The Last Phone Booth in Manhattan(27)

“No, I’m not quite ready yet. But I’m hoping after a few more weeks of shifts here, I will be?” As much as I hoped that would be the case, the statement came out as more of a question.

“No better Broadway boot camp in the world. Here you go, this one here’s yours,” he said, pointing to the last door in a long row of lockers. “Make sure to actually lock it, though. We’ve had a few servers with sticky fingers.”

“Got it.” I nodded, mentally noting to buy a lock on my next trip to Duane Reade.

“Here’s where you clock in and out. Binder’s on the deeeeeesk.” He elongated the vowel as he reached across his work space to grab for the time sheets. “You stamp ’em and then return ’em to that same spot when you’re done.”

“All right, easy enough. How does it work with the song selections? Same as before? We get to choose our own for each set?”

“Pretty much the same drill. You perform one song every hour over the course of your six-hour shift. Generally, it shakes out to two solos, two ensemble numbers, and two duets, but that depends sometimes on staffing. I assign the ensemble and duet numbers, but you can choose your own solos. We don’t mandate costumes or props, but nothing’s changed—the more you’re willing to commit to the role, the bigger the tips. Speaking of . . . ,” he said, pointing to a short, curvy young woman in a dark wool coat that almost hit the floor and a large black hat adorned with two Hasidic curls fastened to its sides.

The girl took her place at the center of the diner’s stage and began performing the famed bottle dance from Fiddler on the Roof. I was more than a little impressed to see that she, unlike so many dancers before her, did not glue the bottle to the hat and instead actually mastered the balance she needed to perform the full choreography without any added assistance.

When the song ended, she tipped her hat as she took her bow, illustrating that the bottle wasn’t fastened to the top, and was met by even louder applause and a hailstorm of dollar bills from the crowd. She collected her tips and exited the stage to where we stood watching in awe.

“That was amazing,” I gushed.

“Another great set, Lyla. And this here is a new server, well . . . a new old server, Avery Lawrence—”

“Ouch,” I teased.

“Oh my God, the Avery Lawrence? Like high E above middle C Avery Lawrence?!”

“Wait, you know who I am?” I asked, certain I’d misheard her.

“Of course I do. Everyone does. Your range is legendary. So excited to meet you,” she said, extending her hand toward me.

“Likewise,” I said, offering mine in return.

“Well, I better get changed and check on my tables. Hey, Charlie, care if I head out a little early? I have to run home for another appointment.”

“No problem. I’ve got my fingers crossed for you this time.”

“Please! Fingers, toes, I’ll take any luck we can get.” Lyla laughed and turned to face me. “Great meeting you, Avery. Can’t wait to catch your set next shift.”

“Thanks, and same.”

Over the next few hours, Charlie reacquainted me with the diner’s opening and closing procedures, introduced me to all the new menu items, and walked me through the updated computer system. When most of the dinner tables cleared out to catch their eight o’clock curtains, leaving just a couple of diners, we finally took a break.

“Are you hungry? You must be. Let me grab us something from the kitchen,” Charlie offered.

I nodded, the sudden thought of food making me salivate, and pulled out a chair to relieve the pressure from my throbbing feet. He returned not long after, carrying a triple-decker sandwich stuffed high with turkey, lettuce, bacon, and juicy bright-red tomatoes, plus a bubbly soda. “A Kit-Kat Club and a Climb Every Mountain Dew,” he said as he placed them down and pulled up a seat opposite me.

“Nothing for you?” I asked, already starting to pick at the fries from the small basket.

“Nah, I’m good. I may grab a fry or two, though,” he said.

“My Edel-fries are your Edel-fries,” I joked and pushed them closer to him so that the plate resided evenly between the two of us.

“Danke,” he said with a grin and punctuated his gratitude by snagging a crispy fry from the top of the pile. “So, I can give you Mondays, Tuesdays, and Fridays for now. As you know, weekends are the most desirable shifts, so I don’t have any Saturday or Sunday slots at the moment, but that’ll most likely change in the spring.”

“I’ll take as many shifts as you can give me. And feel free to pass my number to the other servers in case they need any last-minute coverage. I’m in hustler mode,” I joked with a half-hearted chuckle, flexing my wannabe muscle from my pathetic excuse for a bicep.

He narrowed his eyes, catching the anxiety in my voice. “Everything okay, BrAvery?”

“Just trying to rebuild my life, that’s all.”

He raised his eyebrows. “That’s all? Six years ago, it seemed like you had it all figured out.”

“I guess I was a better actress back then.”

Charlie laughed. “Yeah, what happened? You were so good. Why’d you give it up?”

“I didn’t mean to give it up, but the longer I stayed away, the harder it felt to jump back in. So instead, I threw myself into a new life and ended up playing a part I didn’t realize I’d even auditioned for. But it feels like maybe the universe is giving me a second chance to get it all right this time.”