Holidays.
By Earvin Eugene
Copyright © 2020 by Earvin P Eugene
All rights reserved.
She cleaned tables as usual that day, her twenty-first birthday. She always worked on weekends, but if things had gone according to plan that specific weekend, she would have been celebrating. The other worker had agreed to cover her shift actually and the chef was upset with her for being slow with the spaghetti and meatballs as well as the lasagna to customers' tables. This was not the best way to spend one's twenty-first birthday. But the other girl developed severe sickness. A rapid cold and gone to bed with unstoppable diarrhea and a fever of 103 degrees, so she ended up working after all on short notice.
She found herself trying to support the sick girl, who was greatly sorry for being a burden. "Don't worry about it," she said. "This is a typical twenty-first birthday."
It seemed that she was not all that disappointed. One reason was the horrible fight she had had a earlier in the week with her boyfriend who was supposed to be with her for her birthday. They had been going together since high school, and the argument had started from nothing much. It was bad enough that it ended their relationship. Something inside her had turned cold. They were not able to resolve issues and communicate with one another.
This was a better-known Italian restaurants in New York. You can always find a decent Italian restaurant in the city or Long Island. It had been in business since the late seventies, and, although its cuisine was hardly creative, its high reputation was fully justified. It had many common customers, and they invited family and friends. The dining room had a calm, relaxed atmosphere without a hint of pushiness. It catered to adults during the day and young people later at night. Young people enjoyed a slice of pizza after a night of partying.
The two full-time waiters worked six days a week. She and the other part-time waitress were NYU students who took turns working part-time each. In addition, there was one floor manager and, at the register, a mature woman who supposedly had been there since the restaurant opened— most likely related to the owners. She had exactly two roles: to use the cash register for the payers and to answer the phone for pickups and deliveries. She spoke only when necessary and always wore the same Italian restaurant shirt and comfortable jeans. She was drained from what life had to offer but possessed the slight loving compassion of that of a mother.
The floor manager was an older gentleman. Average height and average build, his body suggested that he had been active in his youth, but excess flesh was now beginning to accumulate on his belly and chin. His bald head was well kept and stylish, and he acquired a certain smell from being a dad. Probably, from cleaning after children, performing chores, and maintenance from his wife. His "dad-bod" portrayed slight fitness but years of wear and tear.
The manager was always professional. He wore a navy suit, white shirt, and tie. It was a point of pride for him that he could tie it perfectly without looking in the mirror. He focused on checking the arrival and departure of guests, keeping the reservation situation in mind, knowing the names of regular customers, greeting them with a smile, lending a respectful ear to any customers' complaints, giving expert advice on wines, and overseeing the work of the waiters and waitresses. He was well-mannered. He made it a routine to dress down on Friday. Wearing similar to the woman at the cash-register. It could be perceived as a uniform. It demonstrated solidarity. Casual Friday also made him appear not so bossy.
"The owner had his own room on the second floor of the same building where the restaurant was," she said. "An apartment or office or something." It appeared that he would invite certain admired guests. High payers or friends.
Randomly, she and I had gotten onto the subject of our twenty-first birthdays—going out for a legal drink or at least buying it. Most people remember the day they turned twenty-one. Hers had happened more than five years ago.
"He never was that social. The only one who saw him was the manager. He was a busy person. None of the other employees knew what he looked like."
"It appears that the owner was getting home delivery from his own restaurant."
"Sure," she said. "Every night at eight the manager had to bring dinner to the owner's room. The restaurant had plenty of guests, and the manager was gone. They'd load the dinner onto one of those carts that hotels use for room service, the manager would push it onto the elevator wearing a respectful look on his face, and fifteen minutes later he'd come back empty-handed. It was strange that the owner would eat alone or with guests and never on the main floor with the staff or other guests.
The owner always had vodka sauce pasta. The recipe and the vegetable sides were a little different every day, but the main dish was always pasta. Everybody has their own routine. A young chef once stated that she attempted to send pasta with marinara sauce. All the owner did was leave a note on the cart suggesting next time was penne a la vodka. Of course, a chef wants to try different ways of preparing things. It was futile.
Work started out as usual on her twenty-first birthday, November 22. It had been poor weather all day. Cloudy and drizzling. At five o'clock the manager gathered the employees together to explain the day's specials. Servers were required to memorize Chicken Parmesan, Eggplant Parmesan, and fish.
The restaurant opened its doors at six o'clock, but guests were slow to arrive because of the rain, and several reservations were simply canceled. Everything remained prepared and pop music was played in the background with soft sounds throughout the area from stereo speakers. The weather outside contrasted with the atmosphere inside, allowing a cool draft. The food smelled good within the restaurant providing a homely experience.
It was after seven-thirty when the manager started feeling sick. He was weak and on the verge of vomiting. He bent over to a chair and sat there for a while pressing his stomach, as if he had suddenly been shot. It was excruciating pain. A sharp pain. He was sweaty and unable to relax. He had to be escorted to the hospital. Before leaving, he made it a point to provide vodka pasta to the owner.
The rain continued and therefore it was not too busy. Luckily, the restaurant could manage with less staff.
When the owner's meal was ready at eight o'clock, she pushed the room-service cart onto the elevator and rode up to the second floor. It was the typical penne with vodka sauce coupled with drinks. For some reason the boring meal seemed more appetizing than usual. She arrived at the office.
The answer was delayed. A tall and decrepit old man answered. He was casually dressed. Some sort of polo T-shirt and khakis. He seemed fatigued. His gray hair was slightly messy. He appeared more friendly and laid-back than suggested. A nice smile with plenty of wrinkles. Maybe from many years of laughing and smiling.
"Your food is here, sir," she said. He replied, "Thank You."
"The manager suddenly became ill. I had to take his place today."
"Oh, alright," the old man said, almost as if talking to himself. He appeared annoyed but laughed it off. Most likely he was a man who found comfort in routine.
"He became sick all of a sudden. It could be food poisoning or something more serious. We do not know. He went to the hospital."
"Oh, that's strange," the old man said, running his fingers along the wrinkles of his forehead. "That's bad news."
The old man opened the door the rest of the way, and she wheeled the food cart inside. The floor was covered in short black carpeting with no area for removing shoes. The first room was a large and clean, as though the apartment were more a workplace than a residence. The window looked out on the Empire state building nearby, its steel skeleton outlined in lights. A large desk stood by the window, and beside the desk was a comfortable couch. The old man pointed to the wooden coffee table in front of the couch. She arranged his meal on the table: white napkin and silverware, coffeepot and cup, wine and wineglass, bread and butter, and the plate of pasta.
He said, "I'll leave the stuff in the hall in an hour."
"Yes", she replied bothered
"Well, then, sir, I'll be getting back to work."
"No, hold on," he said.
"Sir?"
"Do you think it might be possible for you to give me five minutes of your time, lady? I have something I'd like to say to you."
"Okay", she said, still worrisome and bored.
"By the way, how old are you?" the old man asked, standing by the table with arms folded and looking directly into her eyes.
"I'm twenty-one now," she said.
"Twenty-one! That's a big year!" he repeated, in a good mood. "Twenty-one? When is your birthday?"
"Today is my birthday, sir."
"Today, is it? Today is your twenty-first birthday?"
She nodded still confused and bewildered.
"That's wonderful. Well, then, happy birthday."
"Thank you very much," she said
"Well, well, this is certainly a cause for celebration," he said. "How about a little toast? We can drink this red wine."
"Thank you, sir, but I couldn't. I'm working now."
"Life is grand, we must make the most of it."
The old man released an expensive and special bottle from his cabinet and poured a drink for both of them.
"Happy birthday!" he said.
They clinked glasses.
"Your twenty-first birthday comes by only once. Enjoy it!
"Yes, sir, I know," she said, taking some wine, but feeling noticeably uncomfortable.
"And here, on your special day, you bring me food."
"Just doing my job, sir."
The old man sat down in the leather chair by his desk and motioned her to the couch. She sat down but thought of the whole experience strange.
"I feel it is important for me to give you a birthday present."
"No, please, don't."
He replied, "I'll grant you a wish."
"A wish?" That's weird, she said.
"Just one wish. You can't change your mind afterward and take it back."
"One wish? I have to wish for something, and it will happen?"
"Do you have a wish?" he asked in a good mood.
"This really did happen," she said, looking straight at me. "I'm not making it up."
"Of course not," I said. She was not the sort of person to invent some goofy story out of thin air. "Anyways … did you make a wish?"
She went on looking at me for a while, and had an irritable face "Of course I would want something for my birthday. But who offers a wish to a stranger or an employee for their birthday. I did not take it seriously."
I agreed without saying anything.
"My birthday has been lame so far. I am working and tired. Nothing enjoyable or rememberable on what a special birthday is supposed to be."
I agrred again. "Sure," I said. "I understand."
"So I made a wish."
The old man made himself busy. The New York skyline appearing in the background. It seemed like movie scene.
The old man appeared puzzled. "That is your wish?"
"Yes," she said. "That is my wish."
"Your demand is strange from a girl in your position."
"If it's no good, I'll wish for something else," she said, clearing her throat. "I don't mind. Should I make another wish?"
"No no," the old man said, raising his hands and waving them like flags. "There's nothing wrong with it, not at all. It's just a little surprising. I am just confused."
The old man waited.
"Most girls would want to be prettier or smarter or rich. But I really can't imagine what would happen to me if any of those things came true. I do not know how to manage those things. I still don't really know what life is all about. I don't know how it works."
"Okay."
"So, is my wish okay?"
"Of course," he said. "Of course. It's no trouble at all for me."
At first, the old man suddenly staring to nothing. He was busy for a moment then nothing.
"That did it," he said. "Your wish has been granted."
"Really?"
"Yes, I did it. Your wish has been granted. Happy birthday! You may go back to work now: Don't worry, I'll put the cart in the hall."
As she left she was surprisingly in a good mood. Optimistic and joyful.
"Are you okay? You look spaced out," the younger waiter said to her.
She gave him an ambiguous smile and shook her head. "Oh, really? No, I'm fine."
"Tell me about the owner. What's he like?"
"Just a normal guy."
An hour later she brought the food cart back to the chef. The complete cart was empty and used. The office door was closed. The chef looked at the plate, empty as always, and nodded blankly.
I never saw the owner again," she said. "Never again. The manager turned out to have had just an ordinary stomachache and went back to delivering the owner's meal again. A few months later, I retired the job. And I've never been back to the place. I don't know, I just did not want to return."
She played with her phone, thinking her own thoughts. "Sometimes I get the feeling that everything that happened to me on my twenty-first birthday was fake. But it did happen. I remember everything in the office."
There was an awkward silence.
"Do you mind if I ask you one thing?" I asked.
"Go right ahead," she said. "I imagine you're going to ask me what I wished for that time. That's the first thing you'll want to know."
"But it looks as though you don't want to talk about that."
"Does it?" I laughed. She put her phone down. "You're not supposed to tell anybody what you wished for, you know."
I still have a lot of living left to do, probably. I do not know what is going to happen in the end."
"So the wish takes time?"
"You could say that."
"I am confused, whether or not it was good or not."
Things were silent again, but she seemed amused. I gave up questioning.
"I'm married now," she said. "To a lawyer three years older than me. And I have two children. I drive a Mercedes-Benz, and I have dinner parties with my girlfriends on weekends. That's the life I'm living now."
"Sounds pretty good to me," I said.
"What I'm trying to tell you is this." "No matter what they wish for, no matter how far they go, people can only be themselves. That's all."
She laughed and more amused.
She rested her elbow on the bar and looked at me. "Tell me," she said. "What would you have wished for if you had been in my position?"
"On the night of my twenty-first birthday, you mean?"
"Yeah."
I took some time to think about that, but I couldn't come up with a single wish. I was confused. Slightly curious and upset. Ensuring not to show my frustration.
"I can't think of anything," after I thought for a moment. "I'm too old now."
"You really can't think of anything?"
I nodded.
"Anything?"
"Nothing."
She looked into my eyes again—straight in—and said, "That's because you're wish already came true.