Read Online Being Audrey Hepburn by Mitchell Kriegman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mitchell Kriegman
Tags: Juvenile Fiction, Love & Romance
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half-assed mop jobs. The most expensive thing on the menu was the Jersey T-bone, at $13.85. I’d seen them in the fridge before they were cooked. I wouldn’t go near them.
The customers at the Hole were frequently wasted and always cheap. Although we were pretty steady all day long, our busiest time was after 2:30 A.M. That was the zombie shift, right after the bars closed and the shift change at the window factory. It paid more tips. People don’t seem to know how to count change after two in the morning.
The Hole was a convenient place to eat for people who’d rather take their chances with food poisoning than tunnel traffic. It made for a lot of cranky, unhappy customers. Thankfully, the people who worked there were mostly cool.
“You’re late,” chided Buela, my boss. Her middle-aged body was squashed into an ancient pink waitress uniform, and her unnaturally red hair was teased and sprayed into a pouf, adorned with a silvery clip. Buela’s dad Milton owned the Hole, and she’d worked there ever since she was twelve.
“One day,” she always told us, “I’m going to own this joint.” We always nodded enthusiastically and wondered why she’d ever want to.
“Sorry, Buela,” I said meekly over my shoulder, not slowing down as I made my way to the employee lockers in the back.
Jess was there, joking with Jake, who was leaning against my locker. His faded jeans hung low on his hips in that way … that way that made you want to hook your finger around a belt loop and just reel him in. Jake had smoky-blue eyes and broad shoulders and great arms, which I couldn’t help but notice because he was wearing this sky-colored BLUE NOTE RECORDS T-shirt that looked vintage and fit him exactly right.
My heart did a little flip when I saw him. Jake and I had this thing … well, we sort of had a thing. I guess it was almost a thing, like an urge to have a thing. I don’t exactly know how to describe it.
He’d started working there three months earlier. Light flirting early on had recently turned into heavier stuff. We’d gone out a couple of times but always with people from work. Then the previous week, in a shocker, he kissed me in the walk-in freezer, pressing me against the giant bags of frozen french fries until I was breathless.
Jake Berns was older than me, twenty-three, a musician who had graduated a couple of years ago from Paterson and lived in Hoboken with six roommates, all of them in his band, Rocket Berns, although everyone called then simply the Rockets. Jake fronted the band, played guitar, sang lead, and wrote most of the songs. He was determined to make his mark. They played five or six gigs a week, but basically only made beer money. Jake waited tables at the Hole to keep up. Money was tight because, strangely enough, the music scene in Jersey was astonishingly good, which meant that, in addition to the homegrown talent, bands came from all over to get heard by the record execs who were always trolling the clubs, scouting for the next Bon Jovi or Springsteen. The gigs were prime exposure-wise, so the club owners nickel and dimed the bands to the extreme.
The great thing about Jake was that he knew exactly what he wanted with no backup plan, which was hot as hell—to me anyway. He had complete and utter commitment to his purpose. Not like some people—aka me. Honestly, he was out of my league, but for reasons I didn’t understand, he was into me. Maybe it was because I gave him a hard time about being a rock ’n’ roll heartthrob, since I figured he was beyond my reach. Honestly, he scared me a little.
Jake was one of the few genuinely cool people I knew. The other one was Jess, of course. Considering I was ready to nod off, I was glad all three of us were on shift that day. I was hoping to grab rewind time with Jess to rehash the previous night in detail.
“Hey you,” Jake said. He gave me a sly grin.
“Hey back.”
“You look like roadkill,” said Jess. She tied on her pink
The customers at the Hole were frequently wasted and always cheap. Although we were pretty steady all day long, our busiest time was after 2:30 A.M. That was the zombie shift, right after the bars closed and the shift change at the window factory. It paid more tips. People don’t seem to know how to count change after two in the morning.
The Hole was a convenient place to eat for people who’d rather take their chances with food poisoning than tunnel traffic. It made for a lot of cranky, unhappy customers. Thankfully, the people who worked there were mostly cool.
“You’re late,” chided Buela, my boss. Her middle-aged body was squashed into an ancient pink waitress uniform, and her unnaturally red hair was teased and sprayed into a pouf, adorned with a silvery clip. Buela’s dad Milton owned the Hole, and she’d worked there ever since she was twelve.
“One day,” she always told us, “I’m going to own this joint.” We always nodded enthusiastically and wondered why she’d ever want to.
“Sorry, Buela,” I said meekly over my shoulder, not slowing down as I made my way to the employee lockers in the back.
Jess was there, joking with Jake, who was leaning against my locker. His faded jeans hung low on his hips in that way … that way that made you want to hook your finger around a belt loop and just reel him in. Jake had smoky-blue eyes and broad shoulders and great arms, which I couldn’t help but notice because he was wearing this sky-colored BLUE NOTE RECORDS T-shirt that looked vintage and fit him exactly right.
My heart did a little flip when I saw him. Jake and I had this thing … well, we sort of had a thing. I guess it was almost a thing, like an urge to have a thing. I don’t exactly know how to describe it.
He’d started working there three months earlier. Light flirting early on had recently turned into heavier stuff. We’d gone out a couple of times but always with people from work. Then the previous week, in a shocker, he kissed me in the walk-in freezer, pressing me against the giant bags of frozen french fries until I was breathless.
Jake Berns was older than me, twenty-three, a musician who had graduated a couple of years ago from Paterson and lived in Hoboken with six roommates, all of them in his band, Rocket Berns, although everyone called then simply the Rockets. Jake fronted the band, played guitar, sang lead, and wrote most of the songs. He was determined to make his mark. They played five or six gigs a week, but basically only made beer money. Jake waited tables at the Hole to keep up. Money was tight because, strangely enough, the music scene in Jersey was astonishingly good, which meant that, in addition to the homegrown talent, bands came from all over to get heard by the record execs who were always trolling the clubs, scouting for the next Bon Jovi or Springsteen. The gigs were prime exposure-wise, so the club owners nickel and dimed the bands to the extreme.
The great thing about Jake was that he knew exactly what he wanted with no backup plan, which was hot as hell—to me anyway. He had complete and utter commitment to his purpose. Not like some people—aka me. Honestly, he was out of my league, but for reasons I didn’t understand, he was into me. Maybe it was because I gave him a hard time about being a rock ’n’ roll heartthrob, since I figured he was beyond my reach. Honestly, he scared me a little.
Jake was one of the few genuinely cool people I knew. The other one was Jess, of course. Considering I was ready to nod off, I was glad all three of us were on shift that day. I was hoping to grab rewind time with Jess to rehash the previous night in detail.
“Hey you,” Jake said. He gave me a sly grin.
“Hey back.”
“You look like roadkill,” said Jess. She tied on her pink
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