Happy Birthday

Thirty-two candles.

I thought by now I'd have gotten my life together. Yet, here I sit in an empty diner, alone and forgotten. My only companion is the piece of pound cake the waitress brought me after I ordered it for myself.

I always thought that at this point in my life I'd have a job, be married with a couple of kids, and maybe a house. Instead I'm unemployed, single, and live in my parent's basement. Wait, have to change that. I mean lived. They told me last night I needed to move out so I guess I'm homeless too. All of my possessions fit in a single bag and it's sitting on the floor by my feet.

If there is a rock bottom, I'm on it.

The waitress smiles at me, refilling my cup. "Got any plans for the holidays?" She sets the pot of coffee on her hip and waits for my response.

"Nothing really," I say, taking a swig. "You?"

"Oh, the usual," she says with a roll of her eyes. "Got the whole family coming over. I tell you what, those grandkids of mine tear the house to pieces but I wouldn't have it any other way. You got some family in town?"

I start to nod but stop when I remember the conversation last night. Mom had been in tears while Dad disowned me. Said I was a waste of space. That he never wanted to see me again. I obliged immediately, packing my stuff and slamming the door on the way out. I don't know if I'm ever going to see them again.

"Hmm?" the waitress asks. "What'd you say, dear?"

"Nothing," I reply. "And no, I'm just passing through." It's not a lie. I bought a bus ticket to Boston this morning. No one knows me there so it should be a fresh start. Maybe I'll get it right this time.

"Are you sure?" She looks at me, crinkling her eyes. "You look real familiar. I'm pretty good with faces. Weren't you in here last week?"

I shrug, forcing a smile I don't feel. "Guess I was. Thanks for the coffee," I say and lift the cup up. I sure wish she'd leave me alone so I could wallow in peace.

"Thought so. Where's that girl you were with? I want to say she was wearing a blue sweater with curly red hair, right?"

Odessa. The name reverberates through my brain. She was wearing a blue sweater last Friday. It had tiny dinosaurs with Santa hats around the neckline. Her bouncy copper curls framed her face, golden teardrop earrings peeking through her hair. She looked like a million bucks. Until she dumped me sitting in the booth two rows away from where I am right now. I'll never forget what she said.

"Vincent, this isn't about you and me. It's about you. You can't expect for me to keep pulling you up while you're bringing me down with every word that comes out of your mouth. I'm done being your lifeguard."

It was funny, her mentioning a lifeguard. It was how we met. She'd been caught by a renegade wave, the undercurrent dragging her farther from shore, when I saved her. I looked a lot different then. My muscled chest picked her up with ease, salt kissed blonde locks tousled in the wind. She clung to me for dear life and didn't let go for ten years. We were happy, or at least I thought we were.

That all changed when I lost my job. Our conversations went from speaking about our future to who would pay for dinner. No matter what I did, it wasn't the right thing. I made mistake after mistake. It was no wonder she walked away. She deserved better.

"She..." I trail off, unsure how to respond. I finally say, "We broke up."

The waitress pats my shoulder gently. "Sorry to hear that. But you know, sometimes things fall apart to make room for something better. You never know what's around the corner."

"Thanks," is all I say, looking down at my cup. Odessa loved this little diner, calling it her favorite restaurant. Guess that's why I came back today. A final memory of her before I start something new.

The waitress turns to head back to the counter but pauses. She taps her heels twice then swivels back to me, her eyes squinting. "Hey you got any plans this evening?"

The question catches me off guard. "No..."

"Well, the gang here is hosting a party after close. I think you should stick around."

My brows lift. "Why?"

"Because," she says, sitting across from me, "it's Christmas Eve and no one should be alone on a holiday. Besides, it's nothing fancy. We'll just whip up some banana pudding and have a couple bottles of coke." She gestures over her shoulder to the man in the kitchen. "Dan's been dying to do karaoke for a while now and he'd love to have another audience member. What do you say?"

I glance around the empty diner, the weight of the world on my shoulders. I could say no. She'd walk away, let me sit here in silence with my cup of joe until close. Then I'd head out to the nearest motel and sleep the night away on an uncomfortable bed with the neighbors making enough noise to wake the dead. My last memories of this town would be hopeless, sad, empty.

I heave out a sigh, making a decision before I can change my mind. "As long as I can sing my rendition of "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer.""

She grins, calling over her shoulder, "Hey Dan, you hear that. You got some competition!"

The next three hours are filled with laughter, some terrible singing, and three and a half bottles of coke. By the time Helen locks the door, I'm smiling which is something I haven't done in a while.

"Hey Vinny," she calls as I walk down the street. I pause so she can catch up to me. "You mentioned you were out of work, right?"

I nod, a trace of my sadness creeping back in. "Yeah, got laid off a while ago."

"Well," she starts, shrugging her purse higher on her shoulder. "I'm the manager of the diner and I'd like to offer you a job."

The statement takes me by surprise and I take a step back. "What?"

"Look, I've been where you are. Someone gave me a chance so I'm returning the favor. We'll get you trained on the grill tomorrow morning. See you at seven?" She asks, holding out that proverbial olive branch. I take it.

"Yes, ma'am. I'll be there."

She walks away with a nod and a grin, leaving me standing by the road. A sheen of mist starts as I make my way to the motel, but I barely notice.

It was a happy birthday after all.