kept it to themselves, for she received very few complaints. She was mindful that, while some of the Café’s customers bought a reading as a joke to share with their friends, Tuesday took her work very seriously. She continually took classes to hone her skills on the interpretation of symbols and sought counsel from her teachers about tea leaf arrangements that puzzled her. She took her readings seriously because she knew some people, such as Holley, depended on them. She took them as seriously as she did the advice she received from her own diviners. Doctor Darla the sandtray coach, Vera the psychic and the cloisonné pendulum she used to access her own inner font of wisdom.
That afternoon she was happy to confirm to a repeat customer that she would deliver a healthy baby; that the house of a single mother desperate for money would sell quickly at a profit; and that yes, her anxious client who lived in nearby Hancock Park and came for a standing appointment once a week was probably going to find her lost diamond ring.
At four o’clock Tuesday said goodbye to her last client of the day and returned the woman’s cup, teapot and sugar bowl to the kitchen. Once again, she briefly witnessed an act of terror. Marco the chef threatening Rowena that she would end up on the street if she made one more batch of cream of spinach soup with lumps in it and promising that the cost of the Kobe beef would be taken out of her paycheck if a customer returned it as overcooked.
Tuesday didn’t hang around the kitchen often enough or long enough to know if Marco made good on his threats. But Tuesday believed that either Rowena should stand up to him or Marco should fire her and find a sous chef who didn’t cause him so much grief. Though, on second thought, maybe that’s why he kept her, as an outlet for his nasty temper.
Tuesday said good bye and have a good night to all who were aware of her presence, which never included all of the staff. More than once a server would come to her table to take her order, because he or she had not been informed that she was entitled to spend the afternoon working in the prime corner spot. Finally, she left to meet up with Detective Jameson.
Tuesday was born with what she called the happy gene. For the most part she believed that living a life on this green and watery earth was a good thing, though she’d like to have a word with whoever decided she didn’t need a winning lottery ticket, a voice like Reba McEntire’s, or a knack like Jean Paul Gaultier’s for turning a few yards of silk and leather, a couple of industrial strength zippers and a handful of rhinestones into an architecturally significant Little Black Dress that would one day end up in the permanent collection of the Met.
But no matter how peaceful a nature Tuesday possessed, if you wanted to rattle her chains, stick her smack dab in the middle of bumper to bumper traffic. When she finally got to Jameson’s precinct, after a drive she swore was across half the Western Hemisphere, her eyes were popping out from frustration. Fourteen minutes of circling the ‘hood for a parking space soured her even more.
She locked her ca r and kept her head down as she headed for the precinct headquarters, threading her way through a gaggle of uniforms and, from the tattoos displayed on their shaved heads and necks, gangbangers arguing in front of the building’s doorway.
Inside , a uniformed officer took her name and told her to take a seat along a wall lined with assorted angry, scared, weeping and sullen citizens waiting their turn for a crack at the justice system. She stared around the dreary waiting area, her eyes falling on a cabinet with several shelves and a locked, glass door displaying an array of trophies, medals and photos. They honored, she assumed, members of the department. Wait, was that . . . Tuesday leaned forward then walked over to get a better look. Yes it was him, Detective Butel, all three hundred pounds or so of
That afternoon she was happy to confirm to a repeat customer that she would deliver a healthy baby; that the house of a single mother desperate for money would sell quickly at a profit; and that yes, her anxious client who lived in nearby Hancock Park and came for a standing appointment once a week was probably going to find her lost diamond ring.
At four o’clock Tuesday said goodbye to her last client of the day and returned the woman’s cup, teapot and sugar bowl to the kitchen. Once again, she briefly witnessed an act of terror. Marco the chef threatening Rowena that she would end up on the street if she made one more batch of cream of spinach soup with lumps in it and promising that the cost of the Kobe beef would be taken out of her paycheck if a customer returned it as overcooked.
Tuesday didn’t hang around the kitchen often enough or long enough to know if Marco made good on his threats. But Tuesday believed that either Rowena should stand up to him or Marco should fire her and find a sous chef who didn’t cause him so much grief. Though, on second thought, maybe that’s why he kept her, as an outlet for his nasty temper.
Tuesday said good bye and have a good night to all who were aware of her presence, which never included all of the staff. More than once a server would come to her table to take her order, because he or she had not been informed that she was entitled to spend the afternoon working in the prime corner spot. Finally, she left to meet up with Detective Jameson.
Tuesday was born with what she called the happy gene. For the most part she believed that living a life on this green and watery earth was a good thing, though she’d like to have a word with whoever decided she didn’t need a winning lottery ticket, a voice like Reba McEntire’s, or a knack like Jean Paul Gaultier’s for turning a few yards of silk and leather, a couple of industrial strength zippers and a handful of rhinestones into an architecturally significant Little Black Dress that would one day end up in the permanent collection of the Met.
But no matter how peaceful a nature Tuesday possessed, if you wanted to rattle her chains, stick her smack dab in the middle of bumper to bumper traffic. When she finally got to Jameson’s precinct, after a drive she swore was across half the Western Hemisphere, her eyes were popping out from frustration. Fourteen minutes of circling the ‘hood for a parking space soured her even more.
She locked her ca r and kept her head down as she headed for the precinct headquarters, threading her way through a gaggle of uniforms and, from the tattoos displayed on their shaved heads and necks, gangbangers arguing in front of the building’s doorway.
Inside , a uniformed officer took her name and told her to take a seat along a wall lined with assorted angry, scared, weeping and sullen citizens waiting their turn for a crack at the justice system. She stared around the dreary waiting area, her eyes falling on a cabinet with several shelves and a locked, glass door displaying an array of trophies, medals and photos. They honored, she assumed, members of the department. Wait, was that . . . Tuesday leaned forward then walked over to get a better look. Yes it was him, Detective Butel, all three hundred pounds or so of
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