Ah, the women are nearly always right, all the same, he says. Do you know what the women have a gift for?
What?
Eventualities. A good woman can look far down the line and smell what's coming before a man even gets a sniff of it.
-Claire Keegan, Foster
The Greek diner was empty when we pulled into the driveway near dinner time. We were down near Newburgh for an eye check appointment and after a long wait needed a culinary respite and some fun in preparation for The Big Debate. Most Greek diners date back to the 1950s when there was a wave of Greek immigration. Some are faux copies, but the Ikaros looked authentic. Its stainless steel art deco trim sparkled in the late day autumn sunshine, but the concrete steps leading to the entrance were broken, and we had to step over them, which might have been a warning, if we had been in the mood to heed such warnings. Despite their higher prices these days, we looked forward to the menu, which we knew would be voluminous, and include a spanakopita, my favorite.
There was only one other couple in a booth and a couple of waitresses, dressed in black with aprons tied around their waists. Charming, I thought. But the silence in the nearly empty room reverberated. If the diner wasn't doing well, what would the food be like? The waitress plunked down two glasses of water, her hand all over the top of the glasses. Not so charming. I dipped my paper napkin into the water and cleaned them. Don't make a fuss, I said to myself. We are here to relax. But my well-honed city "attitude" was already in gear. I would have sent those glasses back pronto in the city.
Then came the menus and the waitress hovering behind me as we perused the gazillion choices, ordered, and thanked her. More waiting in a day of waiting. I figured the spanakopita was frozen and my husband's eggs benedict flown in from parts unknown. Something's wrong, I said to myself. We should have left before we stepped over the broken steps. Sometimes my intuition won't quit, or is it my writer's imagination?
The food arrived, it was eatable, and we enjoyed our conversation. Then it was time for the check. I had decided to treat my husband and pulled out my credit card. Our waitress had disappeared, rush-hour traffic was building, and we wanted to get going. I took my credit card and headed for the restroom. There was our waitress, sitting on a stool at the counter, scrolling on her phone, it seemed. I handed her my card. She barely looked up at me, but I took a good long look at her for future reference: in her 40s maybe, hair salt and pepper, and disheveled, no makeup and close-together eyes. She was still on her phone when I surfaced from the restroom. What was she typing into her phone as she held onto my credit card, and why wasn't our check ready? All those strange lingering- at- our- table moments, and now this. I was already writing the noir screenplay.
The obligatory scene at the table came next: The check with credit card plunked down, and the waitress at my shoulder. I was paralyzed with haut disdain, and could not say anything as she watched me decide on a tip and sign the receipt. But that wasn't the end of it. The end of it was my conviction that she had stolen my credit card information. She was a thief and I would report her to the local constabulary.
I checked my credit card statement as soon as I returned home and for two days after. So far so good. It seems as though my imagination went wild, or I had momentarily lost trust in humankind. Why had it disappeared so suddenly? Was it the prospect of another assault from the guy who should be in an orange jump suit? None of the above, dear reader. I had mistaken, or misread, the waitress's boredom and eccentricity. Mea culpa.