Bret Anthony Johnston

When I'd worked at Blue Water, the man who stocked the Pepsi machine would brag about free lapdances when his route took him to The Landing Strip out by the airport, and a customer — a young guy who delivered newspapers and always pawned his fishing rod — said he'd twice happened upon a married couple having sex in their front yard, but most of my deliveries went to construction sites or businesses where women wore suits and bifocals: banks, other restaurants, a fabric store, a podiatrist's office. Mornings were our busiest time, and there was usually a lunch rush, but by mid-afternoon our phone stopped ringing and Mrs. Martinez tallied our receipts. I swept and watered the potted ivies and ferns behind the cash register.

At the end of my first week I asked Melinda — who was Alma's daughter and a year older than me — why we didn't stay open for dinner. She said, “The only ones that come after lunch are wearing suits.”

She was wiping down the tables before I flipped the chairs and balanced them on the Formica. When Melinda leaned over to spray the surface, I saw a butterfly tattoo on the small of her back.

“Suits? You mean, businessmen?”

“Health department suits,” she said. “If we fail another inspection, they'll chain the door.”

Before I'd left with my last delivery, Carlos had been chasing a roach around the kitchen, swatting at it with a menu. The stove was gummy with caked-on lard and I'd watched Alma drink from the milk jug before pouring a glass for a customer. I said, “I guess a flaming sports section in the cook's ear could be considered unsanitary.”

“Aire de oido. Like an ear infection. The smoke draws it out,” she said.

“I know. My father — ”

“How do you afford that car?” she interrupted. She was scrubbing the seat of a booth, trying to remove dried enchilada sauce. There were no more chairs to upend, so I was just waiting, watching her butterfly. She said, “Carlos says you sell drugs, Mama thinks you have a trust fund. I haven't asked Mrs. Martinez because she's all pissed.”

“How do you think I afford it, Melinda?”

She plopped herself into the booth and looked me up and down. I tried to puff out my chest, and hoped she wouldn't notice my ears, which I knew turned red when I got nervous. She sucked in her cheeks, pursed her lips, squinted. Alma rolled a bucket and mop into the kitchen.

Melinda said, “You sell Avon. No, you mug old ladies. No, you're a hot-rodder. You won it in a midnight drag race.”

“Close,” I said, trying to sound serious. I remembered what my father told our neighbor when he asked about our new riding lawnmower. “I won it in a poker game.”

She laughed so loud that Mrs. Martinez poked her head out of the office and whipped off her glasses. “Melinda, have you started making the hot sauce?”

“Ya mero,” she said. After Mrs. Martinez closed her door, Melinda said, “So, drugs or trust fund?”

Why I answered her the way I did is still a mystery to me. The words surprised me as much they did Melinda. I said, “The car was my mother's. She died two years ago. I inherited it.”

Melinda squinted at me again, studied me in a softer way than before. I was waiting for her to react — to accuse or curse me, or start laughing again — when Carlos began singing in the kitchen. It was a Spanish song I'd heard playing on his transistor radio earlier that morning. Melinda continued assessing me. I stared at my shoes, at the restaurant's chipped linoleum.

Sliding out of the booth, she said, “Losing that pink tie after your first day was a good call. You look more like yourself now.”

“You just met me,” I said.

“Does that matter?” she said.

“Maybe not.”

“You're cute,” she said. “Especially when your ears turn red.”

* * *

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