Stay with Me by Paul Griffin Read Free Book Online Page A

with him isn’t working.”
    “Yeah it is. Cheech, I’m out of here in a week. You need a friend. I trust him.”
    “We got all we can handle with Vic watching out for us.”
    “ You need Mack .”
    “I don’t need anybody. And by the way, I’m not going to the airport with you to say good-bye.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I’m pissed, Anthony.” I walk on ahead. Like he has to tell me to hang out with the dude. I find myself very attracted to sad people. I seriously hope this guy isn’t going home and firing up a mothball after work.
    Vic’s at the bar with Ma. “Ameliorate,” he says.
    “Relieve,” I say. “As in, ‘Ma sank into our cheap, cruddy, scratchy brown couch and drank a six-pack of Bud Light last night to try to ameliorate the stress of my moron brother’s looming departure.’”
    “Potent sentence,” Vic says. “Image-laden. Well done.”
    “Cheers,” Ma says, sipping what I hope is a Virgin Mary.
    Mack’s behind the dishwashing machine. I play cool, or try to. “Lemme guess, Freddy’s being an idiot again?”
    “What?” he says.
    I do the lamest Freddy impersonation, the way he calls in, “‘Uh, yeah, Céce, wondering if you could talk to Vic for me. Uh, see, thing is, I find myself under the weather today. Cough-cough! Can’t seem to get rid of this cough-cough ! Tell him it’s potent , this cough, Céce, you can’t envisage a more dire respiratory condition.’”
    Mack looks away, no smile for me, no eyes either, gets to work. Dude thinks I’m a total geek. Note to self: Don’t ask him to play Wii tennis.
    I check the wall clock. It’s getting to be that time: his daily drug deal. I grab Marcy from the bathroom. “Can you stop looking at yourself for five minutes?”
    “Depends on what you’re offering for an alternative. And don’t say wiping down the silverware.”
    “I need your opinion.”
    “Is it about the felon? You ever notice how he pinches the inside of his wrist when he’s nervous? It’s a shame, really. He’s got the nicest ass.”
    “You ever see him with that dude out back? Do you think he’s—”
    “Yes.”
     
    An hour later we’re slammed. Me and Ma are running food to our tables and Marcy’s because my girl doesn’t do too well when we get busy. Vic’s whomping garlic and tossing it into Anthony’s pans, ten going at once. Half hour later the customers are pouring in, and we’re in the weeds. Me and Ma are starting to confuse the orders. Marcy is catatonic. Even Vic is a little edgy, mumbling his crossword vocabulary list, “overwhelmed, overcome, in undated.” Mack washes and reracks and double-times it out to the floor to help us bus our tables without being asked, but even he’s falling behind.
    We’re at the point where we’ll lose it, and the customers will walk out.
    Then there’s Anthony. He turns up the radio, classic rock station, perfectly clear reception because Vic has the satellite subscription working. Ant makes the pepper grinder his microphone and sings with Bruce Springsteen, “Tramps like us, baby we were born to run.” He’s got this incredible voice. Ma flashes back to her slutty youth and joins in totally offkey. She’s working the broom, air guitar, totally cheesy but at the same time endearingly cute in only the absolutely saddest Carmella-Vaccuccia-trying-to-be-cool sort of way. Vic whomps garlic to the drumbeat. Me and Marcy are singing backup with our atrocious voices. We go back out to the floor to serve, and we’re beaming, and the customers love it. Who doesn’t like a happy waitress?
    I’ll always remember this. My big brother making everybody feel good, his arms caked with sweaty flour, his apron filthy with deep-fry grease and tomato sauce. Doesn’t sound like much of a moment, but I have a feeling this might be the last time we’re all together like this.
    Mack has the smallest smile working behind those dish racks. Wait, a second ago, was he looking at me?
     
    We close out the register