Then We'd Be Happy Read online

  are popular. Ninety percent of the guys have some kind of

  facial hair and would look better if they shaved it off.

  During lunch, Marty generally joins a group of card

  sharps for few hands of Spades. Spencer and I sit together

  and shoot the shit with anyone who cares to join us.

  He wants to be a chef and is taking classes at some sort

  of culinary academy; I want to be something, too, but I

  don’t know what.

  NITA WORKS IN THE front office, where she doesn’t really

  fit in with the others who are ten to twenty years older, so

  she generally has lunch with me and Spencer. (I think she

  has a crush on him.)

  I must admit I find one of Nita’s office mates, Ariel

  Donatello, attractive enough to imagine myself boning

  her. She’s the hot redhead I’ve flirted with a few times.

  Nita calls her a cougar and says all I’d have to do is say the

  word and she’d do me like there’s no tomorrow.

  Nita could be right.

  But she also laughs when she sees me think about it.

  Like she can read my perverted mind. Not that I would

  actually cheat on Tanya.

  10

  Happily?

  WE’RE ALL SITTING AT the Lakeside Cafe in Shoreline

  Park, drinking coffee, and watching a lone windsurfer.

  This whole area used to be a garbage dump. Now it’s a

  golf course and a man-made lake.

  Marty tilts his head toward Spencer, and we all see that

  he’s down in the dumps, as usual. We close our eyes and

  shake our heads, then return our attention to the

  struggling windsurfer.

  Marty claps Spencer on the shoulder.

  “Cheer up, Dude,” he says.

  Spencer ignores him.

  I look over at Tanya and she’s not listening either. I

  wonder what she’s thinking.

  “Hey, I know,” Marty says. “You want us to fix you up

  with a blind date?”

  The windsurfer mounts his board, positions his sail,

  starts to move, loses his balance, falls back into the water.

  “Nita, you’ve got a sister, don’t you?”

  AL RISKE

  “She’s married.”

  For better or worse, there’s not much wind on this

  sunny April morning. We sip our coffee and watch as our

  would-be surfer gets up, falls down, begins again.

  Marty still thinks he could be on to something.

  “Happily married?” he asks.

  Nita laughs.

  “No.”

  “Well, then?”

  That gets her. She laughs so hard she starts to snort,

  which always embarrasses her. The kid likes it, though.

  She’s got little Kayla with her today. The girl is so shy she

  will bury her face in her mother’s side if you so much as

  look at her, but right now she’s perched on a bright pink

  booster seat—same pink as Nita’s bob—with nowhere to

  hide. We all do our best not to let her catch us looking at

  her.

  “I’m sure Spencer could do a lot better,” Nita says.

  “Him? Are you kidding? He needs our help.”

  Spencer finally glances at us, clearly annoyed.

  “Thanks a lot,” he says.

  Then he looks out at the lake again and so do we.

  No doubt we’re all thinking the same thing: More wind,

  please.

  12

  Seriously?

  TANYA AND I ARE at the Starbucks next to our apartment

  building. It’s one of the last ones with overstuffed

  armchairs, and we’re sitting in them, drinking tall mochas,

  while everyone else shifts uncomfortably in their

  hardwood counterparts. Tanya is wearing a black leather

  biker’s jacket and a pretty polka dot dress—a look that I

  love—and I’m happy to have some time with her away

  from her business books.

  She says, “I’m sorry, Luke, but I want you to move

  out.”

  “What? Why?”

  Tanya shakes her head, then hooks her long black hair

  back behind her ears.

  “A lot of reasons,” she says. “Too many to name.”

  “Just give me one, then.”

  She sighs. A big heavy sigh, too.

  “You don’t take me seriously,” she says.

  “That’s not true.”

  AL RISKE

  “It is, Luke. It is true. You don’t take anything

  seriously.”

  “So you shouldn’t feel bad,” I say.

  She stares at me.

  “I mean, if that’s true, you shouldn’t take it personally,

  right?”

  She continues to stare at me. It does not feel good.

  “This is really bad timing,” I say.

  “What would be a good time to break up?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, “maybe when I was gainfully

  employed. You know, not…”

  “What?”

  “Not the day I get laid off.”

  She looks me in the eyes.

  “I’m not joking!” I say. “Me, Spencer, Marty . . . We’re

  all goners.”

  Tanya pries the plastic lid off her mocha, which I now

  realize is black coffee because, unlike me, she hates

  mocha. She takes a sip.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I had no idea.”

  “So I can stay?”

  She shakes her head.

  At first I think this is one of her semi-exasperated,

  what-am-I-going-to-do-with-you? head shakes. It isn’t.

  14

  Home Again

  MY PARENTS SEEM GENUINELY glad to see me when I turn

  up at their door, a little less glad when I ask if I can stay.

  “Tanya and I broke up,” I say by way of explanation.

  We’re in the kitchen and Mom is pouring me a glass of

  lemonade, with ice, because it’s ninety-seven in the shade.

  She sets it on the counter and hugs me.

  “Good,” she says.

  “Good?”

  “She doesn’t deserve you.”

  “Also, I lost my job.”

  Dad says, “Laid off?”

  I nod.

  “You’ll find something better.”

  “For sure,” I say.

  Almost anything would be better.

  Dad picks up the lemonade, takes a big gulp. I look at

  Mom.

  “You want one, too?” she asks.

  AL RISKE

  MY OLD ROOM IS the new study, but my parents let me

  stay in the guest room, which is great.

  I don’t have a lot of stuff, just some clothes I bring

  over in two Hefty bags. All the stuff in the apartment—

  the bed, sofa, table and chairs, TV, books, and stereo—

  belong to Tanya.

  Tanya is a serious person who has been busy collecting

  the essentials, the basics, and the nice-to-have items I tend

  to take for granted or simply do without.

  I own some books—I’m not a cretin—but they’re

  already (still) here, in boxes in the garage.

  16

  New Jobs

  SPENCER ANSWERS AN AD offering training in European-

  style cooking and gets himself hired at this fancy eatery,

  Bistro 227, on Santana Row, home to a collection of

  upscale shops and restaurants in San Jose. He introduces

  me to Patrick, the sous-chef, who tells me they have an

  opening in pantry
.

  “Where’s that?” I ask.

  He points over his shoulder and goes on talking.

  I’m thinking “Pantry” is a sister restaurant or maybe a

  small town I’ve never heard of. Finally I catch on. It’s the

  part of the kitchen where salads, appetizers and desserts

  are assembled.

  I agree to take the job and he puts me to work right

  away.

  I change into the white uniform and hat the restaurant

  provides (in the closest approximation of my size I can

  find). The cooks all bring their own knives, and Patrick

  suggests I do the same, but there are a couple of beat up

  AL RISKE

  ten-inch chef’s knives that belong to the bistro. He finds

  one and shows me how to sharpen it on a well-oiled

  sandstone block, then sets me to dicing onions.

  LATER, HE SHOWS ME how to peel and devein prawns, skin

  and gut calamari, clean and crack crab . . .

  I like knowing how to do these things.

  The kitchen is small and hot—up to 110 degrees on the

  line where Spencer works, grilling snapper, shark, sea bass,

  and sand dabs, but it’s not so bad in pantry.

  18

  Almost Half Human

  SPENCER’S CAR IS IN the shop, again, and he’s trying to

  save enough money to buy something more dependable.

  I’ve never owned a car—I’ve always gotten around on my

  bike or the bus—but I figure it’s time to get myself

  motorized. I’ve got my eye on a sweet Suzuki but haven’t

  put enough aside yet.

  In the meantime, Valley Transit gets us to our new

  jobs.

  We get on the bus this one time and at first it’s quiet,

  which is great because I, for one, feel like Jose Cuervo

  kicked me in the head with his blue agave boots. Then we

  hear this fat chick across the aisle talking to her skinny

  friend:

  “She started sayin’ a bunch a shit about Sherry, so I

  told her she’d better watch her fuckin’ mouth ’cuz Sherry’s

  my friend, but she kept on. So I told Sherry what she said.

  That bitch is gonna get her ass kicked if she don’t shut

  up.”

  AL RISKE

  They get off at the next stop and it’s quiet again for

  about half a block. Then there’s this voice from clear in

  the back:

  “I said, ‘What, you gonna hit me again? Does it make

  you feel like a man?’”

  It’s a woman on a flip phone.

  “Ya see, I broke up with him,” she says, “but he come

  beggin’, come crawlin’. So I took him back. Then he hit

  me again. I said, ‘That’s the last time, boy, and I left.’”

  The woman pulls the cord, the bus stops, and she gets

  off, still talking.

  I CLOSE MY EYES, rub my face, and try to hold my skull

  together. I’m pretty sure it has a crack somehow and I

  don’t want my brain to ooze out. It’s quiet for about thirty

  seconds, until we get to the next stop.

  TWO GUYS GET ON, one younger, one older. They sit

  across the aisle from each other, silent as monks, but

  then…

  “I don’t go to school anymore,” the kid says. “I’m too

  smart for school.”

  The older guy isn’t sure he heard right.

  “What’s that?” he asks.

  20

  THEN WE’D BE HAPPY

  “I said I’m too smart.”

  “Too smart to go or too smart not to?”

  “Too smart to go. They can’t teach me anything.”

  The kid starts talking about this construction job he’s

  got and all the money he’s going to make. The older guy

  can’t believe it.

  “You think you’re worth that much?”

  “Sure I am. You should’ve seen me yesterday, climbin’

  on that roof. It was so steep I slid down, had to grab hold

  of the gutter. I was just hangin’ there and started yellin’.

  They had to come put up a ladder so I could get down.”

  Spencer and I look at each other and shake our heads.

  AS WE GET OFF the bus, there’s this grizzled old guy in a

  trench coat and a fresh-faced brunette in a floaty summer

  dress who’s trying to get past all of us who have just

  flooded the sidewalk.

  The old man says, “Hello, there, how are you?”

  The girl glances at him, mumbles “Okay,” and tries to

  pick her way through the crowd.

  “You’re a real cutie, you know that?”

  The old codger is grinning like a fool. We try to get out

  of the girl’s way.

  “You sure are a cutie.”

  21

  AL RISKE

  She ignores his repeated praise and darts between

  Spencer and me.

  “Well, go to hell,” the old guy says. “I’m almost half

  human.”

  22

  Chance Meeting

  SO IT’S SUNDAY AFTERNOON and I’m hanging out at this

  place in Mountain View where Tanya and I used to

  hang—the cafe upstairs at Books Inc.

  Tanya comes up the stairs, her thick black mane

  looking like she just got out of bed.

  Damn! I love that look.

  She’s also wearing heels that make her legs look even

  longer, her butt even rounder.

  I can’t help but smile and I’m about to wave when I see

  there’s this guy behind her and now he has his hand on

  her waist. There are flecks of gray in his short black hair

  and I can tell he’s rich by the way his clothes fit and how

  soft they look.

  I watch them order sandwiches and soup. He pays, of

  course.

  Tanya starts to move in my direction and sees me

  sitting at what was always our favorite table. She flashes a

  AL RISKE

  quick half-smile and turns around, steers her new man in

  the opposite direction.

  She needn’t have bothered. I’m leaving.

  24

  Happiness Lost

  A HARD MATTRESS IN a dark room.

  A dream of happiness lost.

  Wet sheets, cold air.

  The Dinner Shift

  WE WORK THE DINNER shift, which means we come in at

  three to get things ready.

  I peel shrimp, clean calamari, tear lettuce, and boil

  pasta to a minute shy of perfection. Then I drain and cool

  the noodles before twisting them into single-serving

  bundles that I set into a tub, separating the layers with

  damp towels. Later, when an order comes in, all the cook

  has to do is grab a bundle, toss it into a wire basket, drop

  that into boiling water, and a minute later it’s done. Just

  add sauce.

  At four-thirty, the cooks sit down to eat in the dining

  room, a short break before the doors open at five.

  Saturday night is the busiest.

  Servers bring tickets to the sous chef, who calls out

  orders to the line cooks, starting with whatever will take

  the longest to cook and going down the list from there.

  Getting all dishes to a given table at the same time is

  impressive enough. Soon there are dozens of tables. (More

  THEN WE’D BE HAPPY

  than a hundred meals will be served over the course of the

  evenin
g.)

  I NOTICE THE CHEF has a collection of burns on his arms

  where he has reached into the oven too quickly and

  carelessly. He gets irate if plates sit too long before the

  server picks them up. Too long under the heating lamps

  and sauces get skins on them.

  Servers also bring tickets to me over in pantry. I

  assemble salads and crab cocktails. I shuck oysters and

  clams and send them out on beds of crushed ice. I slice

  the cheesecake and scoop the gelato.

  The last ticket comes in at ten o’clock. But nobody ever

  gets kicked out and diners sometimes stay as late as

  midnight. Meanwhile, we shut down the ovens, the grills,

  and the steam table, put everything away, and clean our

  stations. I have to wait in case any stragglers want dessert,

  but I can do that from the bar with the rest of the staff.

  27

  Messed Up

  THE THING ABOUT ME that’s kind of screwed up is, well,

  I’m not unfriendly but…

  I’m not that interested in meeting new people, either.

  Except girls. I like girls.

  Except when I don’t.

  Except when they want more from me than I can give

  them.

  I don’t like it when people expect things from me. Girl

  or guy—doesn’t matter. Expectations are hell.

  Don’t get me wrong. I keep my word and all that. If I

  say I’ll be there I’ll be there. The expectations I’m talking

  about are unspoken. Which means maybe I don’t even

  know about them, see?

  I don’t read minds.

  Or maybe I know somehow but I never signed up for

  that—whatever it is.

  Don’t try to hold me to something I never agreed to in

  the first place. That’s messed up.

  In Awe

  IT’S A SUNDAY MORNING. Not much of a crowd has come

  into the restaurant for brunch. Spencer and I are standing