Chapter Five
I do what comes naturally. Waitressing in St. Louis is as simple as waitressing at Bailey’s beer hall. I have a job the day I’m off the bus, before I head for Ginny’s house. I’ll be working in the morning at an alternative coffee house where half the clientele are noticeably pierced and all of the wait-staff are. A permanent band around my ankle is only too appropriate for the setting. I like the feel of the place, ferns hanging in the corners, mismatched tables and chairs, vintage tablecloths, and two guys in tie-dyed shirts, stoned, serving coffee, tea and the morning paper.
On Bascom St., Aunt Ginny greets me with a hug as if she knew I was coming—I think we telegraph our faults and failings. But she’s brief, on her way to work.
“You can crash in the spare room, hon. J
