Small Favors

It was prom night and I wasn’t exactly dressed for it.  Instead of catching a limo with my friends, I was going to work at Sonic--my usual after school closing shift. How many high school dreams had centered on that night and on a fairytale gown that would magically make my dreams come true?  I looked down at the red Sonic polo shirt and the slightly faded black jeans and the black Reeboks which were as close as I would come to glass slippers tonight.   With a sigh, I closed the front door and walked down the cracked sidewalk to my mother’s waiting car.

It had been a hard year.  We had lost our house after months of not being able to make the payments.  Now Dad finally had a job but it was barely paying the rent on an old gray house with the rickety porch.  We went to the local church food bank once a week and picked up the two brown bags of groceries that we were entitled to as a family of four.  My mother and I always went.  I held the mimeographed paper with its little boxes: so many units of meats, this many canned vegetables, that many fruits, a bag of rice and a loaf of bread.  Dinner was no longer a matter of preparing what we were hungry for.  It was a test of creativity.  What could we make with what was available in those two brown paper bags? My salary at Sonic was a necessary part of our household income and a welcome way for me to eat some real high school kid food.

There’s nothing like cleaning counters and restocking Styrofoam cups and straws to jolt you back into reality.  It was a regular Friday night as far as everyone else was concerned.  We were short handed since the high school age help were all off tonight with the exception of yours truly.  Stack the food on the tray; don’t forget the ketchup and the napkins.  Do I have the right number of straws?  Ticket goes in my right hand.  Change goes in the right pocket.  Money to be changed goes in the left hand.  Thank God we didn’t have to wear skates like the car hops of old. 

As my shift went on, neither my friends nor my fairy Godmother had made an appearance.  I figured my friends were too embarrassed.  It would be awkward for them to come. I couldn’t really socialize and they would probably feel guilty that I wasn’t able to go.  I cleaned fingerprints off the outside door and hoped their parents were the type to take pictures.  It would be easier that way anyway.  I wouldn’t have to act cheerful and pretend that I had never wanted to go in the first place.  I had already put on the performance of a lifetime to keep my mom from feeling guilty.

The beep of the speaker was followed by a familiar voice.  Brenda and her date had dropped by after all.  I took out the large cherry Coke and the Dr. Pepper.  She had shed her usual jeans and t-shirt like a ragged cocoon.  Tonight she was almost unrecognizable in a long pink prom dress.  I couldn’t feel anything but happy for her.  She put up with years of dealing with her drunk mother until a couple from church offered to let her live with them.    As a special surprise, the mother of the house took Brenda to the fabric store and let her pick out a pattern and material for a dream dress. At least someone’s fairy godmother was on the job.

Brenda and her date didn’t stay long.  I hung around for a few a minutes and she told me a little about the prom.  She was careful to make it sound good enough not to offend her date but not too wonderful so that I would feel bad.  I could tell her performance was as much as of a strain for her as mine was for me.  Her satin Payless dyed-to-match pumps were twitching like the tip of a cat’s tail.  Her date made some excuse about having to meet some other friends.  With relief we said goodbye and they drove away, Garth Brooks’ voice soaring out of the open windows.

It was almost closing time.  We started cleaning up and getting ready to go home.  I felt hollow.  The parking lot was deserted.  All of the laughing prom people were off somewhere getting drunk or doing magical prom things together.  I was just getting ready to go lower the flag so we could truly close up when a red Chevy Nova pulled up and the speaker buzzed.  Everyone looked at it with hostility.  The manager was there.  It was still five minutes to 11.  We were open whether we liked it or not.

I didn’t really pay attention to what was ordered.  I was busy stacking and wiping while the other carhop prepared to take the food out.  The cook groaned about having to fire up the grill after he had already cleaned it.    His grumbling almost drowned out the sizzling of the meat patties as they thumped and skidded-- frozen and unappetizing.  In only a few minutes the fries were done and the burgers were stuffed into the sacks and the drinks were in the cups with lids pushed down carelessly.  The other carhop smacked the bags on the tray and slid out through the doors.

I was on self absorbed automatic pilot when the speaker crackled to life just as the other carhop came back in.   The curse words came through at ear stinging volume.  The order was wrong and it was the end of the world from the way the woman was carrying on.  The carhop who had taken the order out refused to retrieve it and deal with the clearly crazy customer who we could see was leaned half out her window screaming into the speaker.  The manager gave up trying to reason with either the customer or the other carhop.  He ordered me to go get the bags and tell her that her food would be free once they remade it to her specifications.   You know, if I could get her to hear me over her screaming. 

I swallowed and took the empty tray to bring back the rejected bags of food and pushed open the door with my hip.  The customer had fallen silent, but her anger was as thick as fog as I got nearer to the car. She started shouting again when I was still several feet away.  I stopped close enough to be polite but while staying out of reach then I stood waiting while curses hit me like freezing rain. 

I don’t know why, but while I was waiting for her to finish, I looked at her--really looked.  She was a pale woman, breakably thin with ropey veins on her hands.  Her head was covered with a faded Dallas Cowboys bill cap.  In her fury, it had become tilted at an angle that revealed that her hair was the consistency of thin cotton candy and about a half inch long.  All her curses suddenly dried up and we were, for a moment, locked in each other’s eyes.  Her eyes were red with tiredness or crying and dark shadows beneath them I forgot my careful speech about the food being free.  “I’m sorry.”

I think she knew that I wasn’t talking about the food although I didn’t know her and had no right to pity her.  “I’m so sorry.”  I took a breath and collected my thoughts, “I’m sorry we messed up your order.”

Those thin white fingers grasped the black steering wheel and the ropey veins stood out more.  The indentions of the wheel were as regular and graceful as the edges of a pie crust.  Her head fell forward and her forehead rested for a moment against those black plastic ruffles, pushing the Cowboys hat further back on her head. The light from the speaker showed her naked scalp beneath the cotton candy fuzz. 

“No, it’s not your fault.” Her voice was a strained near whisper now.  “I just wanted.”  She swallowed, “I just wanted something to be easy tonight.”

Tears filled my eyes so that she was a blur.  Knowing it was inadequate I offered all I had to give, “Your food is free.  We’ll make it again.”  Her head didn’t lift. “They’re already making it.  I’m just here to tell you and get the stuff we messed up.”  I gingerly lifted the rejected bag onto the tray in my hand. “I’ll be right back.”

I turned and left her in the heavy silence.  The manager shoved the corrected order in my arms almost as soon as the door shut behind me and I turned again to go back. 

Her face was turned now so that I saw only her profile as she stared ahead into the darkness beyond the pool of streetlight.  “Ma’am?”  “I have your order now.”  I read off the ticket, hoping she would respond. She pulled in a deep breath, “Thank you.”  She took my hand as I handed the bag in and pressed something into it.  Then she pulled the gearshift down and reversed out of the lot and into the night. 

I looked down in to my hand.  It was a ten dollar bill—a bigger tip than I’d ever gotten.  I stood there for a moment listening to the wind catch the flag so that the grommets rang against the flagpole like tiny gongs. 

My return to the little lighted room was cause for congratulations all around.  How did I shut her up?  Why didn’t I curse back at her?  The group outdid themselves spinning stories of what the outcome would have been if one of them had gone outside instead of me.  I let them talk, all dreams of ball dresses replaced by thoughts of white hands and ropey veins. 

Janna O’Donnell

Copyright 2007