Second Chance Cafe

Loreen stood at the entrance to the cafe, peering through the glass at the bustling activity inside. The clatter of dishes, muffled laughter, and country western music wafted through the door as a couple of men, one in a gray pin-striped suit, the other in jeans and a pink T-shirt exited the cafe, arms around each other’s waist. “Nice dress, girlfriend,” the tall one commented as they passed her on the sidewalk.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, smoothing the wrinkles of the skirt, a bit too short and too tight, but it was all she could afford from the bargain bin at Salvation Army. She watched as they entered a bookstore, comfortable as an old married couple, and she marveled at how much had changed since she’d been in prison. Eight years, she thought, hardly believing she had survived the bullying, deprivation and loneliness she endured each day. Now she was faced with fear, insecurity and desperation as she stared through the window at the crowded tables and dizzying movement of bussers and servers, who she’d been told were people just like her—looking for a second chance.

With a deep breath and prayer for good luck, she entered the cafe and approached the cashier, an older woman with bleached hair, multiple piercings and a sleeve of tattoos on both arms, an intricate landscape of flowers, birds and hearts.

“Can I help you?” she asked, her smile big, her teeth crooked and stained.

“I’m Loreen. Is Ramona around? I have an interview.”

The cashier studied her. “How long you in the cage?” she asked as she arranged a stack of menus on the counter.

“How did you—”

“Hon, everyone here has a story. Me? Lived on the street for twenty years turning tricks when Ramona picked me up outta the gutter. Got me a place to stay and this job. Ain’t never been back. Sweet looker like you’ll be hired in a heartbeat. Guaranteed.” She pointed a finger, the purple nail impossibly long, to a door behind her. “Ramona’s office is through the kitchen. Follow me. Hey, Aabad, watch the till, will ya? Back in five!”

“I quick be there soon, Miss June!” a young slender man with dark curly hair hollered from across the room. He finished clearing a table, removed his apron then headed to the till.

“Aabad, this is Loreen. She’s here for a job.”

He looked at her with a shy smile and nodded his head. “This my pleasure to see you,” he said with a thick accent. “Welcome to Second Chances.”

“Aabad is from a Syrian refugee camp,” June explained. Has three kids and another on the way. They live in an apartment upstairs—hey, Smitty! Long time no see!”

A customer approached the counter, an older man with thinning hair, pudgy cheeks, a bulging stomach and pronounced limp. “Smitty, Loreen’s here for a job. Tell her your story.”

He gazed at Loreen and winked. “Ten years sober,” he said proudly as he handed a twenty to Aabad. “Ramona fed me when I didn’t have a pot to piss in, took me to AA and gave me a broom and mop bucket. Best job I ever had. When diabetes took my leg,” he raised his pants to reveal a prosthesis, “she helped me sign up for disability. Don’t know what I’d do without Ramona…probably dead and buried by now.” He chuckled. “Keep the change.”

“Don’t be a stranger, my friend!” June said as he waved and left. She walked Loreen toward the kitchen, pointing out more employees. “That’s Sue at the far table. Husband beat the shit outta her and she shot him. Ten years for assault four. And that’s Carlos. He escaped the drug cartel in Honduras. Lost his wife and kid in an ambush.”

Loreen followed her, wide eyed and speechless, as she tried to imagine their traumas. Her stint was nothing compared to the loss and pain they endured. She could feel her heart opening up with compassion and her stomach fluttering with hope.

They entered the kitchen, hot and steamy from pots of boiling soup, aromatic from grilled meat and spiced vegetables. “That’s Deeba at the sink.” June pointed toward a petite woman in jeans and flowered head scarf, both wrists sparkling with gold bangles. “She was a translator in Afghanistan. Barely made it out. Over at the stove,” she pointed again, “is Butch. Spent twelve years for DUI. Killed an old lady walking her poodle. And this here’s Kate, my squeeze.” They stopped at a work station where a tall black woman with dreads wearing a frilly apron and overalls was kneading dough.  June wrapped an arm around the woman’s waist and nuzzled her neck, then plucked a handful of plump golden raisins from a ceramic bowl. She popped a few in her mouth.

“Hey there, who’s your new friend?” Kate asked as she patted the dough into a large rectangle and sprinkled it with cinnamon, walnuts and raisins.

“This is Loreen. She’s here for a job.”

“Better have a good story,” Kate said as she rolled the dough into a log and sliced it into buns. “What’s yours?”

“Ramona’s waiting,” June said as she led Loreen toward a door at the far end of the room. “Save us some cinnamon rolls and we’ll swap stories on your break.” She blew Kate a kiss. “She has the best buns in town,” June said, laughing at her own joke.

June knocked. “Door’s open,” a deep voice answered. “Come on in.”

June nudged Loreen through the door. “This here’s Loreen. Says she has an interview. Be nice to her.” She closed the door.

Loreen stared at the woman standing at a file cabinet, at least six five and 250 pounds, draped in a leopard print caftan and wearing a blond wig, false eyelashes, fake painted nails, large hoop earrings, and heeled sandals. She smiled, her ruby lips framing pearly teeth. “Well, don’t just stand there, take a load off.” She pointed to a chair and plopped herself at her desk. Loreen lowered herself into a comfy chair, tugged her skirt down as far as it would go and crossed her legs.

“So, Loreen, what’s your story?”

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Shirlee Jellum is a retired English teacher living in the Columbia Gorge. She has recently published in Gleam, Flash Fiction, Honeyguide and Memoirist.