The Last Phone Booth in Manhattan(19)
Somewhere between singing show tunes for tips, the impromptu duets with my fellow servers, and the steadfast belief we all held that some well-known producer would wander in and offer one of us a role in their next musical, we became a kind of family. Those walls held a lot of hope and a lot of heartache, and I remembered how my pulse would accelerate at the anticipation of not knowing which one would greet me on any given day. But really it didn’t matter, we had each other’s backs either way. After five years and somewhere over fifteen hundred shifts, the diner became like home to me, and standing here now, it was as if I’d clicked my heels three times and recited Glinda’s famous mantra.
Stepping inside and scanning the dining room, I was relieved to see little had changed. The kitschy 1950s decor, the twinkling lights that practically covered the whole ceiling, the large platform-like stage smack in the middle of all the booths and tables. Three servers, none of whom I recognized, were standing under the center spotlight belting out “One Day More” from Les Misérables, doing their best to cover every single part. Even though their Jean Valjean was nothing to write home about, it didn’t matter; the crowd ate up the performance, just like always.
I waited for the thunderous applause to die down and went to the hostess stand to see if they had any seats available at the counter.
“First come, first serve. Take any spot that’s open. Should be plenty, the matinee crowd just left,” the hostess said, gesturing to a few empty spaces.
I snagged an open seat between two couples enjoying their lunches and a performance of “Mr. Cellophane” from Chicago and shrugged out of my coat as the server approached to take my order.
“What can I get for you?” she asked.
“Just some coffee.”
“We have a Starlight Espresso, a Phantom of the Mocha, an Americano in Paris,” she said, rattling off a list of Broadway-themed drinks.
“You don’t have just coffee? There used to just be coffee.”
“Closest thing I can offer you is a Do-Re-Misto.”
I nodded. “Sure, sounds great.”
A few minutes later, she set the steaming drink down in front of me. I checked around for the sugar canister, but seeing none attempted to borrow some from the couple to my right, but they were so razzle-dazzled by the spectacle, I couldn’t seem to get their attention.
I pushed up from the counter and leaned all the way forward. “Hey, excuse me, can I get some sugar for my coffee?”
The server whizzed by me to drop off a Don’t Cry for Me Margherita pizza to another patron, completely ignoring my request. I called out to the other server behind the counter, his back to me as he ran a credit card through at the register.
“’Scuse me, can I get some sugar, please?” I repeated.
“Sure, here, no problem,” he said, spinning on his heels and setting the dispenser down beside my cup.
I could hardly believe my eyes. “Charlie?”
The man in front of me stood about a head taller than I remembered, sporting a clean, short haircut, so different from the floppy-haired young guy I worked with almost ten years earlier. Charlie’s face, once soft and cherubic, now had the chiseled features of a man, from his structured chin to his hollowed cheekbones. The only feature unchanged were his deep-set warm cornflower-blue eyes. He was simultaneously the guy I closed the diner with every weekend and one I barely knew anymore. My eyes widened to take him in. No question, he was still startlingly good-looking, like a professional headshot come to life.
We used to be pretty good friends. We’d psych each other up for upcoming auditions and then talk each other down after our numerous rejections. We’d help each other rehearse the small two-bit roles we’d occasionally land, spending late-night hours after Mimi’s closed reading lines back and forth over slices of whatever pie of the day we had left over. There was never anything romantic between us beyond some fun flirtation and showstopping duets. It was just nice to have a work buddy who really understood what it was like trying to make it as an actor in New York.
When he saw me, his mouth dropped open. His deep voice startled me from my gawking. “My God,” he sighed, “BrAvery Lawrence, is that you?!”
I’d completely forgotten the nickname he’d anointed me with after a particularly saucy rendition of “Big Spender” from Sweet Charity that had a group of buttoned-up businessmen losing their minds. Man, I made some good tips that night.
“You still work here?” I threw my hands over my mouth. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for that to come out as rudely as it did. I’m just surprised to see you.”
He chuckled and nodded. “Yeah, still here. I am the manager though now, so you know, livin’ the dream. And what about you? Off touring with the Royal Shakespeare Company doing proper th-ee-ehh-ter?” he asked in a mocking British accent.
“Not quite, more like looking for a job. And though I’m a little out of practice, I swear I still have some juice left in these pipes,” I said, even though I wasn’t quite sure that was true. It’d been more than a hot minute since I’d taken ’em for a real test drive, so I was hoping that, if called to it, muscle memory would kick in and I would be able to squeak out a passable rendition of something.
“I have no doubt. You were one of the few servers who could hit a high E above middle C.” Charlie slowly put his receipt book down by the register, dusted off his hands, and extended an open palm toward me, his eyebrows helping to communicate the invitation. “You know, we do have an opening . . .”