After a brief exchange of dialog with “Grandi,” as I called him, I sat down
at the corner table of the now empty cafe, facing the window so I could
watch the street as the new waitress put away the last dishes and wiped off
the tables. She looked like someone who was in a losing battle with life
after too many bad experiences, but willing to continue the fight. Grandi
locked the door and shut down most of the lights, pointing to the new
waitress and saying, “Hey, meet Ellen, she’s a-starting tonight; she’s a
new in town” as he disappeared into the kitchen to help his wife finish up
the cleaning. The expresso machine complained loudly as it dripped out the
last cup of the night.
She would exit to the sidewalk every few minutes and check her customers,
filling a cup of coffee or taking away a plate, only to stand in the
doorway for a moment and look off down the street before disappearing back
into the cafe. Her medium-length wavy bleached-blond hair moved strangely,
witness to damage from repeated styling. Even her clothes looked rough,
her knee-length jeans fighting her as she walked, her white t-shirt half
untucked and hanging crooked, but all the elements brought her a certain
exotic aire, made her look strong-willed and confident.
The cooler night air began to appear, rustling through the trees as it
wandered down the street and through the cafe. After the Spaniards went
onward, we brought in the sidewalk furniture and turned off the exterior
lights, closing shop for another day. I was still wide awake and the now
refreshing air begged me to stay outdoors for a while more, to go over to
the Italia and chat with the owner, sit at one of those black marble tables
and drink a strong cappuchino. The waitress was clearing her last sidewalk
table as I went inside, carefully balancing plates and glasses on a big
gray Rubbermaid tray as she glanced at me out of the corner of her eye.
Eventually the sky lost all hints of sunlight and the sidewalk tables
emptied one by one, allowing me to rest for a moment as my single remaining
table full of Spaniards engaged itself in an animated conversation, arms
flailing and gesticulating wildly, beer sitting sweating and getting warm.
I looked across the street to the Cafe Italia, with the “I” in “Italia”
blinking on and off as the neon tube went bad, when I caught a glimpse of a
new waitress standing wearily behind the counter slowly counting her tips,
the neon reflected in the display cases of the cafe.
