The Guy Not Taken Read Free Page A

cool, and behind a long, stainless-steel counter, to keep the pesky people at bay. Waitresses passed her written slips or called out their requests; Nicki made the requisite dish, and then flicked a switch that lit up a number on a flashboard, and the waitress would come and whisk the sundaes and cones and Fribbles away.
    I’d stop by for lunch between lawns and find Nicki, clad in a short blue-and-white gingham dress and a frilly white apron, bent over the caskets of fudge ripple and strawberry delight, the muscles in her skinny arms working valiantly to dislodge the ice cream. “Get out of there, you!” she’d mutter into the tubs. When she’d gotten the ice cream loose she’d stand up with the dish in her hand, pivoting swiftly on sticky sneakers between the hot fudge dispenser and the plastic containers of jimmies and Reese’s Pieces and maraschino cherries.
    On her chest, like medals for valor, she had pinned brightly colored Friendly’s-supplied buttons, a new one each week, bearing slogans like “Buy one get one free! Ask me!” or “Try a cone-head!!” The one pin that should have been a constant was the plastic rectangle reading simply “Hi! I’m” with a space left for the employee to write in his or her name, but Nicki, perversely, would change names every night. She’d be Wendy on Monday, Juanita on Tuesday, and Shakina the day after that. She hated the implied familiarity when customers requested things from her by name, and she took a great deal of delight in watching people who would mistakenly approach the counter thinking she would serve them, or help them in some way, struggle with unfamiliar monikers to which she’d never respond on the first try.
    •   •   •
    Spying on Nicki at work became a regular summer event for me, Jon, and our mother, one of the few pleasures those hot months held for us. After dinner and Jeopardy, Mom would survey the family room. Jon would usually be sprawled on the brown leather couch in khaki shorts and a too-tight polo shirt, tossing a tennis ball toward the ceiling with his Walkman headphones over his ears. Milo would be dozing on the floor, and I’d be in a corner of the couch with a book or a magazine in my lap.I’d take the quizzes in Cosmo. It’s in your kiss! Does your smile say “Sexy?” Are you the life of the party or a wet blanket?
    “OK, kids,” Mom would say, “who wants a Fribble?” We’d pile into the station wagon, drive past the leaning tower of mailbox, and make the fifteen-minute trip to Route 44, past the brief strip of chain stores and fast-food restaurants, and turn into Friendly’s parking lot.
    Nicki’s manager was an ex-teenage wasteland turned bornagain Christian named Tim, with the ravages of bad acne still apparent on his newly baptized brow. He knew us well. Dispensing with the menus, he would lead us to a booth that offered the best view of Nicki scooping ice cream, refilling the napkin dispensers or salt shakers, or grimacing as she wiped off the counter or directed lost diners to the bathrooms.
    One Thursday night, as Nicki squirted whipped cream on top of banana splits, a birdlike old lady waiting at the cash register tried to get her attention.
    “Excuse me,” she called across the counter in a high, reedy voice. Nicki ignored her and reached for the hot fudge. With shaking hands the woman fumbled her chained bifocals to her eyes. “Miss?” she called, squinting at the name tag. “Esmerelda?”
    Mom set down her coffee spoon. “Esmerelda?”
    The old woman waved her check at Nicki, who shook her head. “I don’t do checks,” Nicki said. “Just desserts.” The old woman heaved a well-practiced sigh. “Young people today . . .” she began, as Tim, sensing trouble, hurried out of the kitchen. Nicki turned, ladle in hand, and glared at the old woman.
    “Begone!” she thundered. A glob of hot fudge flew off the ladle and was headed straight for the woman’s withered bosom when the manager interposed