” Then it would be possible to interact with someone like Phil without having to balance his doting admiration with her hard-won skepticism.

As it was, she had to face him every day knowing he was unaccountably gaga over her, a condition she was sure would change as soon as his luck did. That was another thing that irked her; she was a certain Phil’s dire straits were only temporary, so it wasn’t fair that he should
think
he was smitten with her, when that role was reserved for those who are truly jinxed.

Priscilla sighed and went in search of her purse. She had been interrupted so soon after getting home, she hadn’t had the chance to perform her daily ritual of caching the day’s loot. She sat down on the chair recently vacated by Brawny and took out her green zippered pouch.

She withdrew the wad of bills and counted, segregating Phil’s twenty from the rest. A whopping sixty-three dollars, plus the eighteen that she had spent at the market, was all she had to show for her eight-hour shift.

She tucked the twenty-dollar bill into her pocket in order to stash it with the rest of Phil’s offerings. She then removed the two new drawings he had left for her and got up to put them with the others.

She pulled down a box from the top of her closet that had once contained the only nice present Ryan had ever bought for her, a strapless cocktail dress from Macy’s, which she later learned he got off the final markdown rack. The zipper had long been broken, but the box had come in handy as a place to stash all the paper placemats Phil was fond of decorating for her.

She opened the box hastily and stowed the new drawings inside, without hazarding a glance at the ever-growing collection. She didn’t understand why he felt compelled to make these daily drawings or why he purposefully left them as mementos for her, nor did she want to.

It was obvious enough that Phil was going through a difficult time, her best guess being a divorce. The presence of his daughter at half of his breakfast pilgrimages had been hint number one. Had he not been on the outs with his wife, Priscilla seriously doubted she would allow their daughter, clad in a private school uniform, to frequent such a seedy dive.

Having a breakfast meeting there with his attorney seemed to underscore her suspicion. If Phil was so distraught by the breakup of his marriage that Frank’s Heartburn-O-Rama had taken a meaningful place in his life, there was no doubt his infatuation with her was merely a symptom of rebounditis, a condition that cured itself with the inevitable tiring of the first available substitute to happen along.

Still, she found it impossible to discard all of his tributes at this stage of the game. There was just something so innocent and endearing about them, despite the growing sense of foreboding they gave her.

Priscilla returned the dress box to the shelf and pulled down the smaller box next to it. In this one went the tips of the day, minus Phil’s, to be used for all practical expenses, like food, utilities and rent. She made a quick count of the funds accumulated so far, figuring she was about on par with her monthly debts.

Relieved of any guilt about secreting Phil’s money away, she replaced the box and went to her dresser where she fished out the orphan sock she kept hidden in the bottom of her drawer, stuffed to bursting with currency. She sat down on the bed and counted the stack of twenties—one hundred and sixty four in all—a total of thirty-two hundred and eighty dollars, including the most recent donation—given to her by her mixed-up admirer over the last eight months.

She slapped the weight of her impressive stack against her hand. This was starting to add up to something; what exactly, she didn’t know. In the beginning, after she had collected a week’s worth of tips because of the sheer novelty of it, she used to daydream about what she would do with this nice little bonus.

But time passed and the wad grew, and now she didn’t like to think of spending it at all. It was her nest egg, something she’d never had before. She had decided not to consider what possibilities it represented to her until the day when Phil came to his senses and went back to frequenting his Upper East haunts. When that time came, she would count her winnings and then determine just what her brief association with Phil had done for her.

Now that she had effectively dealt with the Phil dilemma for the time being, she threw herself across the bed, enjoying the sensation of pain shuddering down her legs and feet as it escaped her body. After lying there for a few minutes, luxuriating in doing nothing at all, she reached for the closest notebook and flipped through it until she found a blank page. Without getting up, she rummaged around her bedside table for a pen. She propped herself up on her side, and thinking back, recalled the words she had read over Tobias Jordan’s shoulder.

When she had reproduced the lyrics to the best of her recollection, she lay flat on the bed, notebook held above her head as she assessed the fledgling song. She was so familiar with the music of
Absent Among Us
, she had no trouble conjuring up guitar riffs, moody organ chords and female backup vocals to go along with this meager beginning. She was satisfied there was an acorn of hope for this humble start.

She smiled at their shared talent. But unlike Tobias, she didn’t possess the musical know-how necessary to turn her words into songs, and without that, her endless piles of lyric-filled notebooks were of no value. Of course, it didn’t surprise her she’d been given half a talent. It was just another cosmic joke to keep the fates amused.

As she studied the fledgling song, she began to crave more of the band’s handiwork. She rolled across the bed until she was able to see her CD collection and ran her fingers down the spines, pulling out every CD in their impressive collection. She picked up
Seven Days till Heaven
and sighed as she stared at Tobias Jordan’s defiant young face, his lanky frame clothed in jeans and black T-shirt bearing the phrase
never happened
across his chest.

He was looking at the camera with an expression that suggested he knew exactly where his career would take him, and he was not the least bit impressed. She tried to reconcile the contemptuous self-confidence with the man hiding behind baseball cap and dark glasses, lurking in Frank’s Coffee Shop, of all places. What had happened to him? Had he gone soft living the good life, turning himself into the butt-end of one of his own jokes? She laughed, appreciating the irony of the scornful becoming the scorned. But that only proved he was a mere mortal, after all.

Still, it was more than a tad disappointing to find that such an idealistic young man, one who had once scoffed at everything society held sacred, now seemed so skittish. But aside from the lost panache, she truly admired the man, not only for his capacity to write both words and music with extraordinary style and uncanny clarity, but also for the way his songs had touched her core.

Priscilla let the notebook fall to her side and smiled up at the ceiling. It was a pleasant yet novel sensation to be acquainted with a success story, however briefly. But the inevitable doubt crossed her mind: didn’t the fact that Tobias had passed into her realm of misfortune bode poorly for him? How could he possibly expect to wage a successful comeback after being tainted by her world?

This hypothesis left her in a quandary, for she naturally hoped to see him again, and maybe even get to know him a little. But at the same time, she would surely only get acquainted with a man on his descent from greatness.

Her eyes traced out shapes in the irregular texture of the plaster on the ceiling as she wondered if Tobias Jordan would ever show up in Frank’s Coffee Shop again. She picked up the notebook and rolled onto her left side, pen to paper.

Even as he watched her lips move

He could see she was slipping free

And all his words of comfort

Would not change her destiny

And while he tried to soothe her

In that brief, tragic reverie

He saw the girl she had been

And the woman she’d never be

They were just two strangers

Not a single thing in common

Yet this roadside hero would be

The last man she’d ever lay eyes on

Goodbye, sweet girl

Fly from me

Don’t think of what should’ve been

God has set you free

Goodbye, sweet girl

Do not cry

We all reach the same place

By and by.

Priscilla was engaged in a particularly onerous debate with Frank regarding the proper length of time a waitress should spend conversing with a customer, when Philip walked in, as if on cue. Frank narrowed his eyes pointedly, as though Philip’s entrance underscored his argument. Priscilla glared at him as she snatched her ticket and arranged the hot plates along her arms.

“Sit anywhere you like, sir. I’ll be right with you,” she said for Frank’s benefit, as she passed Philip on her way to deliver two plates of corned beef hash, two sides of biscuits and gravy, one Denver omelet and a short stack with a side of sausage. Philip looked at her askance, puzzled by the sudden formality of her tone. The mystery became clearer as he caught sight of the little face peering over the pick-up window, flashing an unsettling smile his direction.

Philip’s brow wrinkled as he hesitantly returned Frank’s welcome. He seated himself and anticipation replaced his uncertainty. He was rearranging silverware and placemats, gearing up for his customary draw-a-thon, when Priscilla appeared at his side, wielding a pot of what passed for coffee. Philip placed his hand over the cup just as Priscilla was poised to fill it with the vile potion.

“I think I’ll have a cup of tea today, if it’s not too much trouble,” he said, smiling apologetically up at her.

“Wise choice, but I’m afraid there’s nothing more exciting to offer you than generic black tea,” Priscilla said, setting the coffee pot on the table and removing the pen from behind her right ear. She made the standard notations then returned her attention to Phil.

“That’ll be fine—the tea, I mean.” Priscilla nodded, expecting to hear more instructions. When it became apparent that none were forthcoming, she tucked her pad and pen in their carrying places and went to fetch Philip’s tea, leaving him to make a careful study of the menu.

The only drawback to Philip’s infatuation with Priscilla so far was the food he forced himself to eat. By now, he had exhausted every hope of finding something in Frank’s repertoire worth ordering a second time. When Priscilla returned with his tea, he was ready to skip the pretense of breakfast altogether, though he was afraid one pot of tea wouldn’t allow him sufficient time with Priscilla.

“What will it be today, Phil?” she asked as she arranged the metal teapot with its paper-wrapped teabag alongside the cup and saucer, with a lemon wedge tucked neatly on the side.

“Umm…” Philip stalled. “You know, I don’t know what I’m in the mood for today,” he hedged, a perplexed look on his face as he searched the list for the least risky option.

“How hungry are you?”

Philip waffled his hand in a so-so gesture. “I could eat, but…”

“Yeah, I know—the menu’s less than scintillating. I happen to know one or two things Frank can pull off without too much distortion. How ’bout I have him whip up one of my personal favorites for you? I guarantee it’ll be better than what you can find on here,” she said, as she relieved Philip of his menu. There was a look of such gratitude on his face, it was all Priscilla could do to keep from laughing.

“Thank you, Priscilla, thank you.”

“Hey, don’t thank me yet. Just because it’s better than the usual fare, doesn’t mean it’s any good,” she said with a sly smile, leaving Philip to stare after her with unrestrained admiration.
What a marvel she is
, he thought as he watched her go about the business of feeding the hungry.

Priscilla scribbled out her special order and hung it on the wheel, turning it toward Frank so she could point out this irregularity before he had a chance to make a scene about it.

“Wasshis?” he squawked.

“This customer wants a two egg omelet with cream cheese and green onions, a side of sliced tomatoes and whole wheat toast—just like it says.”

“Two egg same as three,” Frank protested.

“Yes, Frank. The customer is aware of that fact and is willing to foot the expense.”

“No substitution—it say so on menu,” Frank pointed out vigorously. Priscilla smiled patiently as he rambled, refusing to let him carry this thing too far.

“True, Frank, but this man has paid you the great compliment of dining at your establishment every day for the last eight months. Surely such a devoted customer deserves a little special treatment, don’t you think?” she said calmly.

Frank softened visibly at this flattery. “Wish won?” he asked, standing on tiptoes to see over the counter.

“The man sitting in the third booth from the door.”

“Why he have booth if only one order?” he asked hotly.

“That’s his favorite table. He always sits there, usually with his daughter, but she’s on a fieldtrip to Boston with her private school classmates,” Priscilla said, in a tone of voice that made it sound as if she were letting him in a hot bit of gossip.

“Ah,” Frank said, still mystified but unwilling to show it. “Okay, one time,” he relented.

“If he likes it, Frank, he’ll probably order it again, seeing as he does come here
every
day.” Frank started to complain, but she headed him off. “It’s the price you pay in service to the public, Frank. You’ve got to remember that,” she said blithely as she collected assorted condiments to take to a table. Frank began to stammer, but June preempted him with an offensive of her own.

“Frank—look alive. I’ve got a seven-top here. It gets a little complicated ’cause some are ordering sides and some are sharing sides and three are starting with grapefruit and two with Danishes—you following me?” June said, turning to give Priscilla a wink. “See, I need the grapefruit and the Danish at the same time because the Danishes have to leave for a meeting, got it?”

Priscilla was just rounding the counter when she caught sight of Tobias out of the corner of her eye as he entered the door. She was a little surprised to see him, and still more surprised that he actually looked straight at her—or at least she thought he did, though she couldn’t be sure what exactly was going on behind those dark glasses.

She delivered her order and gave Tobias a moment to settle himself—in her section again, she noticed. She hadn’t mentioned to June that a rock ‘n roll icon was becoming a regular. She suspect June had never heard of
Absent Among Us
, being a Georgia-born, diehard country music fan.

Besides, if June knew Tobias’s identity, she might make a stink about sharing the privilege of waiting on him, on principle alone. As it was, Tobias Jordan was just another guy with a penchant for dark clothing, as far as June was concerned, which was hardly made him a standout in New York.

Priscilla grabbed a fresh pot of coffee and headed for his table. Tobias saw her as she approached and flipped his cup right side up. For the first time in a long time, Priscilla suddenly found herself at a loss for words. An awkward silence hovered between them as she poured the coffee and pulled out her pen and pad.

She felt she should say something, but she was afraid of sounding too familiar. In her mind she had traveled across the barrier of introduction, but of course, Tobias wasn’t aware of that. Judging by the Yankees cap and glasses, he believed he was disguised, and that she didn’t know him from the next guy. Far be it from her to disabuse him of this comforting notion.

“Are you ready to order?” she asked, only hazarding the briefest glance at him. Oddly, Tobias seemed relaxed, almost friendly. She almost thought he seemed happy to see her.

“Yeah. Bring me two eggs scrambled, rye toast and… are the hash browns those frozen things?”

“Afraid so.”

“How about the ‘home-style’ potatoes?”

“Frank makes those himself. They’re a much safer bet,” she said, as she collected Tobias’s menu.

“Okay, I’ll have those instead. And a glass of tomato juice.”

“You got it,” she said, making eye contact for the second time. His smile threw her. She was expecting an icy reception after their last meeting.

Much to her annoyance, she felt flustered, and she could feel Tobias’s eyes watching every move she made. It was one thing to have Phil gazing after her like a lovesick teenager—
that
she could handle. But she much preferred it when the famous rock star was intent on anonymity, vaguely resentful that she had to speak to him it all. Funny how that had changed, and it was now she who felt like hiding behind something.

Fortunately, her job was so fast-paced she didn’t have time to dwell on personal feelings for very long. By the time Tobias’s order was ready, she had regained her usual composure.

“Can I get you anything else right now?” she asked, her old aloofness and sense of control securely reestablished. Tobias barely acknowledged her this time. He was once again preoccupied with the slippery beginnings of a new song. Now that she was mentally prepared for his newfound familiarity, his disinterest irked her slightly. She grabbed pots of hot water and coffee and refilled the cups in her station. It was a pleasant contrast to have absurdly loyal and cheerful Phil eagerly awaiting her visit.

“How did you like the omelet?” she asked as she poured more hot water into his teapot.

“It was just perfect,” he said, leaning back to let Priscilla remove his plate. He must have liked it, because it was the first time he had eaten every scrap of his breakfast. “Thank you very much for ordering it for me.”

“Not a problem,” she replied, craning her head to make out all the doodles on Philip’s placemat.

“No peeking yet,” he said, covering the drawings with his arms. Priscilla laughed, shaking her head. It amused her that this distinguished man was really just a child at heart.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked, automatically totaling his ticket. Philip never wanted anything else; most people didn’t. Only a few who were hell-bent on heart disease were indulgent enough to order a slice of pie after the standard carb and fat overload.

“No, maybe just another smile” he said coyly. She grunted good-naturedly and moved on.

Priscilla realized there was some strange current running through her day when she rounded the corner of the kitchen with Philip’s empty plates, only to be ambushed by her wiry boss.

“Jesus, Frank—you shouldn’t lurk in the doorway like that. June and I come through here like our tails are on fire,” she said peevishly. She deposited the dirty dishes in a bus tray, and was startled to find her employer was still stuck to her like chewing gum. “What’s on your mind, Frank?” she said, as she took the opportunity to sort through her tickets.

“How he like?”

“Who? What?”

“Special egg—how he like?’

“Oh…he loved it. Said to give his compliments to the chef,” she said, executing a fancy roll of the hand as she backed away. She resumed sorting through her tickets, assuming their conversation was finished.

“I say hi to him—he tell me hisself,” Frank suggested brightly.

“Yeah, you go do that, Frank,” Priscilla said, shaking her head in mild bafflement. She busied herself with side work, doing her best to ignore him. In a minute, though, she caught sight of her boss, resplendent in his filthy cook’s uniform, cruising through the tables. She was standing there, mouth agape, when June appeared by her side.

“Who in hell-fire let him loose?” she asked, as the two of them watched in amazement as he greeted his surprised customers.

“He took himself out for a walk,” Priscilla answered. “Hey, don’t ask me. This whole day feels extra weird to me,” she said.

“We got to get him back in here,” June said, alarmed by the strange looks on her customers’ faces as he departed their tables. “It’s bad enough to eat his cooking without the compounded agony of having to hear him speak.”

June’s words sunk in, and in a heartbeat, both waitresses were out of the kitchen like a shot. To Priscilla’s horror, Frank had passed on from a mildly confused Phil to an unwelcoming Tobias. Priscilla grabbed a pot of coffee and prepared to run interference.

“How you like egg?” Frank was demanding of the attention-shy celebrity when she came to his rescue.

“Well, he managed to eat it, Frank, so I guess we need to give him credit for that,” she said, as she wedged herself between the two men on the pretext of filling Tobias’s nearly full cup.

“Wa credit? No take credit,” Frank protested in his usual semi-hysterical fashion.

“That’s not what I meant. He ate it, so obviously it was fine. You know, I just saw June hang a couple orders. No time to rest on your laurels, Frank. Can’t keep your customers waiting,” Priscilla patiently instructed her employer. She narrowed her eyes to convey the significance of her meaning, but as usual, Frank missed the point.

“I go to kitchen—make more good food,” he said uncertainly.

“That’s right, Frank. Your customers need you in the kitchen more than they do out here.”

“Customers need more good food,” he said nodding. Priscilla nodded along with him. “Oh yes,” he squealed with delight, “must make more good food.” Priscilla let out a sigh of relief as she watched Frank make his way back to his post, only briefly accosting two other diners along the way.

“I assume you’re done with these,” she said to Tobias as she cleared his plates. She caught sight of his lyric-covered placemat, but she carefully averted her eyes this time.

“What was that all about?”

“I don’t know. His leash must’ve snapped. We’ll do our best to see it doesn’t happen again,” she said with exaggerated regret. Tobias chuckled softly.

“He didn’t really bother me. I just couldn’t understand what the hell he was trying to say.”

“Yeah, well, that is a hazard.”

“How do you manage it?” he asked. “I honestly could only make out every fourth or fifth word.”

“That’s not bad for a beginner. Understanding Frank is an acquired skill. In fact, my namesake never quite got the hang of it. Frank tried to tell her one day he liked her hair, and she thought he was firing her. She changed out of her uniform, told him off and marched out the door never to be seen again. I consider her to be one of the lucky ones. Can I get you anything else…Bromoseltzer?…Barf bag…?” Tobias laughed, a sound that was enormously pleasant to Priscilla’s ears.

“No, that’ll do it,” he said. Priscilla was walking away when he stopped her. “One question though, if you don’t mind.”

“I suppose one question a day is permissible,” she said, dishes suspended in one hand while the other rested on her hip.

“Why do you work here?”