ELIZABETH BEAMAN
NIGHT SHIFT It’s Wednesday at the Starlight. I’m working the night shift. I hear the cooks Nik and Georg talking in the kitchen, Greek and English. It’s too early for the drunks who come in after the bars close. The restaurant’s empty except for Officer Dave, wearing his uniform like a second skin and hunched over his free cup at the counter. “Hey, Liesl. How about one for the road?” He grabs his cap off the counter. “Sure. I’ll put it in a paper cup.” “Why don’t you bring it out to the cruiser and give me a proper goodbye?” His dark eyebrows rise, suggestively. I give him a look. He knows I’m married. “Can’t blame me for trying.” He puts on his hat and grabs the coffee. The glass doors shudder behind him. I’m fresh meat – nineteen, married only five months when Bob was drafted. I’m here to be with him during his last three months stateside. I took leave from my job in Austin, packed the car, drove up to Virginia, Newport News, where he’s in helicopter training for ‘Nam. Rented a cheap furnished apartment, tough to do on ninety dollars a month base pay; the job I get at the Starlight pays three dollars a night, plus tips and meals. The drunks never tip. I’m in it for the meals. This is 1967, and the town’s full of draftees’ wives like me. “That cop leave?” Nik brings out my dinner. “Wow, Nik. Lobster?” 25
