The Invisible Circus - Jennifer Egan [27]
A new guy was starting today, and Phoebe would be training him. She’d worked at Milk and Honey for over a year, finishing high school at noon, then riding the bus to the Haight. Except for the manager, Art, she’d been here longer than anyone.
The new guy was good-looking, which explained Art’s more than usually high spirits. “This is Phoebe O’Connor,” he said, introducing them. “Phoebe, Patrick Finley. I suggest you talk about your Irish roots.”
Phoebe and Patrick exchanged forced smiles. Patrick was tall, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt. Phoebe wouldn’t have guessed he was gay, but he must be—she’d never known a straight guy to work here.
“Phoebe is training you,” Art explained to Patrick. “She’s our paragon of virtue, aren’t you, dear?”
Phoebe blushed. “Not exactly.”
“Well, no, not if you count all the bodies buried under your house,” Art said merrily.
“They’re deep,” Phoebe said, trying to get into the spirit of it.
But Art’s attention was entirely on Patrick. “She’s never smoked a cigarette,” he said. “Can you imagine?”
“Not once?” the stranger said softly, meeting Phoebe’s gaze. She shook her head, feeling more than usually shy. His eyes were a bright, hungry green.
“She’s training to be a nun,” Art went on. “Although I will say I’ve seen her drunk.”
Phoebe looked at him in alarm. At the Haight Street Fair a few weeks before, she’d gulped down several glasses of sangria in the bright sun and started to cry while watching the motley parade of hippies—their worn-out faces and eyes that seemed bleached from one too many blinding sunrises. Art had put his arms around Phoebe and hugged her. “It’s a long life, kiddo,” she remembered him saying.
“But why am I surprised? All Catholics are drunks,” Art went on, winking at her. “Even the priests.”
“Especially the priests,” Patrick murmured.
“What makes you think I’m a Catholic?” Phoebe said, relieved that her drunken tears had been kept a secret.
“It’s written all over you, dear,” Art said, kissing her cheek.
The morning rush began. Phoebe felt sorry for new employees, that bumbling, incompetent phase, but Patrick seemed used to it. She guessed he was in his mid-twenties. Phoebe taught him her forte, caffè latte, which she made with such consummate skill that the coffee and milk formed separate shifting layers inside the glass mug. Often these efforts went unnoticed by customers, who stirred her masterpieces without so much as pausing to admire their perfect layers.
When the crowd ebbed, Patrick retreated to a nook outside the view of customers. He took a Camel from his pack and tapped one end against the counter. “Can I?” he asked.
“Sure. Everyone does.”
He lit up, eyes falling shut an instant as the smoke met his lungs. “You’re smart not to,” he said, exhaling. “It’s ugly.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Phoebe said with feeling. “I love to watch people smoke.”
Patrick burst out laughing. “Are you serious?”
Phoebe nodded uncertainly. She hadn’t meant to be funny.
Patrick took a deep pull on his cigarette, rolling the smoke from his mouth back into his nostrils. “I’m surprised you don’t just do it, then,” he said. “It’s not like there’s a waiting list.”
“I promised someone I wouldn’t.” This was her usual line.
Patrick stubbed out his cigarette, running both hands through his dark hair. “Well, they did you a favor,” he said.
At two o’clock Phoebe hung up her apron, brushed her hair and left the café for her lunch break. On the corner a guitarist was strumming “Gimme Shelter” on a threadbare electric, an amplifier sputtering beside him. He wore a black leather coat tied at the waist, yellow bell-bottoms and grubby platforms. The clothing looked older than he did.
Clustered at his feet were the vagabond kids who populated Haight Street. Now and then one of them would appear inside Milk and Honey asking for a lemon slice, which Phoebe had learned only recently they used to dilute heroin before shooting it into their veins. These kids were younger