September Rain Bk 2, Savor The Days Series (50 page)

The air outside is a warm slap to the
face. The dumpsters in the alley are near capacity. I breathe in
the rancid air through my half apron, counting backwards from
twenty, trying to calm down. Chip follows me out, aiming to give me
a talking to, but pauses when he sees me hunching over, trying not
to lose my complimentary breakfast on the pavement.

He sets on palm against the door
frame. “Are you pregnant?”

Spitting sour acid onto the broken
asphalt, I croak, “I’m having your baby, Chip. Isn’t it
magnificent?”

He offers a half-smile at my sarcasm.
“Miracle of life. Jeanine, breaks over.”

Jeanine, the waitress I was covering
for is standing across the alleyway with a cigarette in her hand. I
didn’t even see her there.

She nods to Chip, “Be right in.” To me
she frowns, asking, “You sick or something?”

Twice. I’ve seen him
twice. In two different places. And Chip was the one who told me to
take the table, so he saw them, too. But did he see what I
saw?

I nod my head. “Watch my tables? Just
a few minutes?”

“Yeah. No problem.” Jeanine stamps out
her cigarette, coughing her way past me.

Jake was not English. But that boy has
his same brilliant copper hair. His eyes and strong jaw.

The kitchen door swings open again as
Chip bursts back into the alley. “What the hell? Are you actually
sick?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“
Then get your ass back to
your station. The lunch rush is picking up.”

Propping myself against the side of
the building, I beg, “Five minutes?”

I hear the creak of the kitchen door
as Chip steps back inside, yelling, “This counts as your
break.”

It takes another few moments for my
breathing to return to normal. I keep my eyes shut tight, willing
myself to calm down. I’ve got maybe another two minutes before Chip
starts to get angry. And before then, I’ve got to make a
choice.

It isn’t him. It isn’t
him
. He just looks like him.

I’ve heard about people who aren’t
related looking alike. It’s possible. But there’s only one way to
be sure. I have to suck it up and roll back inside. Back to work.
Work is good.

Once I’m back on the dining floor, I’m
disappointed. First, because Chip was exaggerating. There are four
tables in Jeanine’s station and two in mine. Second, because I
don’t have the guts to look at the two guys, quietly waiting. So I
stop at the pie case, wiping at streaks that aren’t there. When
Jeanine walks by with an order ticket, I take her by the elbow and
inquire on the customers at table two.

“Two young Brits. Yeah. Very cute,
too.” Her eyes widen. “You want to ask one of them out.” She
accuses, trying to hide a smile.

“No.” I answer, a little
too forcefully.
They look too
young
, I think, but don’t say. “I just
want to make sure they’re still there.”

She points to the unobstructed view.
“Clearly. If either one says ‘yes’ to a date, you better be ready
to foot the bill, because those two are broke.”

I roll closer and look around the long
room, taking in every occupied table but the one I’m most
interested in. “I’m not asking anybody out. And how can you
possibly know something like that? They’ve been here all of five
minutes.” My stomach is still constricting.

Jeanine shakes her head. “Did you see
them? The curly-headed one has a stamp on his hand. A red
shield.”

I nod knowingly and feel a twinge of
pain searing across my chest. When I first came to LA, I was broke.
I stayed over at the Salvation Army shelter for the first few
months. I was grateful for the bed, but some days it was tough to
get a meal. They fed the children and their parents first, often
running out of the main course before they got to the single
adults.

My gut clenches again. “What did they
order?”

“Two waters and a half-order of
fries.”

As Jeanine says it, Joe, the line
cook, calls up the order. I thank Jeanine and roll over to grab the
hot plate from the window. I’m out of excuses. I’ve got to suck it
up and get the job done.

On my way to the table, I stop back at
the pie case and cut two slices, load them with whipped cream, and
then pour two glasses of milk. With my full tray in hand, I take in
a deep breath, bite my lip, and push forward.

Deanna once told me, ‘the
only road through is called,
do
.’ You do what you gotta
do.

I catch sight of the two young men,
and am trying desperately not to think about how much the lanky,
copper-haired one reminds me of Jake. But it’s impossible to look
at one and not think about the other. The resemblance is too
striking.

Slowly rolling over, I can only watch.
The boy does not move like Jake. He lacks the natural grace. Then,
closing my eyes, I listen to the conversation. The boy does not
sound like Jake. So the similarity is only in the hair. And the
eyes. The jaw line. And the smile. The shape of his face. That’s
all.

My pulse thrums in my ears
and warms my face. I set a palm to my over-heated cheek.
What the hell? It isn’t him.
I tell myself, and pull to stop tableside.

The two are talking in low voices. I
place the pie plates and milk in front of them.

“Madam, we didn’t order this.” The one
with curly hair says.

It’s a half-scoff, half-laugh that
comes out before I ask, “Did you just call me ‘Madam’? And I know
you didn’t. It’s my way of apologizing for running off a few
minutes ago.”

“Technically, I think you rolled.” The
one that isn’t Jake says and folds his hands over the tabletop. His
fingers are long and slender. The edges of each nail bed are lined
with dirt. On the back of his right hand, is the stamp; the shield
that says he is in need.

My mouth goes dry and whatever blood
was heating my face has fled. I feel pale and cold. It’s too
much.

“Are you well?” The one with curls
asks.

I shake my head and point to the
stamp. “That’s a rough place.”

“Rough’s a mild description, I’d say.”
Curly unwraps a straw and puts it in his milk as the boy who isn’t
Jake pours way too much ketchup all over the French fries. “We’re
grateful for your generosity.”

I clear my throat, trying to keep my
eyes on the slightly older looking boy with the curls. “What’s your
name?”

He places a hand over his chest, “I’m
called Marcus.” Then, extends the same hand to his friend. “This
here’s me mate, Evan.”

I can’t bring myself to
look at
Evan
for
long, as he dips his head in greeting, his mouth full of food.
“What brings you two to Los Angeles?”

“I’m going to be an actor.” Not
Jake—Evan—says at the same time that Marcus says, “He’s going to be
an actor.”

My heart aches and I rub at my chest.
Another commonality: an artistic mind. But I tell myself it’s not
the same. Jake was one of a kind. But I guess it’s not so bad . . .
having a real someone walking around who actually looks like
him.

“Have you landed any jobs yet?” I make
a point to keep my eyes on Evans’ shoulder, which doesn’t look as
broad or as sculpted as Jakes was.

Marcus sighs. “We’ve only been ‘ere .
. . Not a month, yet an ‘ave no place to start.”

And because I spent nearly
six months living with dancers-slash-models-slash-actresses and
listened to them bicker about this part or that casting call, I am
filled with useless information about this sort of thing. “Well. Up
at the corner is a news stand. There you’ll find a circular
called
Backstage.
It’s free and comes out every Thursday. The ads aren’t for
anything beyond toothpaste commercials or billboards, but it’s a
place to start.” Mustering my courage, I look Evan in the eye. “Do
you have head shots?”

His mouth is full of blackberry pie.
He swallows and politely wipes at each corner with a napkin before
speaking. “Not yet.”

I can tell by the troubled look on his
face that this is an obstacle. “I might know someone who can help.
One of my former roommates majors in photography.” She still owes
me seventy dollars for long distance calls she wracked on my
personal phone line. “Can you sound American?”

Evan sets his empty glass of milk down
and almost smiles. “Actually, it’s my best accent.” He says this
without inflection and I have to concede. It sounds pretty
good.

Examining him further, I try to ignore
the aching similarities to Jake and really see him. His
energy.

Turning back to Marcus, I aim to avoid
the mega-watt smile stretching Evans face. “He’s got an interesting
look and presence, which should help him find an agent. It’s nearly
impossible to find work without one. He’ll also need to start
exercising and eating healthier than fruit pie and French fries. In
this business, your looks are your livelihood.”

Something inside me swells and I don’t
know why, but I have an uncontrollable desire to help these
two.

Marcus nods his head as Evan clears
his throat. “I am right here. You might try talking to me rather
than about me. Do I really look so bad?”

Turning his direction, I notice
another table has filled up in my station. A party of five. Three
men, two women; dressed in business attire.

“Don’t leave. I’ll be right
back.”

I might be going crazy. But it doesn’t
feel like it. Helping a person in need is the right thing to do,
(isn’t it?) setting aside the fact that I have steadily avoided
getting involved in anyone else’s affairs. But finding someone that
is so much like Jake is impossibly weird. Remarkable, even. And
doing as much as I can to help him feels strangely, exactly
right—like helping Jake himself in a round-about way.

Grabbing a stack of menus, I make my
way over to the new table and introduce myself, then rattle off the
Specials. It’s very easy to serve people who are on their lunch
break. Since they’re working in a timeframe, they almost always
know what they want when they walk in the door. It’s no different
for this crowd: no one wants a menu, or appetizer. I take out my
notepad take everyone’s order, and then pass off the ticket to the
kitchen so Joe can get to work on it. After that, I fill and
deliver their drinks, make a quick stop to check on table five—they
want some more napkins and the check, which I promptly
deliver—before finally aiming back to table two.

To Marcus and Evan.

From across the oblong dining floor, I
see they’ve cleared their plates. They seem to be waiting for the
check, too. But I don’t want them to go, yet. Making a quick
detour, I stop at the soups station and fill two bowls with the
soup of the day—its vegetable beef. No one orders it—and fill a
ramekin with packets of crackers.

When I return to the table, Marcus’
eyes go wide. “What are you doin’?”

I set a bowl of steaming soup in front
of Evan first, and then Marcus, explaining as I go. “Look. I’ve
been where you are. I had no one to help me, either. I know what
that feels like.”

Evan breaks away from sprinkling the
crackers into his soup. “What makes you think we don’t? Have help
or family, or something?”

This time I am anxious to meet his
eyes. “You wouldn’t be staying in a shelter if you did. And it’s no
big deal. Everybody needs help sometimes.”

Marcus hesitates, staring down at a
spoon. “Thank you, once again for the charity, Sheri.”

While the two young men dig in, a
sense of satisfaction builds inside. With a deep breath of courage,
I square my shoulders. “You know . . . I might be able to help you
find a place to stay. You need help finding your way around, too.
Los Angeles is . . . fickle. It’s tough to navigate when you don’t
know anyone.”

Evans hazel eyes widen. He sets his
spoon down and wipes his mouth. “You would do that? For
strangers?”

I shrug, because it feels so awkward
to stand here and have something to offer. But it feels amazingly
right, too. Like my homage to Jake. I could make him proud.
“Absolutely.”

Marcus brushes a long lock of curls
away from his forehead. “We haven’t got any money.”

“I figured that. You can use my
address for booking jobs. Or if you need a place to crash . .
.”

Evan seems to gasp. Blinking up at me,
he almost whispers, “This is madness. How do you know we won’t rob
you?”

I’m holding up both hands, palms out.
“I think you’re smart enough to know that I’d find you if you did.
Besides, all my stuff is shit.”

Marcus chuckles. “We could be
psychopaths.”

I’m looking Marcus straight in the eye
now. “No you couldn’t. You’re just two people who could use a
little guidance. Besides, you’ll find a way to pay me
back.”

I lean in, addressing the doubt in
their faces. “Look, think it over. Come by later, around six. I’ll
make you dinner. My apartment is just above this place.” Pointing
to the side entrance of the restaurant I explain, “I’m off at two.
Outside that door is a flight of stairs. My front door’s at the
top. We’ll talk about it.”