Fiction: Sunday Night
by Joseph D’Angora
He split his eyes open about eleven o’clock p.m. and anxiously glanced around in the darkness. His wife lay beside him in bed when the alarm went off. He snapped his arm out to push in the stem, hoping not to wake her. Years ago she could have slept through an earthquake. She had, in fact, but lately the slightest noise could make her lose hours of rest. She exhaled heavily, smacked her lips and rolled over with a tiny groan. The alarm had spurred a shocking burst of energy that powered his arm to quickly turn it off and sent his body silently somersaulting into a standing position in the pitch-black room. He groped around the floor looking for his pants and shirt, but remembered that both he and his clothes were soiled from changing the oil in the family pick-up truck earlier that day. Perhaps a shower was in order.
He bumped and banged frustratingly through the closet in his daughter’s room in a futile attempt to be quiet, but the thirteen-year-old slept soundly. Her current fashion was loose-fitting jeans and oversized shirts, which resulted in many of his favorite clothes winding up among hers. He found a sweater and denim shirt and made his way out, pausing momentarily to gaze softly at her. They hadn’t been spending as much time together as he’d like. There wasn’t much chance to with his new schedule. This seemed rather ironic to him since the new job was supposed to help him concentrate more on his family. He had left his management position at the theatrical book store where he had enjoyed daily parades of fresh young starlets looking for moral support on their quest for fame. It was quite distracting, and he’d sometimes forget his personal obligations. This new job was as an editor, and it kept him locked up alone in a small cubicle through the wee hours of the night, but it also set his schedule in opposition to his wife’s and daughter’s. He and his wife hoped the job would give him a sense of stability, something that had been lost in the shuffling and scuffling and quarrels that separated them for the previous eighteen months. They wanted a fresh start.
In the bathroom he started the water and played the radio low. Love Line was on, and teens were calling in with their problems with romance and sex. Tonight’s panel of experts consisted of a psychologist and some celebrity guests. Once in the shower, he couldn’t really hear them anymore.
He lathered up and let the warm water run over him. No, that’s not what tonight’s about, he thought, as he turned the water to cold and finished rinsing. He turned off the water and got dressed.
The man made the short drive over the North Hollywood streets to an all-night diner about a mile away. He’d gone there for the previous three Sundays. Beside him on the seat sat his dog, Rudi—a beautiful mutt with a sensitive face. The man thought of the dog as a confidante that he could share his deepest feelings with. In the late-night, early morning hours such as these, he would talk to Rudi either aloud or telepathically. The dog understood.
The man wondered whether the little brunette waitress he had talked and flirted with on previous Sunday nights would be there tonight. If so, he’d sit in the back room and smoke cigarettes and drink coffee and chat with her about whatever was on her young, unsophisticated mind. He couldn’t deny having thoughts, but he hoped all that was behind him.
The man pulled his truck to the back parking lot and parked it close to a row of trees. He let the dog out, opened the tailgate, and tied the leash so that the dog could choose between sitting on the dry, leafy ground or in the bed of the truck. He told the dog to be good and to protect the truck while he was inside. The dog wagged back at him. He carried a book across the lot and through the front door. His eyes passed over the counter and tables, then caught the young smile of the waitress. Her long, dark hair was tied in a ponytail behind her head, and in her hand was a stainless-steel pot with steam rising from it. The older night-waitress, about fifty, thin, with a powdered face and amphetamine eyes, stepped up to him.
“Anything?” she asked.
The man just smiled and walked past, leaving the older waitress somewhat perturbed. He went into the back room, found a table, lit a cigarette, and cracked open the book. He turned to a Raymond Carver short story about people who had lost too much hope to love any more.
“Just coffee tonight, Jim?” the girl asked. She remembered his name. He couldn’t remember hers.
“For now, anyway. I might get something later.” She filled his cup and lingered to talk briefly about her work and her experience working on Halloween night. He watched her speaking, her dark eyes and the way she turned her beautiful face from one side to the other. The things we all come to desire, he thought, eventually become part of everyday life—feelings that seem so fervently vital when first discovered. He wondered how long we are all prepared to accept a simple “because” as the answer. He looked at the clock. It was 1:30.
Another party came in and sat down—two men and a thin, red-headed woman. The man paid them little mind and went back to his Carver.
Later, the young waitress returned to fill his cup one last time.
“I’m getting off now,” she said. “In a minute or two.”
The man said, “I might be taking off, too.”
Their eyes held on each other’s for just a few seconds. The girl smiled cordially, then left him alone. He read for about an hour, picked up his jacket, cigarettes, book, and coffee cup, and left a ten-dollar tip.
The older waitress moved about the room pouring coffee, giving him a glance. He sat there trying to read again. The story was about an elderly couple in the final weeks of their lives. Finally, he put the book down, lit a cigarette, and stared out the front window.
The man looked up just as the young waitress walked to the door. She didn’t talk to him as her tiny feet carried her toward the exit.
“Good night,” she said, as she stepped outside through the glass, and waved at the lights that seemed to wave goodbye to him. Then she vanished around the corner onto the street.
“Well, that’s it,” he thought. And though he knew that was only a small thing in the direction of his life—that he would rebuild his relationship with his wife—it somehow felt like more than a small claim. He felt compelled to stay a while longer. ♦