In Search Of…

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Excerpt: Introduction

I arrive at Club Paris precisely six minutes prior to the start of my shift. It is my second job, but it is only part-time, so I am not here that often. When it is my day to come in, I make sure to come early as Armon plates something for me to eat. For free.

I sit at the table in the back where Stan usually sits. It is a terrible table for guests as it is directly across from the entry to the kitchen. Even when this place is extremely busy on a Saturday night, they will not sit anyone at this table. No one wants to hear “Corner,” being yelled through their dinner as servers and bussers—which is me—go in and out of the kitchen trying to not collide with each other.

Within a few bites of a giant pile of excellent mashed potatoes, Stan slides into the booth across the table from me. He is one of the owners, or the son of one of the owners. I am not sure which. Probably both. Club Paris has been around since the fifties and I think it has been in Stan’s family the whole time. 

Fancy meeting you here, I say.

Stan chuckles and says, “Don’t you have work to do?”

Not for another forty-three seconds, I say, shoveling more mash into my mouth. 

I saw Stan a few hours ago at the Downtown location for Cafe del Mundo. He came in while I was there so that he could use my employee discount to get a Gaggia home espresso machine. I get free coffee while working there, so I do not need a machine at home and I figure someone should benefit from my discount.

“Thanks again for the hook up,” says Stan as he lays out a few piles of receipts to start going over the books.

Yeah, of course, I say. 

Forty-three seconds being up, I excuse myself, bus my dishes—as I am now on the clock—put on my apron, and hop to it. With as much hop as I can muster given I have been up since five this morning. Most of my shift is spent clearing tables, seating people now and again, and being chastised for not knowing to place the brandy snifters directly on the cups of coffee by ego-driven white men who think ties are important. Fucking yuppies.

The front of Club Paris is lined with large windows that look out onto 5th Avenue. As I clear one of the tables at the window, I can see the light from the setting sun landing on the mall across the street, but the light looks much dimmer than it should given the time of day and that the weather forecast is for clear skies.

I lean against the window and look west to see the sky turning black. I set down the tray stacked with partially-filled water glasses and napkins and step outside to look at what is happening. Stan follows me. He likely watched me walk out, wondered why I was leaving mid-shift, and followed me out. I can tell he is about to ask what I am up to, but then looks where I am looking. The sky is definitely turning black.

There is still a sliver of sun above Sleeping Lady, but it looks dull brown instead of bright orange-yellow. From the ground to as high as I can see, there is a wall of black clouds heading toward us. Not even clouds really. One solid mass of black. 

I walk to the corner of 5th and E streets. I look north, toward my daytime job at del Mundo and can see blue sky. I look south. More blue sky. Though, in both directions, the light is looking more and more washed out.

I walk back to stand next to Stan and tell him what I saw. 

“Weird weather,” he says, with a bit of a questioning uplift to his voice.

I suppose, I say.

We walk back inside together and get back to work. I finish clearing the table by the window and take the dishes back to the dishwasher. I am glad I do not have the job of dishwasher. It looks like very uncomfortable work. And yet, it is the second most important job in the place behind the Chef de Cuisine—aka Armon. I suspect though that Juan is not paid as well as Armon.

I head back to the floor and begin filling water glasses at tables around the room. I look out the window again and the light filtering in looks…weird. I head up to the front again and peek out the window. My eyes widen and I walk out the front door again, still holding the water pitcher.

The sky is still mostly blue behind me to the east, but somewhere down by K Street the buildings are being engulfed by the black. I estimate only ten minutes have passed since Stan and I stood out here. 

At a steady pace, like water pouring into a dry gulch, the blackness comes straight at me.

I look to the east again. The sky is clear, but it is definitely getting darker than it should be at this time of day. By the time I turn back around, the buildings at H Street are being engulfed. Cars along 5th Avenue have come to a stop. A few people are standing next to their car, looking down the street, and wondering the same thing I am wondering in this moment: what in the fuck is happening?

I cannot make out any buildings west of F Street now—they are gone. 

“Hey. Come back inside.”

I turn to see Stan in the doorway, looking west with me. He is not at all perturbed that I am out here when I should be working. The tone in his voice is definitely about my safety. I walk back in, letting him hold the door open for me. I set the water pitcher on the host stand and look back at the window. Most of the people here for an early dinner are standing at the window looking out.

Stan claps his hands a few times, loudly, to get everyone’s attention.

“Folks. I don’t know what’s going on, but we’re going to ask that everyone stay inside for a bit.”

The small crowd murmurs their way back to their tables except for an older couple who remain standing by the window. They are holding hands and leaning so the sides of their heads touch. She has long, gray hair and stands about an inch taller than him. He has a buzzed haircut which makes it difficult to make out the color, but it is probably gray, too. They look very comfortable together. And familiar, too, but I cannot place from where.

My attention is drawn from them back outside. From the right side of the window, the view fills in with darkness. It is still bright on the left side of the window, but within moments, the darkness pushes the light out of the way. As the entire window is filled, the darkness changes to a medium gray and the streetlights wink on. 

It is snowing. In summer. It is Alaska, but it does not snow during the summer in Anchorage.

The snow is gray and it covers everything. Within minutes there is an inch of snow on top of the mail and newspaper boxes across the street. The streetlights are barely casting enough light to see. The entire restaurant is staring out the window in complete silence except for the couple at the window.

“It is pretty in a way, like you said,” says the woman.

“Indeed. Just as I remembered,” says the man.

He stands back from the window and gestures that they should leave with her leading the way. They walk out together into the gray snowscape, with Stan encouraging them to stay inside.

Anika, who works the bar, uncovers the television that hangs on the wall. Club Paris is not the kind of place that has a TV running all the time, but when the Super Bowl or similar sporting event is on, it is a big draw. She powers it up and turns the knob to Channel 2. 

My close, personal friend—as I like to call her—Jackie Purcell stands in front of a weather graphic on the green screen behind her and a picture of a mountain in the upper right-hand corner of the screen. Underneath the picture reads: MT REDOUBT ERUPTS. 

I assume it is in allcaps due to the fact that a volcano is erupting and spreading ash all over Alaska’s most populated city. Maria Downey cuts in to Jackie’s weather report to inform viewers that KLM Flight 867 has just recovered from a two mile drop and will be doing an emergency landing at ANC. The ash and debris from the eruption took out all four engines. 

A two mile drop.

“Okay. Just a volcano. Not end of times. Buss some tables.” 

Stan smiles as he says it, but the look on his face is a mix of tension and relief. I shrug and get back to it. By the time my shift is over, and tips are split, the fact that it is still raining ash outside is not that big of an issue. Except for the fact that the only way for me to get home is to drive. And cars use air to move. Air that is filled with fine ash.

I spend twenty minutes waffling on what to do. Stan gives me the classic, “you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here,” and I decide to go for it. I leave through the back door as my car is parked against the wall in the alley behind the restaurant. I am relieved that I had the forethought to wet a towel and tie it around my nose and mouth. Even with this precaution, I can taste ash in my mouth.

I get in, close the door as quickly as possible, then close the vents. The 164 has a handle that opens a flap which allows air to rush in from the foot well. Very advanced design, Volvo. Kudos. I make sure that the vent is well shut and start up the car. It sounds completely normal, so I flip on the wipers, put it in reverse and back out, narrowly avoiding Stan’s motorcycle. I do not envy his ride home.

I maneuver between boxes, dumpsters, and other cars that fill up the alley and make my way to 4th, then C Street, then 6th for the drive home. As I pass Merrill Field—noting that no planes are flying at the busiest small plane airport in the world—I get a sense that the car is having its first issue. When I lift my foot from the accelerator, then depress it again, the engine does not respond as immediately as it typically does.

By the time I pull into the driveway at home, I can hear a persistent, low-toned grinding sound. I put it in park, turn off the lights, and turn off the engine. It shudders to a stop. Out of curiosity, I try turning it over again. It grinds and shakes, then dies.

I love Sasha—the name of my car—but I think I just killed her. 

Volvo, non volvunt.