Take Advantage

While she was alive my mother used to be a dancer. At least that’s what she said. I never saw her perform publicly and when I asked, she said she mainly did musicals. I never knew my father.

Going from what I had seen of musicals on the TV, I spent my childhood constantly expecting large groups of people to burst spontaneously into song. My mother couldn’t sing though. ‘Most of ‘em just mime anyway’ she used to say. That was back in the day though, I’m sure things are different now.

Back when I was a kid though, and as if to help reassert my belief in those spontaneous, perfectly performed musical numbers, my mother would occasionally burst into song and dance (as I said, she couldn’t sing. But for me she gave it a good try). All in all, it made for an interesting childhood. Even if it didn’t lead anywhere, because, as with the singing ability of those musical stars, things are different now.

*

When she died, she left me without much of an education, and little in the way of achieving one (But while I am self-taught, and quite well read; most good jobs want that itty bit of paper with my name and some college’s logo on it. And in my current financial situation, there’s not much chance of becoming a mature student anytime soon.) So these days I mostly wait. By which I mean I am a waiter. In a diner. Near where I grew up. It isn’t much, as they say, but it’ll do.

The thing of it is, working here has offered me the occasional opportunity that you wouldn’t normally associate with the food service industry. Which is the point of this story I’m slowly getting to.

*

I may be stating the obvious to anyone who holds, or has held, a job similar to mine (a McJob they sometimes call it), but I hate Mondays. But there was one Monday that, in retrospect, I did, truly enjoy. Another fact that leads to the short tale I am to tell.

It was on said Monday, in early May, that a beautiful, blonde woman walked into the diner. It was no mere bimbo however; it was Marilyn Monroe. And while I realise that she is dead, she was just as lovely as I had always imagined. She was not alone however.

Linked to her by their mutually bent, inter-locking arms was a man quite uncharacteristic of what I knew of her tastes. A shaven-headed, gorilla of a man he was; holding on to her like the infinite, cyclical banana of his dreams.

I glanced around at the other customers, but nobody had seemingly noticed her. The only other member of staff present was the owner/cook Joe (of Joe’s Diner, no less), so I went to take their order.

When I arrived at their table, I saw that he was eating an apple he had pulled from somewhere (if it had been a banana, I wouldn’t have been able to control myself) and she is playing with a small cardboard leaflet for one of those suicide hotlines, there’s about eight other different ones on the table (I don’t take anything by her having it, some guy comes in and leaves a bunch on every table; he must be getting paid to dump them around town.

It’s just that the number of these suicide hotlines that are springing up is starting to depress me. But I’m too afraid that if I increase their business by calling another will spring up to meet the extra demand, and just worsen my mood. Anyway, there’s so many, it’d be a chore in itself to decide which one to call; and I’m too depressed to give myself extra work right now.)

I’ve been standing there for a short while now, and she’s stopped playing with the ad and is looking up at me. It’s then I realise that I’ve being staring at her all that time. Monkey-man hasn’t noticed though, he’s still staring out the window and chomping away.

‘May I take you order?’ I say (except the way I say ‘order’ is like ‘ordure’). She orders, without looking at the menu, a hamburger and fries for both of them. Weird. I know you can order that kind of thing anywhere, but it doesn’t seem like the kind of meal she should be eating. The ape just keeps staring outside, looking at nothing I think.

When she’s finished I give her the customary smile, wink and ‘no problem’. It’s the wink that suggests it, I suppose. While I definitely did fancy her (who wouldn’t? Or hasn’t?) I don’t think I meant the wink as anything more than just a wink. But that, apparently, was all it took. She smiled, winked back, and bit her lip in that way some women do to look sexy. I was sold; and judging by her boyfriend-slash-husband-slash-whatever’s current vacant stare, he wouldn’t be too hard to get rid of (not that I do this kind of thing often. I just like to take advantage of what opportunities may present themselves).

Speaking directly to the ape this time (in confident, authoritive tones) I mentioned that their meal could be at least half an hour away because, as I’m sure you have noticed sir, we are quite understaffed at the moment. Which was true.

But before I could continue, she winked at me, smiled, and leaned over to him. I could just about hear her whisper in his ear, but I couldn’t make out the words. He smiled though, and then stood up and walked out.

I waited a second, before leaning down to her and asking what she said to him. She didn’t tell me, instead: ‘Suffice to say, he’ll wait at least half an hour out in the car with his trousers around his ankles before he realises I amn’t coming.’ I smile. She looks around the diner. ‘Meet me in the ladies’, she says. I look around; she’s the only lady in there. I wink again.

*

It takes Joe a full five minutes to understand the order I give him, and only after I go back there and read it out to him. Then I say I’m taking a quick break. ‘Don’t’ be too long’, he says. He’s a good guy, I told him the truth later on.

*

The ladies’ and gent’s toilets are side by side in Joe’s, down a short corridor with no door; so it isn’t too hard for me to slip in to her (so to speak). The toilets themselves are always pretty clean, especially the ladies’. There’s another employee of Joe’s who spends a little too much time cleaning them each day. She’s already in there anyway, with a little makeup bag. And she smiles when she sees me.

Now I amn’t going to supply you with any sordid details of our little escapade (there’s other websites out there for that kind of thing), but I will say that it was just as things were starting to get hot (without it getting that hot) that her boyfriend chooses to make his appearance. We were against the wall opposite the door, so while she could simply look over my shoulder and react, I had to disentangle myself and turn 180 degrees to face whoever it was. Then I could react. With suitable horror.

He started his march towards me; I had to say something. I didn’t think Marilyn was going to back me up.

‘You should be ashamed of yourself’, he growled. By his expression I had assumed he was talking to me, and I was shocked. ‘Me?’ I said, ‘I only felt her up! You’re the one who’s fucking a dead woman!’

This stopped him. ‘Huh?’ was all he could say, but he was still getting closer. I had an idea though, and I closed my eyes and prayed to the gods, my mother up in heaven and Andrew Lloyd Webber that it might work. I could feel his breath on my forehead. I raised my finger in front of him, hoping he wouldn’t bite it off. And then said:

‘Watch me dance.’

And so I danced, just like when I was a kid with my mother. And I sang (it doesn’t matter what song). I danced and I sang. I sang and I danced right out the door looking at his big, fat, unbelieving face. I wasn’t great, but that probably helped; and as soon as I was out of the bathroom I ran straight back home. Only stopping once on the way to call work, to tell Joe what happened and to say nothing.

*

Later Joe said that even though the guy scared the shit out of him, he had a really hard time not to laugh in his face. And that he didn’t think she looked anything like Marilyn Monroe.

© Daniel Doyle 2001