It was almost seven now, but nobody went in or out. The city’s midnight curfew had been posted on the highway signs, so she guessed that this show must end earlier. Somewhere between seven and midnight, then. She didn’t want to miss it, but she didn’t want to look overeager or do anything wrong.
She walked a little farther. She didn’t see any dividers between neighborhoods, but she must have crossed some invisible line. Two blocks up, a few rowhouses had been replaced with garden plots, all awaiting their spring tilling. Another block along, the houses took on a more lived-in look. Some had window boxes with flowers, or screens painted with landscape scenes. Unlike the earlier places she’d passed, they had steps, though the steps were brick or wood rather than marble. Here and there somebody sat on a stoop or in a plastic chair, talking to neighbors. A vendor leading a pony cart full of apples and oranges rang a bell and shouted, “Fruit, fruit, get your fresh fruit.” The chestnut pony and his harness gleamed with good care.
Kids on bicycles raced back and forth from the sidewalk to the street, enjoying the warm evening. Rosemary expected them to spook the fruit cart pony, but he didn’t bat an eye. One house had its windows and door open and a SportHolo baseball game projected in the front room: a half dozen teenagers leaned in on the windowsills and doorframes, watching.
What was it like living this close to neighbors? More people were hanging around these five blocks than she usually encountered in an entire month. Living wall to wall with each other, breathing the same air. Technically they weren’t congregating, they were all on different properties, but they were still interacting like they weren’t strangers at all.
There was a small restaurant on the next corner. Rosemary didn’t recognize the brand, but it looked safe and well lit, as good a place as any to kill some time and eat something. In a booth by the window sat people she guessed might be a band she’d be seeing later. They had a look she imagined bands had, like they were a misfit family rather than friends or colleagues, with all the accompanying family love-hate drama.
The door looked heavy, but when she pushed, it swung farther than she intended, crashing into the booth behind it with a jangling thud. Everyone in the place craned their necks to see who had made such a grand entrance, and Rosemary flushed with embarrassment, willing herself invisible. It didn’t work. A tiny, elderly black woman with snow-white hair glanced up from behind the dining counter. Rosemary waited, letting the woman appraise her.
“Sit anywhere.” The woman went back to filling salt shakers.
Rosemary walked past the band to the small booth beyond them, where she’d be able to eavesdrop. She slid onto the banquette, trying to be nonchalant about the fact that there were no isolation dividers. She tapped the table, but no menu appeared. Pulled up her Hoodie to get the overlay, but that didn’t work, either. Her phone didn’t suggest any link.
It took her another minute to notice a small laminated menu tucked behind the napkin dispenser. She pulled it free with two fingers, holding the smallest edge possible to avoid germs. It gave her three chilies to choose from (vegan, chicken, and burn-your-face-off) with options of rice, fries, hot dog (vegan, chicken) or pasta to put it over if she was so inclined. She flipped the menu over, but the other side was blank. Noticed the logo: the place was called the Heatwave Diner. A note at the bottom read “No Superwally? No problem. Cash only.” Rosemary had brought cash, but she’d never been anyplace that didn’t offer both options.
The woman from behind the counter walked over. “What can I get you, sweetie?”
Rosemary pointed to the coffee and the chicken chili over fries.
“Cheese? Vegan cheese? Sour cream?” the woman asked.
“Um, cheese, please. Thank you.”
She pulled out her phone and sent a quick message home to say she’d arrived. No sense worrying anyone at SHL by mentioning she hadn’t set foot in her target destination yet. Close enough.
The server deposited a mug and a miniature cream pitcher at the table. Rosemary took a test sip; the coffee tasted good enough to drink black, rich without bitterness. The group in the next booth were arguing over what to play that night, which meant Rosemary was right that they were a band.
“…Luce, we haven’t played that in months. I don’t think this new kid has even heard it before.”
“I’ve heard it, but I’ve never played it,” someone who must have been the new kid agreed.
“See?” asked the first voice again.
“…But I’m sure I can follow. It’s straightforward, as I remember, except that weird bridge.”
“See?” A new voice, a woman’s, low and warm, echoing the first in a way that sounded closer to teasing than mocking, a laugh behind it. “It’ll sound fresh. It’ll be great.”
“It’s eight years old.”
The woman again. “Eight years and still so relevant. I wish it would stop being relevant.”
“We’ll crash and burn.”
“And nobody will care. I love a good crash and burn.”
The waitress slid a chipped white bowl to Rosemary. “It’s hot.”
Rosemary stirred the cheese into the chili, poking underneath to see which fry cut they used. She usually knew what brand of potatoes a proper restaurant franchise ordered, could probably even still recite the Superwally product code from her first-year job checking orders, but these looked rough and house made.
The bowl wasn’t as hot as she expected from the warning. She took a mouthful. Her first thought was that the chili wasn’t all that hot, either. Her second thought was obliterated by peppers. Tears poured down her cheeks. She reached for the cream pitcher and chugged it.
“I told you it was hot,” the waitress said.
Rosemary wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “But I didn’t order the burn-your-face-off.”
“That wasn’t the burn-your-face-off. I make people sign a waiver the first time they try that one. Here, try it with sour cream.”
Rosemary stirred in the sour cream and tentatively took another bite. The waitress was right. With the heat cut, the flavors spilled out: chili, paprika, cumin. She’d never had any food that packed that much punch. She took another spoonful and nodded at the waitress in appreciation. Another and she realized exactly how hungry she was. She had packed sandwiches for the bus, but she’d eaten the last one hours ago.
The band stood to leave, and Rosemary got her first good look at them. The guy with the blue hair wore a T-shirt with the arms torn off, the better to show off his tattoos. He had more tattoos than skin. Another looked younger than her, androgynous in a sundress and a denim jacket. They stacked their bowls on the counter as they left. Rosemary wondered if that was standard procedure; she’d never been in a restaurant where the customers cleaned up after themselves before.
The woman left last. She was maybe in her thirties, long ponytail, looking less dramatic than her companions, but exuding something Rosemary couldn’t name. She shrugged on a leather jacket and winked at Rosemary as she straightened her collar. Reached into her pocket, grabbed a handful of cash, and tossed it on the table without counting. “See ya, Mary. Thanks!”
“Have a good show, Luce!” The waitress waved after them.
Rosemary didn’t want to chance missing the band. She scarfed the rest of her chili, counted out cash to cover her check and tip, and then followed the others’ lead and brought her dishes to the counter. The waitress smiled. If it wasn’t standard procedure, it was at least appreciated.
“Um, do you know what band that was?” She was embarrassed to ask, in case they were super famous, but better to know.
“They go by ‘Harriet’ this week, but ask again soon and they’ll have another name.”