No Figs for Lollie

The hostess looked through the window at the snow falling. Dusk was giving way to night as the yellow street lights lit up each falling flake. The brown-haired hostess dreamed she was walking home through the snow, feeling the cold sting of wind and ice on her cheeks.

The bell rang at the door. A customer was approaching. His brown suede jacket was dusted with snow, and he was swearing, trying to brush off the snow before it left watermarks. As he approached the stand, she fought with a strand of hair that was always coming free from her hair tie. She gave up as soon as he began to speak to her.

“Can you believe this?”, he said annoyed. “It was supposed to be clear tonight”.

She nodded her head gently, not sure how else she should respond. “How may I help you, sir?”, she asked.

“Don’t you hate the snow?”, he asked. Still preoccupied with wiping off the snow that was all but melted on his jacket.

She paused. “No, I think it’s magical. Stop obsessing over your jacket, it’s just water anyway”, is what she wanted to say. “Yes, it’s just the worst”, she said in a monotone voice, feeling as if she faked it anymore she’d collapse.

“I have a reservation under White for 7:00, Ms… ?”

“Watson”, she said. The man had been coming in once every other week, and every time he asked her name. She turned from her stand and led the man to a table in their dimly lit dining room that was empty except for a few love-struck couples and a drunk at the bar. The hostess led him to the far end of the dining room where a young, narrow-faced woman with mousy hair sat patiently waiting.

“I’m terribly sorry… “, he said as he began to explain why he was late, but the hostess walked off before she could hear him finish. It was always the same with him, There was an accident on 32nd… I had to take my mother to the hospital… I nearly got mugged trying to pick up a cab…

Why are some people always late? The hostess wondered. This man was late down to the minute, twenty-five minutes every time. You’d think he would have figured this out and made all his dinner appointments for 7:30 instead, and then he’d be five minutes early but no. What could it be that always kept him precisely 25 minutes late? The hostess wondered if he’s sick enough to think that keeping each woman waiting somehow puts him in a position of power.

She walked back to her stand and continued to stare out the window. Her obstinate wisp of hair gently poked at her forehead. She hated the thing. She undid her ponytail and tied it back up. Success, the lock was again under control.

She seated seven more couples and small groups before the night was over, and seven more times she had to put on a fake smile and wrestle with her stubborn lock of hair. It seemed that every time she willed her face to look friendly, her hair would protest, leaving her feeling like she couldn’t control even the smallest thing in her life.

Once they closed, the friendly blonde-haired bartender offered her a free drink. She refused it as always. The man was handsome and had always been kind to her, but she was always trying to get back home as quickly as she could. When she finally left the restaurant, she was disappointed to find the snow had stopped. The cold was always more tolerable when the snow was falling. By then, the passerbys and cars had turned the beautiful white snow into a grayish-sludge, making the cold walk home even more unbearable.

On the first leg of her walk, she passed some bars where young men and women her age were packed tightly into lines, waiting to get in. The women wore short skirts and cropped shirts, usually with just a single small jacket for warmth. The men passing by leered at them as they waited to get into the busy bars. She received no glances, however, not even from the drunks posted on stoops that often cat-called the former sorority sisters that frequented the area. The hostess wore a black down jacket and black jeans with high boots that protected her feet from the melting snow. Sometimes as she passed these bars she looked in longingly through the open windows as she passed, watching people her age and a little bit younger, and wondered what it would be like to forget yourself for a night and just drink with friends and maybe go home with an attractive man. Sometimes she was jealous of the girls who attracted the eyes of the young men before they turned to their buddy and said a few words about them. However, on this night, she pitied those women. Women who needed the attention and validation of men who seek nothing but a fleeting act of pleasure. Women who seek to fill that void inside them from men who could never and would never fill anything besides the one between their legs. On that night, she pitied those women, on other nights she envied them. The men on the other hand she rarely gave a passing thought to, they seemed even more superficial and alien than the girls.

She walked home with that feeling that follows after you think you’re better than someone or some people, and then realize how horrible that is. She was back to envying the thought of being a drunk girl with a group of friends to go out with and the prospect of being with a handsome guy, even if for a night when she reached the quiet part of the city where her apartment was located. This part of the city had no restaurants or bars, just a bodega here and there. It was mostly cheap housing, and most of the windows on the tall apartment buildings were dark.

She walked up the stairs to her apartment on the fifth floor. Stepping inside she saw her easel, with the blank canvas that had been standing there unused for months now. She’d set it up, thinking if she took that first step, then she would be more willing to actually paint like she used to. But now it was just a reminder of her ongoing failure. She knew it would be good to just spend even thirty minutes on the canvas with her paints, painting anything, whether it was good enough to sell or submit to a gallery or not, she knew it wouldn’t matter, but when she got home she was too tired as always, and slunk over to her faucet feeling sorry for herself. She poured herself a glass of water and went to bed. Lying in bed before sleep she often dreamed of being a famous artist. Of being on 60 Minutes or some talk show, talking about her meager beginnings as a hostess at a restaurant, living in her tiny apartment, and how she became a famous artist from nothing, all by herself.

John rose from bed half asleep and still tipsy. He had found that there was a sweet spot that was somewhere in between not drunk enough and too drunk paired with getting only about six hours of sleep. If he wasn’t drunk enough the night before and went to bed too early, he may wake up with a hangover, but if he played his cards right, and he often did, the hangover wouldn’t hit until he was working, so he’d have a few hours of mindless half-drunk bliss between rising and lunch.

Besides throwing on some old work clothes, brushing his teeth, and sitting on the toilet, all John had to do before he was ready for work was take his dog out to pee and grab the mason jar with his leftover food for lunch, and he was out the door and in his car, speeding to the city park where he worked. On his drive, he ate an apple and a cider doughnut that was waiting for him, while listening to his favorite voices talk about some inconsequential information on his favorite podcast. He was at his worksite within an hour of waking up. 7:58, he was two minutes early.

His boss gave him a fake smile and a joke about him being early for once, they both knew it wasn’t a joke, and that his boss was very irked that he was often five to ten minutes late.

Before long it was lunchtime: 1:00. John had slowly but surely cleaned up the few flower beds he had to work on and cleared out all the leaves and cuttings. His boss thought he was rather slow, but he didn’t care. He got paid 12 dollars an hour. He wasn’t going to rush. He took lunch alone, per usual. His other coworkers, some of whom were his age, had taken lunch earlier. John preferred to take his lunch as late as his hunger would allow. The hours after lunch always felt longer than the hours leading up to it. His half-drunk hangover allowed the hours to zip by him as he worked, listening to his favorite podcast for hours each day. Most of his coworkers were nice, and when he started work they’d often invite him to eat lunch with them around noon, and he’d oblige. But as they became more familiar, he started to say more and more often that he was going to wait. He liked his coworkers, but he also liked eating alone. Doing most things alone, really.

After lunch, he rode around the park on his golf cart. The shovels, drills, clippers, and other tools clinked their protest every time he hit a bump. He parked near the small pond and noticed some of the screws in the planks of the tiny, gray dock were coming out. He fastened them back in place and looked out at the pond. The surface was black, it reflected the cloudy sky. Looking up, he saw a young woman sitting at a bench on the other side of the water. He had seen her there before, but usually, when he saw her she always seemed to be leaving with her bag in her hand. This time she was sketching in a small notebook, glancing up at the trees and the pond now and again. A barn owl that was perched above the woman on the tree took flight towards John. Unaware of the owl that had been blending in with the brown and gray wood of the tree, the woman looked up as it took flight. It disappeared into the trees behind John, and as it passed the woman noticed John. They both looked at one another and they made eye contact from afar for a brief moment. She faked a smile and blushed, closing her notebook and leaving. John thought he’d probably scared the woman. He was staring right at her in one of his trances. He watched as the woman walked off. An autumn breeze could be heard from the canopies of the shedding trees. It plucked a few leaves here and there and twisted them and spiraled them before carrying them along. The breeze hit the woman a moment later, and John watched it toss up her dark hair, and linger for a moment, as if the wind shared John’s wish.

The last few hours of work were consumed by the thought of this mysterious woman, no matter how hard he fought it. He had to keep rewinding his podcast until he finally just paused it and put it away. John always did this. He saw a beautiful woman and his mind started racing ahead, imagining what they’d be like together, all the adventures they’d have together, all the days stuck inside in bed while the rain pounded the windows. He hated it. His mind always jumped like this, he hadn’t even met the woman and yet some part of him said that he could love her, that they’d be happy together. But another part of him knew he liked to be alone and unseen, resigned to his habits that allowed him to reluctantly eke out his resigned survival.

He went home, walked his pouting dog, then showered, and thought of the girl at the park. With an open beer on his bedside table, his laptop on his lap, and a vape in his hands, he scrolled through social media, looking at distasteful memes, pictures of beautiful women, looking for anything to give his brain that little spike of dopamine. Then he lay down on the bed, took a sip of his beer and several more puffs of his vape, and enjoyed the empty sleep that followed.

He woke two hours later, slightly hazy, and looked back through his social media feed, finding little else besides pictures of people pretending to have a better time than they are, offensive jokes, and other drivel laced between the pictures of beautiful women. Anxiety followed, as it always did, and after he’d waved the anxiety away as best he could, he rose and went into his small kitchen to make dinner. He put on his favorite podcast while he prepared the food, opened up another beer, and made an all too spicy stir fry. He loved spicy food, but it always disagreed with his body. He grabbed two more beers from the fridge, shoving one into the pocket of his hoody, so that he could hold the plate of food in one hand and the other beer in his other, and walked over to the small, dark desk in his room. He set the food down and scrolled through Netflix, looking for something that would hold his attention for a couple of hours. After finding nothing, he resigned himself to watching that show he found so comforting. He ate the spicy food over his desk, chasing it with heavy gulps of bitter beer while keeping his eyes locked on the show he’d seen a dozen times. It still made him smile, and after a few beers, he felt like the show was the only thing that was real.

After finishing his food and beers, he cleaned up in the kitchen, grabbed two more beers, and made his way back to the desk where his mind stayed consumed by the show for a few more hours. Sometime after 1:00 am, he threw himself on his bed, thinking that tomorrow he wouldn’t drink as much, he’d do some writing, life would be better. And within two minutes he was fast asleep.

Two weeks passed for the both of them as they always did. Rebecca the hostess was standing at her podium after 7:00, and it was the second snow of the season. It was another slow night at the restaurant and again she was feeling listless, longing, and slightly frustrated. She was fighting off her disobedient strand of hair again. As she watched the snowflakes fall out the window in a trance she got a twinge deja vu, shaking it off thinking that two weeks prior she had been doing the same thing. Yet still, that liminal feeling stuck with her. Moments later, like clockwork, the door chimed and the man in the suede jacket walked in, looking irritated.

“Can you believe this?”, he said, his eyes passing through her as he approached. “It-”, he began.

“Yes, snow is just the worst”, she mechanically replied, cutting him off.

“I have a 7:00 reservation under White, Ms…?”

“Maisel”, she replied without thinking, surprising only herself. She saw no reaction in his face as he was still wiping the melting snow off of his jacket and led him to his regular table where another young woman was waiting, listening to him rattle off some excuse involving an incompetent coworker.

She returned to her podium with a genuine smile on her face, as if she’d just pulled off some great scheme. The rest of the night passed much faster than it usually did, and before she knew it they were closing. As she was getting ready to leave the friendly blonde-haired, blue-eyed bartender, not much her senior offered her a drink. She began to refuse and stopped herself.

“A beer would be nice, actually”, she responded to his delight. He poured her a stout and she took a seat at the bar. Two of the waitresses sat next to her after asking the bartender for a drink. She idly pushed her hair back with her hand.

“Hey, Rebecca, you never stick around after closing”, the waitress next to her said.

“Ya, I don’t know… I usually just want to get home”, she said.

“So you don’t want to go home now?”, the other waitress giggled, looking over the bar to meet her eyes. “It sounds like we might finally get a night out with her!”, she said nudging the first girl.

“Ya, are you going to come out with us tonight?”, the blonde-haired waitress that sat next to her asked.

“Well-”, she began.

“Come on!”, said the other cheerfully, putting her black hair up into a ponytail. “It’ll be fun! And you can always go home after a drink”

“Ok! I’ll come for one drink”, Rebecca added, feeling as though tonight was special.

Later that night around 10:00, John was taking Lollie out to pee once more before bed. He took her around to the usual spots where she went around the apartment, but she was reluctant and not getting around to it. He sighed, frustrated as he was on cold nights like this one when she refused to pee. He looked up, at the snow still coming down in the street, the yellow streetlights, and the relative silence in the air. Thinking of making the best of it, and feeling the sudden urge to stroll, he took Lollie on a long walk, unsure of where he was headed. He felt that the snow made everything quieter and looked much more peaceful and clean. He didn’t pass a single person or car on the street for several blocks, and before he knew it he was practically downtown. Lollie finally relieved herself, but he continued their walk

He watched as people rushed into the warmth of the bars that lined the streets, occasionally looking through the large glass windows. Mostly they were people around his age, yet he felt so disconnected from them that they might as well have been exotic animals in a zoo. Just as he was turning around to head back, he caught sight of the brown-haired girl he’d seen at the park a couple of weeks ago. He was sure it was her.

Without a thought he found himself jogging back to his apartment, trying not to slip with Lollie’s leash in his hand, she was enjoying the jog immensely. He ran inside the apartment, threw on his favorite brown winter jacket with green, corduroy trim, brown beanie, and leather boots, and jogged back in the direction of the bar.

He wasn’t if he was in his right mind, but he figured it couldn’t hurt to try to talk to her. He desperately hoped she wouldn’t recognize him or think he had been creepy looking at her in the park. Luckily, he knew she hadn’t seen him earlier with his dog. He caught his breath outside the bar and walked in, hoping most of all that she was still there.

Rebecca thought the walk to the bar was quite fun, her spirits were high as she listened to her three coworkers joke about their boss and the strange regulars at the restaurant. She even told them about that one man who always forgot her name and how she told him her name was “Ms. Maisel” and that he hadn’t even noticed. That made them all laugh for the better part of a minute.

She followed them into a local dive bar that was warm and half-empty. They ordered drinks and went to an empty table to sit down. “We usually start here because they have cheap drinks, then we could go over to Square or Mike’s to dance or meet some boys after”, the blonde-haired waitress said, looking at Rebecca.

“You seeing anyone Rebecca?”, the black-haired waitress asked with a warm smile.

“No, not really”, she responded, watching a bubble in the head of her beer pop.

“Well… we can change that tonight!”, the blonde said.

“I-I don-”, she began.

The two waitresses shot up out of their seats as a group of eight guys and girls walked into the bar. The girls started hugging and squealing in excitement as they greeted their friends. They all got drinks and joined around the table, talking about parties, bars, and friends Rebecca didn’t know about, each getting a couple more drinks before she’d finished her first. After about a half-hour of Rebecca listening as the friends talked and sometimes shouted with excitement and disbelief, they said they were going to dance nearby if she wanted to join. She declined, and they left.

The bar was now nearly empty and Rebecca fell back into her listlessness. She decided she’d have one quick drink alone before going back to her apartment. It wasn’t something she usually did, but tonight wasn’t a usual night so she figured, what the hell. She got a double IPA this time, looking for a little extra bite, and something to match her own cloudy head. She took several large gulps of it, letting the hoppy flavor wash over her tongue. She let out a small squeak of a burp and looked up and around, slightly embarrassed. As she did she met the eyes of a young, auburn-haired boy who was just walking in. He smiled a soft, sweet yet awkward smile as their eyes met, and for a moment looked like he was going to walk up towards her, but he turned slightly and went straight to the bar.

She watched his back as he ordered at the bar, slightly curious as if the boy looked familiar. A moment later he turned, with a hazy pint in his hands, and approached her table. “Do you mind?”, he asked politely, motioning to the chair across from her. She shook her head. “You look familiar,” John said, looking into her eyes, before glancing away, worried about whether he had held her gaze too long. “Do you go to Morningside Park a lot?”, he asked, hoping that wasn’t a weird question.

“Ya, I do… how do you know that?”, she asked, intrigued.

“Well, I work there. In the parks department, I mean. And I could’ve sworn I’ve seen you there a few times. You were drawing there I think by the pond last time when I saw that barn owl for the first time”, he said with a warm smile and a shy look back towards her eyes.

“Ya, that was pretty cool, I rarely see any owls in the city. I like it there because it’s close to central park so most people just walk right by it. Plus, I choose days when most people don’t go to the park because I have an easier time drawing when people aren’t around”, she said.

“Oh that’s cool, I like Morningside for the same reason. That makes sense because most of the times I see you it’s like you’re leaving. I guess you hear me in the cart and leave”, he laughed, meeting her eyes with growing confidence.

She laughed. “Ya, pretty much. Kinda silly I guess”, she said, running her eyes over his smiling face.

“No, it’s ok, I get it. A shy artist then?” he joked.

“Yes, you could say that”, she smiled. “What about you, besides the whole parks thing?”

“Well, you might go as far to say that I myself am a shy writer”, he said as his last bit of nervousness dissolved in their conversation.

After a long conversation filled with many laughs and another drink each, to both their surprise they eventually found themselves together on that cold winter night, laying on John’s mattress underneath the comforter with Lollie’s snoring body between them. They saw each other every day the following two weeks, sleeping over at each other’s houses, although most nights were at John’s for Lollie’s sake. John still drank before bed, but not quite as much, and each helped the other with their passionate endeavors: John would write a little bit every day while Rebecca drew or painted.

One day they were both at John’s place in the early evening. John was washing figs in the sink, preparing a charcuterie board with halved figs, goat cheese, crackers, and olives. He loved to spoil himself now and again with nice snacks, although he could barely afford it. Rebecca was on the other side of the counter with her hair down, telling John about the new painting she had just finished.

“Well, are you going to submit it to a gallery?”, John asked after she finished.

“I did already, and they accepted it”, she said.

“Then why do you sound so morose? That’s great news!”, he said cutting the washed figs on the wooden board as Lollie loomed, waiting for something to fall on the floor.

“Well, to be honest… I’m not sure it’s that great. It’s just a boring old landscape, nothing really that creative. I didn’t want to submit anything too… personal, you know? And have real strangers look at it and…”, she responded.

“You can’t have it both ways, you know,” he said, looking down at Lollie who was giving him a full display of her puppy eyes. He picked up a fig and was about to toss it up for Lollie when he stopped himself.

“You know, I’m not sure if dogs can eat figs. I guess, no figs for Lollie then”, he said looking down at her sad, droopy face.

“It’s just a fig, I’m sure it’s fine for her to eat”, Rebecca responded.

“Some foods aren’t good for dogs. And if you’re not sure it’s better to avoid it”

“Well, what about you?”

“They’re fine for humans”, he said, popping a fig in his mouth and chasing it with a sip of beer.