Page 15 of The Writer

“Amanda just clocked in,” he says. “Get out of here.”

My body relaxes. I gather the stack of newly rolled silverware and take it to the front. Today wasn’t a particularly busy day, but I’m ready to return home and try to see what I can get donebefore this week’s meeting. Really, I’m just ready to take off my apron and wash off the smells of frying grease.

It doesn’t take long for me to tidy up my section and print off my checkout. I hand over my records to the shift leader, trying not to think about the small amount of money I made today.

“Lucky me,” says a voice from behind. I stand to see Chaz sitting at the bar. “My favorite waitress is in.”

“Not for long,” I say, raising the car keys clutched in my hands. “My shift just ended.”

“Bad timing,” he says, perching onto a barstool. “Know anything new?”

“Same menu as yesterday,” I say. I nod at the badge clipped to his belt. “Still keeping Whitaker safe?”

“Doing my best.” He nods and gives me a mini salute with his forefinger.

I force myself to smile. “I’ll catch you later in the week.”

I walk out the front door, stopping when I feel the icy wind. It’s easy to forget winter is approaching when you’ve spent the past six hours on your feet inside a heated restaurant. My car is right next to the curb. I flip through keys, finding the right one, when something catches my eye.

The right front tire is suspiciously low. I bend down. When I look closer, I see that’s it’s almost completely flat. I run my fingers against the rubber, finding a long gash.

“What the hell?”

When I walk back into the restaurant, Mario is behind the bar, a dishrag over one shoulder. He looks up at me and smiles.

“Back so soon?”

“Looks like one of my tires has been slashed,” I say. “Cool if I leave it here until I can get it repaired?”

“Sure.” He takes the dishrag off his shoulder and uses it to wipe his hands. “Need a lift home?”

“No, my apartment’s only a few blocks away,” I say, scratching the back of my neck. “Just not sure when I’ll get a tow.”

“Do you have a spare?” asks Chaz. He’s sitting to my left, a full draft beer in front of him. “I’d be happy to change it for you.”

“I don’t,” I say. Even if I did, I wouldn’t go to Chaz, or any cop, for help. I don’t like feeling as though I owe something to other people. “I’ll have to order a new tire anyway and have someone install it.”

“You say it’s slashed?” Chaz continues, turning toward me.

“Looks that way,” I say. “I don’t remember hitting anything that could have done it.”

“There have been a few reports of vandalism in the neighborhood. Local kids still wanting to do some damage after Halloween,” he says. “You should make a report.”

“It’s not that big of a deal, is it?”

“It’s a crime. I’ll give you a lift to the station.”

“I really just want to get home,” I say, rubbing my forehead with my palm. “Can I do that after I call the tow truck?”

“Sure.”

“I’d check the cameras for you,” Mario says, “but they’ve been broken over a month and I can’t get the guy to fix ’em.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him. “Like Chaz says, it’s probably kids. I’m gonna head out.”

I exit the crowded restaurant for a second time, feeling even more dejected than I did a few minutes ago. It’s a good thing I live so close, but I’m not happy about the fact all the money I made today will go toward a tow truck, and I’ll probably have to pick up an extra shift to pay for the repair.

Passing my car, I peer down at the useless tire, wishing I’d made a mistake, and that the large gash in the rubber has somehow fixed itself. My mind recalls April’s story from last night, about the hell-bent wife who slashed her husband’s tires.Dealing with the reality of the situation is far less entertaining, but I can’t help thinking of the irony that mere hours after April shared her story, someone came along and did the same thing to me.

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