Soundless

Walking on the wet streets of 9th Avenue, I pushed open the small diner’s door. It gave a delightful ring and I recognized the same smiles upon entering. Yes, I am a waitress and I’ve been serving coffees and waffles for nearly two years. A city girl, but could hardly get away as fashionable as she could. Two years of grease and tease, still, I never get tired of it.

“I miei uomini! Check out the ice there by the door, heh…” a bubbly chef hollered at my direction. Some men looked my way like I’m that someone really to be noticed. Yet they welcomed me with sincere nods and smiles. It wouldn’t be much surprising for me because of the fact that Armando has his way of making me laugh. His Italian accent still lingers and sticks in like maple syrup on a hot pancake. I folded my umbrella, took my trench coat off and wore my outmoded apron, finishing my uniform with a nametag so delinquent that it barely hangs on. “You and your out-of-date diner lingo again, Armando…” I flipped and beamed out approaching the counter. Though many times he jokes around, he’s a very good friend of mine who is pretty much love listening to my problems. In the end, he does a well job at it.

Armando put down his spatula and wiped clean his hands. “Ay, Il mio sole dolce! You’re very, very early! Eh, go to work now after a quick sandwich, yes?” He served a plate of club sandwiches fronting me. I took one and savored each bite. “Oh, you make such great sandwiches! Why won’t you make me a dozen more, how about that?” I teased him as I lick each of my fingers. Armand pivoted and grabbed his spatula. He then swings it back and forth and gestured a “No-no” at me. “You want to get all fat like your old Armando, huh?” He grabbed his round tummy on one side and shakes the blubber up and down. “No, no, no, missy! You don’t get your beautiful body be a blubber nugget!” Armando made a delighted sigh and turned to me.

“Now, now, Caroline,” Armando called while scratching his moustache. “You should not patronize me yet, for I shall rise and start my own restaurant! One day, I’m pretty sure I will and no Cheyenne for me anymore! You can eat there as much as you want!” He stroke my face and pinch my cheek hard, laughing to his heart’s content as he made his way back to the kitchen. He is still not giving up on it, huh. Well, a man can dream. Anyone has their own freedom to dream. But to me, people can just live in hope than live in a dream even though it’s as real as it seems. Hope is something significant for someone who most certainly cannot afford to lose, making him stronger the more it gets harder to reach his dream. I learned it from him, and I’m sure he’ll make his dream happen. I rubbed my sore cheek and hid a giggle to myself.

Tapping fingers, the random sounds of footsteps, chit-chats, the sharp clamors of utensils, and the ring up in every order…I might be having another round of nostalgia of my first day at work. “So it’s one hot coffee, spare ribs, French toast and hot dog,” I made a quick recap of the customer’s order. He folded the newspaper and looked up to me. “Yes, thank you.” I nodded in approval and began walking off. He appeared as if he had forgotten something, so he called for me again. “Excuse me, could you make my coffee with cream instead?” I wrote down the changes and replied, “Oh alright, sir.” I tip-toed my way to the small window of the kitchen and gave the list of order to Armando. I will most likely hear him yelling out the orders inside, and he did.

“Alright, uomini! A hot blonde with sand, First lady, French toast and some bow-wow! Move now!” he clapped his hands twice with the paper crumpled and greased already. Man, he really loves diner lingo.

Pouring coffee on a porcelain cup, someone pinched me from behind again. “Oh my God,” I jerked off because of the stingy pain on both side of my waist. “Heya there, girl!” a loud and alarming “ghetto” voice happen to have such a minimum disturbance. Just before I could speak, I’ve already spilled coffee on the counter and across the floor. “No! Not my beautiful terrazzos!” Armando shouted dreadfully at the scene. Few people got down their seats so they won’t get stains on their pants. With my hands on my waist, I faced Stella with that icy stare. “Ahright, ahright! Dame! I’ll go clean…it up! What yo starin’ now, ehem?” she came moving her head left to right like an Indian lady. I’ve always wanted to learn how to do that. Stella is my best friend since we both seen each other in the diner. At that time, both of us were applying for the same job. And now, here we are. Scrubbing and wiping the floors, letting the others do our job. I bet Armando has a hard migraine going on again.

Like I said, I’ll never get tired of it. I may not have the luxury of living my life as someone standing with prestige, but at least I have the pleasure of having friends and will still be a Cinderella girl every twenty-four hours. I do not wish to be a princess even for a day. No, thank you. I think I’d rather be part of this small world, and relish each moment as I live.