Girl in Pieces

I stand across the street from the coffeehouse for a good ten minutes. I’ve been up since four a.m., even though I found a little travel alarm clock in Mikey’s trunk and set it for five, drawing and working up my nerve to come here. It’s almost six a.m. and Fourth Avenue is starting to liven up, stores rolling up gates, people lugging tables out onto the sidewalk.

The neon TRUE GRIT sign is lopsided, the U blinking on and off.

I cross the street, taking deep breaths. Just as I’m about to knock on the heavy front door to the coffeehouse, the green screen door a few feet down pops open, the one Riley emerged from yesterday.

And there he is, already smoking. And smiling.

“Strange Girl,” he says amiably. “This is the first day of the rest of your life. Welcome. Come in.”

A woman with pink fox-tipped hair rides up on a blue bicycle. She looks at us curiously. She’s older, blocky, in a torn sweatshirt and long tasseled skirt.

“What’s up, R? What’s going on?” She smiles at me nicely as she locks her bike to the rack.

“Temporary disher, Linus. Hey,” he says, looking down at me. “I don’t believe I actually know your name, Strange Girl.”

“It’s Charlie,” I say quietly. “Charlie Davis.”

He holds out his hand. “Well, it’s excellent to meet you, Charlie Charlie Davis. I’m Riley Riley West.”

I hesitate, but then I take his hand. It’s warm. I haven’t touched anyone nicely since I petted Louisa’s hair. My body floods with a sudden warmth and I pull my hand away.

“Right,” he says cheerily. “Back to the matter at hand, yes? Dirty dishes, coffee, ungrateful peons, and the long slow march to death.”

Linus laughs.

—

We walk through the green door, which Riley says is the employee entrance. There is a gray, industrial-looking punch clock on the wall and slots jammed with time cards. Linus heads to the front and in a few minutes, I hear the grinding of coffee beans and the air begins to smell thick, almost sweet, from the smell of fresh coffee brewing.

Riley shows me how to load the dishwasher, what buttons to press, where the dish trays are stacked, where to rinse and store the bus tubs. The dish and kitchen area is steamy and hot, the floor mats slick with soapy water and slimy food scraps. The sink is filled with pots, pans, crusted dishes. Riley frowns. “Those girls didn’t do a great job of cleaning up last night, I guess.”

Linus slips past us to get something from the grill area. “Welcome to the madhouse, kid,” she says, smiling, and lopes back to the front counter. She starts fussing with CDs.

Riley tosses me a grimy apron and begins slicing bell peppers and onions, flinging them into a stainless steel bin. I pull the apron over my head and try to tie it in back. It’s too big, so I have to loop the strings around and tie it in front.

From the corner of my eye, I see Riley pause as he waits for whatever Linus is going to put on. She presses a button and there it is, Astral Weeks, plaintive and sad. He nods to himself, as though he approves, and starts dropping bread on the grill.

I turn back to the sink, staring at the piles of dishes and pots. I turn on the water. This is what you came here for, I tell myself. Here you are. Work.

In an hour or so, Linus unlocks the front door. We don’t have long to wait before people begin to show up, a hive of voices and cigarette smoke. Some of them nod at me, but mostly they just talk to Riley and Linus. I don’t mind. I’ve never minded listening. I’m better at that than talking, anyway.

I spend the morning loading dishes into the washer, waiting, yanking the rack and restacking in the cook and wait areas. To restack in the cook area, I have to walk behind Riley and reach up to the shelves. The cook station is small and opens onto the dish area. There’s a grill, fry pit, oven, two-door stainless steel refrigerator, the cutting board counter, and a small island.

From listening to Riley talk to the waitpeople, I learn what meager food True Grit serves and who works there. A lot of them seem to be in bands or in school. The sturdy, crackling whir of the espresso machine is always in the background. I’m getting thirsty, but I’m afraid to ask for anything. Do you have to pay for drinks here? I didn’t bring any money. Everything Ellis and I made has to be spent on a place to live. When I think no one’s looking, I take a glass and drink from the sink tap. Pretty soon, though, my stomach starts rumbling, and having to scrape leftover food into the garbage gets pretty painful. I think about snagging some uneaten halves of sandwiches and mentally make a note to figure out where to hide them.

Once, when I return with more dishes and silverware, Riley’s not cooking. He’s looking at me intently, which makes my skin prickle with embarrassment.

“Where you from, Strange Girl?”

“Minnesota,” I answer warily. I scooch by him to put some dishes on the rack above his shoulder. He doesn’t make room for me, so my back brushes against the front of his body.

“Oh. Interesting. Minnie-So-Tah. You betcha. I played the Seventh Street Entry once. You ever go there?”

I shake my head. The punks had called him semifamous. The 7th Street Entry is a club where cool bands play in downtown Minneapolis. Is…was…Riley in a band?

“You moved out here for a boy, I bet, huh?” He smiles wickedly.

“I did not,” I say, my voice flaring with anger. Not really, I think. Maybe. Yes? “What’s it to you?”

“You’re kind of a strange one, you know that?”

I’m quiet. His attention is freaking me out. I can’t tell if he’s being nice in a real way, or trying to bait me. You can’t tell with people sometimes. Finally, I sputter, “Whatever.”

“You can feel free to talk me up, Strange Girl. I don’t bite, you know.”

Linus sticks an order slip on the pulley. “Not right now, you don’t.”

Riley tosses a crust of bread at her and she ducks.

At four-thirty Riley says I can go. I take off my apron and run it through the dishwasher, just like he showed me. I’m sweaty in my long-sleeved T-shirt and push up my sleeves to cool off.

Riley is about to hand me some cash when he says, “Whoa, whoa, now, hey. What’s up with that?” I look down, horrified, and quickly yank my sleeves down over my arms.

“Nothing,” I mumble. “Just cat scratches.” I grab the money and stuff it into the pocket of my overalls.

Riley murmurs, “I hope you get rid of that cat. That’s a fucking horrible cat, Strange Girl.” I can feel his eyes on me, but I don’t look at his face. That’s it. I’m out. No way he’ll let me work here now.

“Absolutely,” I answer, flustered. “Today. Right now, as a matter of fact.” I walk quickly to the back door.

He shouts, “Come back tomorrow at six a.m. and talk to Julie. I’ll put in a good word for you!”

Grateful and surprised, I look back. I can come back another day, which means maybe another day after that. I smile, even though I don’t mean to, and he kind of laughs at me before turning back to the grill.

I’m achy and tired. The smell of wet food clings to my clothes and skin, but I have money in my pocket and more work tomorrow. I buy a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter at the Food Conspiracy co-op across the street.

Back in Mikey’s garage, I lie in bed as the light fades outside, my body filmed over with dried sweat, old food, and soapy water. It feels good to rest after being on my feet all day, lifting heavy bus tubs and dish trays. I slowly eat one peanut butter sandwich, then another. The first day of work wasn’t so bad. The people seemed okay. Riley seems nice enough, and plenty cute. It’s something, anyway. When I finish the second sandwich, I start the rickety shower and strip. The water is cold on my body and I shiver. I look around. No shampoo or soap. I take care not to look at myself too closely, but it doesn’t work, and I see flashes of the damage on my thighs. My stomach sinks.

I’m Frankenstein. I’m the Scarred Girl.

I tilt my face up toward the spray and suddenly the water switches to hot, hot, all at once. I pretend that sudden sting of heat is why I’m crying.