The Cocktail Waitress Read Online Free Page B

say a person can be both.”
    “… Well, then, what do you want me to call you?”
    “Whatever you wish, sir.”
    “Mrs. Medford?”
    “… I admit in a bar it sounds a bit silly.”
    “I agree. I’d rather call you Joan.”
    “Then, please do.”
    We both were sounding self-conscious, and our eyes locked. His gaze wandered down to my legs, and then locked with mine again. I knew that, in spite of our small clash, or perhaps because of it, this man was attracted to me. I waited, and then, in a faintly personal way, asked him: “What do you want me to call you ?”
    He waited, while his mouth twitched in a smile, and then very solemnly said: “I’m Earl K. White the Third.”
    He spoke as though I should know who Earl K. White the Third was, and perhaps even fall down from surprise, but I’d never heard of Earl K. White the Third. However, hating to disappoint any man well-off enough for there to be three of him, I pitched my voice as though greatly impressed: “Oh? Really?”
    “Yes. Now you know.”
    “Mr. White, I’m honored.”
    “Mrs. Medford, Joan, likewise.”
    Then, after looking me up and down once more, especially down,he added: “If I may be personal, Joan, I’d say your husband’s a lucky man.”
    I knew it was really a question, and I waited a moment before answering. Then: “Mr. White,” I told him, “I don’t have a husband— I’m recently widowed, I’m sorry to say. But I do have a child that I have to support, a little boy three years old, which is why I took this job, and came out in this outlandish garb. I may say I applied for work on the restaurant side, but then was told I was wanted in here, or more qualified for work in here, whatever it was. I don’t myself quite know the reason for my transfer—unless they thought I looked well in the uniform. Or costume. Or lack of costume—whatever it is.”
    “Whatever it is, it’s most becoming.” Then: “Joan, I judge you’ve been through the wringer—may I express my sympathy? Belated, but sincere. I’ve been through the same wringer. I’m widowed too— my wife died a few years ago.”
    “Oh? Then I express my sympathy too.”
    “Thank you, Joan. Thank you very much.”
    It was all stiff, self-conscious, but we managed to get it said: I was free, and he was. Then, as though to switch to casual things, he said: “Beautiful weather we’re having.”
    Now my mother had said to me once, “You’ll be told: Don’t talk about the weather. Joan, always talk about it. It’s the one thing everyone has in common with everyone else, and often the only thing to talk about. Talk isn’t always so easy—talk about what you can talk about.”
    “Oh it certainly is,” I answered. “I read somewhere there are more quotations about June, about the weather we have in June, than about any other month. A day like today you know why.”
    “That’s fascinating, Joan, I’ll have to look it up in Bartlett.”
    Who Bartlett was I had no idea, though next day I found out. Wetalked along, about the difference a fine day makes, and then suddenly he asked for his check, and I went to the bar and wrote it. When I brought it to him, he took out a five-dollar bill and put it down, but when I reached for it he covered my hand and put it aside. Then he picked up the five, returned it to his wallet, and took out a twenty that he put down in its place. I took it to the bar, rang up 85 cents on the register, and took out his change, three fives, four ones, and 15 cents in nickels. Then remembering about the four bits, I put one of the ones back and took four quarters out. Then I put the fives, ones, and change on a pewter change tray that was there, and went back to the table with them. I confess it was in my mind, as a way of being on purpose quite personal, to decline the two quarters he’d give me—“Please, Mr. White, not from you.” Because, I don’t mind saying, a rich widower who liked me wasn’t someone to treat as a customer. “I