And Your Girl Can Sing

Chapter 21: Old Men Are Scarier Than They Seem

    She gave me an annoyed look and brushed some hair out of her sweaty forehead. "Fragen Sie den Manager," she directed me, and disappeared into the throng, a tray full of beer in each arm. I watched her, frozen for a few seconds. She had told me to go see a manager. I didn't see a manager, so I tentatively pushed my hand behind a curtain that looked like it led somewhere important. Cooks were each bent over a dish. A waitress tapped me on the shoulder and I moved away quickly. "Manager?" I asked quickly before she could move away. She gestured towards a door on the right and I moved out of her way.

    I knocked on the wooden door. "Entschuldigen sie mich..." I asked.

    "Ja?" A sharp voice responded. I swung open the door timidly. "Ich suche nach einem Job..."

    "Nein," the manager said before I even got a good look at him. "Danke," I managed to say before I got out of there. I walked away from the restaurant, my heart racing. Why was I so touchy over being rejected? People did this all the time. And besides, that was my first restaurant. I would try again. And I would eventually find a job.

***

    Well, that's what I said about eight restaurants ago. Or was it nine? I couldn't count. I stumbled across the cobblestone streets, feeling dejected. The sky had darkened. I didn't know what to do.

    Keep going, I told myself.

    But what if you don't? What if this was a mistake? You should have stayed with George-at least you wouldn't be homeless!

    "I'm not," I told myself out loud, my voice coming out in a raspy whisper. I straightened my back. "I'm not," I said, louder, and took a deep breath. The sudden smell of meat floated through my nostrils, and I closed my eyes. A shop, a bakery.

    "You want?" a voice called. I found myself face to face with a tall, thin, elderly man. He was looking at my curiously, standing on the top step of his shop. I looked up at him, suddenly unaware of what to say.

    "I... ich habe kein Geld..." I said slowly. I had no money. It was true, and it was a surprised to me. I hated being surprised so much, being so aware that I had relied on John for so much of my life. Like I had relied on my mother. And before that, my father. But my mother had managed to make her way, and so would I.

    I realized the man was still staring at me. He was apparently at a loss for words. I had spoken last, so I moved away reluctantly from the smell and turned around. And then I heard from behind me, "English?"

    "Ja," I offered.

    "My mother is from England," he said in a broken accent. "She came here in 1927."

    I focused away from the meat buns. "I see," I managed.

    "Why don't you come inside," he offered, speaking my tongue. "Closing time."

    With a sigh of relief I stepped into the steamy store. It was tiny and cozy, and no one was there. I supposed it really was closing time. "Sit," he said, gesturing towards a little table. I pulled the wooden chair out, hearing the rough scrape of its legs on the linoleum floor. I sat. I was staring at the tablecloth for a few minutes, and then a meat bun was placed in front of me, arriving on a little ceramic plate. The man slid into a chair opposite me. I took in his gray hair and square jaw.

    I couldn't take my eyes off the meat. "Mine?"

    "Yours," he said, and smiled. I nibbled at it slowly, trying to make it last. The meat seemed to melt in my mouth. I savored its saltiness, its richness. It was only meat. But it was food-the stuff of life, after all. It tasted so good.