I tell her that I’d heard that LL Cool J had been a member here, before he moved out to California and made it big as a rapper. She nods and says, “Cool” again, and that she’d heard from one of the other employees that some of the Baldwin brothers were too, but not Alec.
I make a mental note to look them up in the computer.
We are standing outside and Claire’s boyfriend is late picking her up. “Must have fallen asleep,” she says. “He’s always doing things like that.”
“You can catch a ride with me,” I say.
“I better not,” she says and plops down on the edge of the curb. She picks up a pebble and traces faint figure eights into the sidewalk. “I’m sure he’s on his way.”
Almost forty minutes later, a pair of headlights turns into the plaza and the green Nova halts in front of us. Claire stands up, dusts off the back of her khaki’s and opens the door. She leaves without saying goodbye.
Sal walks out and locks the door. “What are you still doing here?”
“I was waiting for Claire’s ride to come get her.”
“Oh. I’m going to meet Barbara at the diner,” Sal says. “You can meet us there if you want.” Barbara was his girlfriend of almost ten years.
“Sure,” I say, even though I don’t really feel like it.
Although it is past 1:00 A.M., the diner is busy. Sal and Barbara (she reminds me of the actress Elizabeth Montgomery), are already there. Barbara is picking at a plate littered with French fries and gravy.
“Hey you,” Barbara says and watches me slide into the booth across from them. Sal is holding a cigarette in between two fingers and blowing the smoke away from me.
“Ethan called me today,” he says, “practically begging for his job back.”
“You didn’t give it to him, did you?” Barbara says.
Sal shrugs. “I don’t know. I might.”
“Jesus, Sal,” she says.
I glance out the window. I think about telling them about Claire and how she broke down and cried in the store, but somehow it doesn’t seem right.
By the time I get back to my apartment, it is almost 3:30 A.M. and the neighbors are at it again. The woman is screaming at the top of her lungs. When I open the door to my apartment, I scribble a note and affix it to the neighbor’s door. It reads: Other people live here, you know.
At 3:47 A.M. my telephone rings. I do not answer it and it rings eight times before it stops.
I peer between the slats of the blinds. My view is that of the parking lot. As far as I can tell, no strange cars are idling. For now.
My clothes smell of smoke. I shed them and climb into the shower. While I’m in there I think I hear something.
I wait.
Nothing.
Just for the hell of it I call out, “Hello?” Then: “Is someone there?”
Sometimes I hate living alone.
Claire calls in sick to work today. Sal is not a happy camper.
“She’s never called in before,” I say in defense of her.
“I don’t care,” he says. “It’s Friday and we’re going to be slammed tonight.”
Fridays and Saturdays are our busiest nights. The store usually rings up ten thousand dollars or more.
“What did she say?” I ask.
“She said she was sick.”
“Did you try calling in Ethan?”
Sal shoots me a look.
After work, Sal and I head to the diner again. Barbara is there and she is smoking a cigarette. “Busy?” she says.
“That’s an understatement,” Sal says and orders a Coke.
Forty-five minutes later Sal picks up the check and I tell him I’ll see him tomorrow.
“No you won’t,” he says. “I’m off.”
“Lucky you.”
“When you grow up someday to be a Store Manager,” he says, “you can get a Saturday off too.”
The heater in my car stops working and I tremble all the way back to my apartment. I end up having to park beside the dumpster and the aroma burns my nose.
While I’m fumbling for my keys, the neighbor’s door opens. A tall man wearing a robe that has partially come undone is standing in the doorway. He is wearing tighty-whities.
“Hey,” he says. “Did you put this note on my door?” In his hand is the piece of paper I used to write the message. “I’m asking you a question.”
I find my keys and insert it into the lock. “No,” I say and rush inside. I lean with my back against the door, my heart hammering against my chest. I peer through the peep-hole. He is standing right outside my door.
“Maybe you should mind your own business,” he says and punches the door.
My mind is racing. Maybe now would be a good time to call the police. And then I think to myself that that would only aggravate the situation, so I let it ride.
I look through the peep hole again. He must have returned to his apartment because no one is there and his door is closed.