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“Yeah, in the movies,” he says, giving me a disgusted look and rushing off to bring bread to a table.
It’s after midnight when I finish my clean-up, take off my apron, and walk out the back door. I’m parked three blocks away in one of downtown Portland’s garages. Other restaurants and pubs are still open, throwing light and laughter out on to the street, advertising that this is a great city for socializing with friends, if you have any time or money to do so. Some of my fellow servers head out after work, but I turn down the invitations to go along, telling them that I need my tips for bills. I’m not here to party or to fantasize or to make believe I’m part of the lifestyle of the rich and famous. And they are. These are professional servers. At this level, only one out of sixteen is enrolled in school, as opposed to over fifty percent back in Moorhead. People typically don’t build the skills to serve at this level if they’re just doing it as a part-time college job.
So I guess I’ve left the realm of doing something just to get by, and I’ve entered the realm of career job. If I’m not careful, this is the life I’ll commit myself to. If I allow it, I could spend the rest of my days living off of others’ change and drinking their leftover wine. These servers have developed the fine art of making it look glamorous, but it’s not. It’s not what I think of when I envision the American Dream, that’s for sure. If I’m not careful, a year will go by, and then another, and this will be it.
When I get to my car I sit for a minute before starting the engine. The florescent lighting in the car ramp is bright and cold around me, but I’m alone in here. I take deep breaths, battling to keep control, and then I just let go. I feel tears rising and then streaming down my cheeks, and I start to sob, bringing my hands up over my face, even though there’s no one here to see me. As the tears are released, however, I can feel a strength rising up, replacing the tears. It’s a strength of knowing, of feeling, that I want more than this. It’s a strength that comes, simply, from telling myself to be strong. I repeat it over and over to myself: “Be strong. Be strong. Be strong.” Then I wipe the tears and start the car.
The next morning is Saturday, and I sit alone in the living room drinking coffee. Scott's sleeping off another night shift. After an hour of silence, the phone rings, loud and piercing in the stillness.
“Hello?”
My mom’s cheerful voice comes in. “I’m glad I caught you at home for once.”
"Me too! How are you? How's Victoria?"
She tells me about her Women Studies classes and about how she'd love for us to come visit.
“Mom,” I ask after a while, changing the subject, “do you think we made a mistake, Scott not taking that Customs job?”
“No, why?”
“I don’t know. It would’ve given us some security, at least. Maybe we wouldn’t be struggling so much.”
“Well, it’s always better to struggle to be free than to live complacently, trapped in what you don’t want.”
“Thank you! That’s what I think, too.” Having received the validation I was looking for, I feel a bit better. But still, it bothers me. Things should be going better for us. We should be happier.
Later, I bring Scott some coffee and sit on the edge of the bed while he wakes up. I have to go to work soon. Another night. When I get home, Scott will be at work, and I’ll sleep alone again.
“Why are you so quiet?” Scott asks.
“I’m thinking. I want to do something. I want to get out of the city.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“Let’s go to Salt Spring. We’re so close. I want you to see it. I want to see my friends again. And my mom’s in Victoria.”
“Okay. Let’s save up and we’ll plan a trip. I want to meet everyone.”
“And I still have some boxes stored at my mom’s.” I can’t even remember what’s in them, but I know it was stuff that seemed important enough for me to box up and store when I went to Fort Frances for the summer. I know my stained glass butterfly’s in there, and I think my fleece blanket might be in there, too.
I can picture us on the ferry, gliding through the islands and docking on Salt Spring. Sophie would come to meet us and bring us back to her place. I wonder if she’s still with George, and if her parents are living in the house, or if it’s filled with Sophie’s friends again. People were always moving in and out of the old five-bedroom place. Always cool people. I loved it when someone moved in who could play guitar, and we’d sing along to Grateful Dead tunes while we drank and smoked and laughed.
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