Impact

40

Abbey Straw carried two baskets of fried clams and a brace of margaritas to the table where the couple from Boston were seated. She set down the food and drink. "Can I get you folks anything else?"

The woman examined her drink, her long fingernails clicking irritably on the glass. "I said no salt." She had a heavy Boston accent.

"My apologies, I'll bring you another." Abbey swept up the drink.

"And don't think you can just wipe off the salt, I'll still taste it," said the woman. "I need a fresh drink."

"Of course."

As she was about to leave, the man said, gesturing at his plate, "Is this all you get for fourteen bucks?"

Abbey turned. The man weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds, wearing a double-knit golf shirt stretched to the theoretical limit, green slacks, bald with a fat-dimple right in the center of the bald area. Thick black hair grew out of his ear holes.

"Is everything all right?"

"Fourteen bucks for ten clams? What a rip-off."

"I'll get you some more."

As she headed toward the kitchen, she heard the man speak again, loudly, to his wife. "I hate these places where they think they can hose the tourists."

Abbey went back into the kitchen. "I need more clams for table five."

"What, they complaining?"

"Just give me the clams."

The chef chucked three small clams on a side plate.

"More."

"That's all they get. Tell 'em to go fuck themselves."

"I said more."

The chef dropped another two on the plate. "Fuck 'em."

Abbey reached over, scooped out another half-dozen, heaped them on the plate, and turned to go.

"I tole you before, don't touch my stove."

"Fuck you, Charlie." She went back out, placed the plate in front of the man. He had already finished the ten clams and tucked into the new plate without pause. "More tartar sauce, too."

"Coming right up."

A tall man was just being seated in her section. On her way to get the tartar sauce, she stopped by, gave him a menu. "Coffee?"

"Yes, please."

As she poured the cup, she heard the querulous voice of the man from Boston rising above the general conversation. "Problem is, they think we're all rich. You can just hear them licking their chops when summer arrives and people start coming up from Boston."

Abbey was momentarily distracted and the coffee she was pouring slopped over the edge of the cup.

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it," said the tall man. "Really."

She looked at the man for the first time. Angular, large hooked nose, jutting jaw--lean and strong in a curiously pleasing way. When he smiled, his face changed dramatically.

"Hello? The tartar sauce?" came a loud voice from the next table.

The tall man nodded, winked. "Better take care of them first."

She hurried off and returned with tartar sauce.

"AFT," the man said, snatching it up and spooning it onto the clams.

She went back to the tall man, ticket in hand. "What can I get for you?"

"I'll take the haddock sandwich, please."

"Anything to drink besides coffee?"

"Water's fine."

She hesitated, glanced over at the Boston table to see if there was anything else, but they were busy eating. He followed her glance. "Sorry about them."

"Not your fault."

"You live around here?"

Lately this had been happening a little too frequently. "No," she said, "I live out on the peninsula."

He nodded thoughtfully. "I see. Then you must've gotten a good view of the meteorite a few months ago?"

Abbey was instantly wary, taken aback by the unexpected question. "No."

"You didn't see the meteorite's trail or hear the sonic booms?"

"Not at all, no, I didn't." Feeling that her denial had been too emphatic, she cast about, trying to cover up her reaction. "That's meteor, not meteorite."

The man smiled again. "I always get those two terms mixed up."

She quickly went on. "Anything on the side? Salad? Fries?"

"I'm fine."

She put in the order and hurried back to the table with the two people from Boston, who had finished eating. "Can I get you anything else?"

"What, you need the table already?"

The wife said, "I think it's inexcusable when they try to hustle you out."

She checked her other tables, picked up the haddock sandwich, brought it over.

"Hey, where's our check?" came a cry from the Boston table. "Can't you see we're done?"

She pulled out the ticket, went to the cash register, rang it up, printed it out, and came back and laid it on the table. "Have a nice day."

The man flipped open the check, ostentatiously examining the total. "What a rip-off." He counted out some money on the table, a lot of change and crumpled bills, and left it in a heap on the check.

The tall man left a while later, leaving a tip so large it made up for what she had been stiffed by the Boston table. As she cleared his table, she wondered why he asked pointed questions about the meteor. The man seemed nice but there was something shifty about him--distinctly shifty.