Page 4 of Good Days Bad Days
“I’m sure that’s not all you were thinking,” Lucy says, giving him a look filled with innuendo.
“Who, me?” he asks flirtatiously. “What? I’m not the gentlemanly type, too?”
“Not one tiny bit,” she quips and heads to the kitchen with our dishes. Mark watches her the entire way and then leans in.
“Maybe she’s on her way to the Playboy Club in Lake Geneva. That blond girl, I mean. I’m thinking of getting a club key. Wanna come? Heard it’s a happening place.”
“I don’t know,” I say feebly, reading the check and pulling out my wallet to pay my half of the bill. I toss a dollar on the table for Lucy’s tip. Mark searches his wallet and does the same.
“Can you settle up for me? I have a meeting with the new guy—Mr. Hollinger. Not sure what about. Unless he’s calling me in to fire me. I wouldn’t put it past that guy.”
“You’re not gonna get fired, Mark,” I reassure him, and I hope I’m right. Mark hired me as a cameraman at WQRX TV four years ago when I was fresh out of college. He’s an account executive now, one of the upper management people I normally would try to hide from by staying in the studio, but we’ve become friends. I’m pretty sure if he gets fired, I’ll be next. “You know we’d be lost without you. Mr. Hollinger will figure that out, too.”
Donald Hollinger is the new station manager at WQRX. From what I’ve heard, he appears to be a pleasant enough man, even thoughno one seems to like him. I suppose that’s how things go when you’re the one making changes.
Until now, WQRX has been under the same management since it went on the airwaves in ’53. With new management comes new staff, programming, and rules. As long as I keep my job, I doubt much will change for me. A cameraman goes where the director or producer tells him to, and there’s not much big news in southern Wisconsin these days. Recently we had a news segment all about the size of old Mrs. Tiller’s greenhouse tomatoes and little Bobby Craig’s lemonade stand.
“Yeah. You assholes wouldn’t make it a day without me. Don’t forget it.” Mark claps a heavy hand on my shoulder. “When am I gonna get you to go out with me again, old man?” he asks as we move toward the exit.
“Soon.” I push his nagging off for another week at least.
“I’ll hold you to it.”
“You better.”
Mark leaves and I stand by the register. Lucy is nowhere to be seen. I could tap the little bell on the counter, but I don’t want to rush her. She already has so much to deal with. I can wait a few extra minutes.
The door chime rings again, signaling a new customer. I fiddle with the bill and keep an eye on the kitchen, but there’s still no sign of life. As I wait, determined to be patient, a small white hand dashes across me and taps the bell. It’s a woman’s hand, ivory skin, long red nails and a gold watch at her wrist. She’s close enough that I can smell her expensive perfume through the grease-soaked diner air.
“I’m sorry to butt in, but I lost my keys and I have an interview in ten minutes.”
“No problem,” I say, facing the visitor. My mouth goes dry.
It’s the woman in the red dress that Mark declared Janesville’s version of Helen of Troy. I hate to admit it, but Mark was right. This woman is breathtaking, like a movie star—her lips carefully lined with red lipstick, lashes thick above her sky-blue eyes.
I try not to notice her figure, but even a glance reveals she’s well shaped, and her dress definitely highlights her feminine form. My neck is suddenly hot, and I wish I could loosen my tie and grab a little fresh air.
“You’re too sweet,” she says, and I can tell I’m blushing. “I searched the booth where I was sitting and retraced my steps so many times I think I have blisters.” Her voice is stronger than I expected, not light and wispy like Marilyn Monroe, whom she closely resembles.
“I can help, if you like,” I offer, fighting my nerves. Mark and I were the only two left in the diner after the lunch rush, and I’m worried Lucy forgot about us and took a smoke break with Leo, the cook. We might be waiting a while.
“Would you? Thank you so much,” she says with such overwhelming gratitude that I idiotically feel like a knight rushing in on his trusty steed to save the damsel in distress.
“What do they look like?”
She twists up her ruby red lips. “Metal, pointy, make a clanking sound when they crash together.”
“Of course,” I say, hiding my embarrassment by placing my bill on the counter with my payment.
“Only joking, hon. Two keys, one silver and one gold. The key chain is a small statue of the Eiffel Tower.”
Silent, I go to the booth where she ate her lunch and run my fingers around the edges of the vinyl seats, realizing after a few moments that she might wonder how I knew where she sat without asking.
Smooth, Greg. Smooth.I chastise myself, but if she notices, she doesn’t care. She rings the bell again and I consider going back to the kitchen to find Lucy myself.
“Wait! I see them!” the woman shouts. My head cracks on the underside of the table and I scramble to my feet, the stabbing pain dulling as the blood drains.
“I can’t reach. Could you?” she asks, leaning over the counter, kicking her heels up and reaching for a spot under the cash register where Lucy must’ve stashed the keys after cleaning the table.
