Ava with a Side of Supervision

by Rachael Buckallew

I knew that godforsaken diner would hire me the second I saw my face plastered on the wall. My interview was conducted by a tiny, quirky, middle-aged man, adhering to the uniform, soda jerker hat included. After I was greeted bashfully by a young hostess, he ushered me behind the old-school counter and into a sad excuse of an office. On a folding chair, I told him about graduate school; child psychology may have been irrelevant, but I took myself seriously as a professional, and I’d often be up all night, anyway, so would gladly spend some nights on closing shifts. While I was over-qualified, I was honest. Yes, I waitressed in high school. No, there hadn’t been a uniform or checkered parchment paper, but there had been a culture of shouting as doors clapped shut and sharing tips. He clicked his cheap pen on the table and squinted through his round glasses. “Why should someone choose Patti’s diner?”

“Diners are reliable. People want American food at an hour convenient to them, in an atmosphere that is undemanding but optimistic. Conceptually, diners have been here for us. So long as there are elders, there will be diners.”

With an audible hum, he looked me up and down, confirming finally whether I was young enough to look the part. “Good.”

As for me, the reason for the diner was more begrudging. I began graduate school with a blue-collar fiancée, Adam, who would inevitably deem my aspirations too lofty. At the start, his normalcy afforded us a duplex. But when we called it off, he moved home, leaving me, of course, more bills than a graduate stipend fared well with. That was what I had to remember our early twenties together by: a miraculously nonexistent mortgage. So, I opted for a second job, and serving felt plausible. I told no one at the university; if the undergraduates saw me making their milkshakes in the middle of the night, I’d have a conversation in my mind about stigma.

***

The routine began like this: on my way into work at my new job, I nodded at the historical mural on the side of the downtown diner’s brick exterior. We parked in a lot against the East side of the building, leaving the front street for customers. Shown on the wall was a feminist mural, a pastel montage of women who had contributed significantly to the town’s success. The town’s history was all over the buildings downtown; other murals depicted steam engines, anatomically impressive horses, and minorities rightfully recognized. In this small city, greatness was never to be washed away. The women were not a group, rather a collection, consisting of figures from different decades. Some wore long skirts, with their waists emphasized, many wore aprons. Included was the town’s first female doctor, and suffragettes with feathered hats. Some lone women symbolized entire groups: librarians, advocates. A pilot stood tall, with one hand on her hip and the other shielding her eyes, a scarf whipped over her shoulder by wind that bothered neither her nor the others. One woman was distinguished by sweeping, Stevie Nicks bangs and bold denim. I hoped she really had been a star, and that fame earned her a place here, a celebrity amongst locals who fought segregation and businesses owners that had made Main Street their homes.

The woman on the end looked so undeniably like me that I was compelled to look at her every time I walked by: raven black hair, eyes to match; elongated, angular features; vintage lip. We had moles, ridiculous of the artist to have included, off-centered on our foreheads, unlike the kiss Marilyn Monroe had been given by God. The woman pictured, indisputably a teacher, wore a maroon suit, and cradled a globe like a baby. Her portrait was contemporary enough to smile. Painted skies behind the women looked all the more realistic opposing the oceans she held. The artist had blended mural and building by including bricks, on which names were listed. I half expected to read “Ava” written beneath her, but there she was: “Sherry Crawford: administrator, teacher, mother.” It was time that told us apart. 

The women of the bricks bid us welcome, permitted us to go about our business with our rights and resilience. I’d nod at her, then move my gaze to my feet, before going behind her back to flirt with geezers, tuck bills into my bra, and coax my coworkers into sharing cigarettes.

On my first day, I opened the diner alongside a middle-aged, mother of four named Judy. “Welcome, Ava,” she offered, unlocking the glass door. “We’re so lucky to have you.” Fiddling, she put her hands on her hips, as if considering whether to hug me out of under-staffed relief. 

We laughed all morning—forcing clunky machines to work, re-wiping sticky surfaces. Judy pulled the center tables together, immune to the screech of the retro chairs’ metal legs scraping the floor. The arrangement was for the early-rising regulars, I understood, who then bombarded the new girl with questions all morning. “Finally old enough to get a job?” they’d ask. Men nearing the end of their lives were not unlike those near to the beginning; they asked too many questions, made trouble on purpose, and whined for preferential treatment. Judy may as well have been one of their daughters—she knew when to shout across the room, and told me whose ears to talk directly into. Black coffee yielded offensively skimpy tips in coins, but they accelerated our mornings until customers filled the stools at the counter for lunch. 

“We’ll hear the same stories tomorrow,” Judy assured me. Judy had been right, and most days were the same. Other routines began, too, like taking notes on discarded receipts, lesson planning in my mind, as Judy clanked dishes beside me. 

***

Sometimes when a day shift ended, I’d have a brown bag of expiring pastries thrust into my hand. Inside were too few to bring to class, and too many to savor alone. To stockpile baked goods would be both humiliating and wasteful. In our duplex’s shared driveway one evening, amber sun hanging low, I couldn’t take it. Going home alone that Saturday, despite my pristine, peaceful living space and dutiful but ungraded stack of assignments, would have meant first stepping hard onto a tin can’s pedal and wasting something sweet away. So, I knocked on the other door.

I knew little about our neighbor, just that she was an elderly woman living alone, who had been grateful for Adam’s unspoken assistance with things like the driveway. I’d assume those responsibilities soon enough. Though she’d been introduced to us by name, we’d forgotten it, and referred to her amongst ourselves as “Nana.” Her face in my mind had been vague, like that of a distant relative known only by photos on the internet.

Separated by the screen, we stared at each other. She recognized me immediately, of course, but it must have taken her aback to observe me so directly: nose ring, makeup smudged all over by work sweat. Her short white hair had a sense of movement to it—trained to curl at the ends. At any moment she could have walked into a meeting; she still wore day clothes, a light, collared jacket over something she definitely referred to as a blouse. Her glasses were new; while they weren’t necessarily trendy, their shape was distinguished, likely expertly suggested. “How can I help you, dear?” she asked, hardly altering her pitch.

“I brought you some pastries. They’re leftovers from work, but they usually taste fine.” 

She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again. The screen door was locked, as the other had been, and without meaning to show hesitation, she unlatched it, and nudged it forward for me to grab. 

It should not have come as a surprise that her unit perfectly mirrored mine. The use, though, differed. I hadn’t considered that the split-level entrance could be so inconvenient, nor that the slick, diagonal banister would be used by some as a second railing. I watched her baby step the entire set of stairs before following after her. 

Upstairs were dozens of decorative angel statues, some gargoyle gray, some playing tiny instruments. I did not ask whether they had meaning, nor if she favored those with bare butts displayed on the windowsill. Her corner TV was boxy, and I was pleasantly surprised to see it powered off, unlike those of others her age. The paper bag was still tight in my hands as I waited for her to indicate her preferred seat. A rocking chair accepted her, and I offered her a Danish. Then I took the couch, immediately aware of how much the arrangement generally resembled therapy. 

“What is this job that sends you home with treats?”

“I’m at Patti’s, now. I’m also at the university, taking graduate classes and teaching during the daytime. Weekends and evenings, I’m mostly at Patti’s. But it’s new to me. I always leave with more than I can eat. They’ve been generous.” 

“Patti’s. Yes, I would not expect that they would take less than the best. That place is not so new to me.” 

“Do you get to go there often? I haven’t seen you come by.” 

“No, well. I cook for myself, still, if just out of habit. I do just fine on my own, but it has been harder to come around to sitting at a table and eating alone. We brought our kids there, so often. Patti’s has had many owners, many kitchen fires, and much gossip. It hasn’t always been in that building, you know. But some things are slow to change, and I like that about this town.”

I asked her then about her kids, who were much my senior and could only visit infrequently. Conversation flowed smoothly, despite how soft her voice had become after years of use. When it was acceptable, I desperately scanned the room for confirmation of her name. Envelopes open on the table lay unhelpfully on their fronts, and none of the angels had messages engraved. However, on the end table sat a golden, foldable picture frame that read, “Happy Anniversary, Larry and Lollie.” I tried the name, then. 

“Lollie, would you like another?” I had not gotten it wrong, and she instructed me to find small plates. 

While I moved through her kitchen, she asked, “Are you not taking these home to your mister?” 

I waited as long as I could before answering, observing the many portraits of Larry as I walked back to Lollie. “We are no more, actually. Our paths were different. I should have known. I’m all alone, too, on the other side of these walls.”

“Oh, oh dear. Have you been managing?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I focus on school, and Patti’s keeps me busy.” Surrounded by her memorabilia, I felt stupid talking about it. For a moment, we chewed on cookies in silence. “When did your husband pass?” 

Lollie coughed out a scoff. “Well, we are no more, either. He left, many moons ago.” 

“He left you? As in, divorced? And you keep all of this on display?”

“Sometimes we have no choice but to try to understand. He was a good man, despite the affair. I could never give him our youth back.” She slowed her speech. “But, he gave me everything I had wanted. We raised beautiful children. He allowed me to make a name for myself. I had a love I will remember all my life. Prenuptials were different, then, of course, but I was supported. While I have my health, I have my life, and everything that it included.”

“Where is he now?”

“Chicago. Our daughters are quite disappointed that he chose someone more like them than like me. They say, ‘Mom, you have to get rid of all these things and stop looking at photos of a man who stopped wanting to look at you,’ and I hide how that makes me feel. Though I never blamed myself.”

“Lollie, wow. I’m so sorry, and, I mean no offense, but I didn’t think that actually happened to couples after so many years.”

“Yes, well. As you must know, I only miss him when it matters most. Sometimes, young lady, there are things I’m glad to be rid of: crusty towels left balled up, the sink not rinsed after he shaved, shoe prints on the floor, the voices he used in his sleep—really, he could have voiced a cartoon.” All evening, we giggled like girls. Until they became her bedtime stories, Lollie told me everything she knew and didn’t know about being on one’s own.

***

The next morning, I knew she would be there. A name for myself. Instead of nodding at the woman who guarded my parking spot, I left my vehicle, and walked the length of the mural, scanning for Lollie’s name, allowing my fingers to drag along the abrasive exterior. And there she was, a few figures down: Louisa Moore, captioned, “Mayor Moore, we want more!” The artist had depicted her with an air of determination, given her a structured navy suit. We saw her from the chest up, shoulders relaxed at a podium. Her chin had been drawn upward, such that she nearly looked downward at the viewer. The lines hadn’t formed yet around her eyes, and her white hair, longer then, still contained blonde. Despite decisions being made behind her eyes, they looked on with love.

From that day forward, I proudly smiled at the mural, instead of nodding, and began saying sleep-deprived things like, “Good morning, ladies,” or “Good morning, legends.”

***

My conversations with Judy differed from those with Lollie, in that to her, I was messy. She’d ask whether I was seeing anyone, to which I’d reply, “With what time?” But she could smell the lie percolating; I’d maintained meaningless relationships online, my phone always lighting up in the back of the restaurant, and more than once, I’d leave the diner lot in another’s vehicle, thinking, I’ll tell her, as soon as I meet someone worth mentioning. 

The worst occurred on a Saturday night, following a closing shift. He was what Judy and I called an “irregular,” someone we had seen before, but who was not a frequent enough customer for first names. Irregular as his presence may have been, in theory, he could have been any of the others: a grown man, bloated hands chapped from the wind, who arrived late, requesting breakfast because, as his unruly facial hair suggested, he was above the rules. Gray grew all over his face, and he spoke with performative gravel. Like it was yesterday, he remembered smoking in dining rooms like ours, and he told us so twice. I teased him throughout his meal, as we did with anyone we needed tips from: leaning forward on two elbows on the counter, pretending to care about his stories of the day, drawing a smiley face on his check. Even after he had signed it, we could not shake him. “I’m afraid we’re closing, sir. If you don’t mind, we’ll need to wash up around you and be on our way. You can come back in a few hours for real breakfast. But we’re required to close, sir, and very soon.” He did mind, as a matter of fact. 

He had correctly assumed which door employees used. As I left, it clicked shut behind me, and I immediately suspected the motorcycle still in the lot was his. Leaning backward, he had his filthy boot up on the adorned wall. “Goodnight, sir,” I repeated. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” He nearly lunged at me. My bag, overfilled, slipped off my shoulder, and I tugged at it, trying to cover my chest. Leaving the diner in uniform had always humiliated me, but then the open white collar dehumanized me altogether. He grabbed me first above the elbow, then slapped his other hand on my hip, redirecting me to walk backward. I could have moved fast enough, had his shoving not caused me to trip over the curb. He caught me, used the stumble as an excuse to make a joke, and pushed his body against mine. His coffee breath polluted my air, and in my mind, I called for help. I calculated my exit: my keys were in my hand; he didn’t know which vehicle was mine, and if I was right, there was space between it and the bike.

As he pushed me against the wall, the door swung again, and Judy was hollering before she was even outside. “Get out of here, creep!” The intervention distracted him, and he pulled away to reevaluate, giving me time to flee. “Don’t ever—” and before she could threaten him further, he backed away, both hands up. With one arm around my shoulders, Judy helped me back into the restaurant, murmuring, “Oh, Ava, sweetheart.” Until I was ready, she fussed over me, making hot chocolate and pacing around, looking for the right words to say. 

When I finally reentered the parking lot, I stood, unsteadily, before Sherry Crawford’s portrait. Her over-sized head looked onward, and while I could have felt ashamed below her guarding gaze, I recalled that I was like her, and that she had seen. Come morning, the mural would again be bathed in sunlight. Then I made the obvious choice: I drove straight home to Lollie’s.