And God sent me Wonder Woman

I would have accepted a rainbow or a phone call from a long lost friend. Being narrowly missed by a speeding car as I crossed a busy street, not slipping on the greasy floor as I carried a tray full of dirty dishes through the kitchen last night. Instead, God sent me Wonder Woman.

It was just another night of slinging pasta at the restaurant. The weather was perfect, and I was pleased to be serving outside at the café instead of being stuck in the restaurant that can feel so much like a mausoleum. All but one of my tables were filled, I had just finished taking a couples order and convincing them that a white zinfandel would not be the best wine choice that evening, and there she was being seated at the table directly to my right by the general manager. Linda Carter. Wonder Woman.

“She’s just another guest,” pragmatic Liz told overexcited Liz. “Do not go over there and act like a fool!”

I approached the table, ready to treat them just like I would anyone else. And then she looked at me with her clear blue eyes and for a split second I swore she was wearing her red bustier and blue star-spangled hot pants. I saw the sun glint from her golden crown. Then the illusion was gone and she was just another beautiful woman enjoying a meal on Main St. in Ann Arbor.

I did what I always do. Described the menu, made recommendations, made sure their food was cooked to their liking. It was nothing special. I did no more or less for this table than I did for any other. Dinner came and went as all dinners should, enjoyably. I returned to their table as they set down their forks, and the stunning woman asked me about desert. I reached in my apron pocket, where I should have had a menu. It was empty. I took a deep breath, and began describing the deserts to them.

“Tonight we have a wonderfully creamy Tahitian Vanilla Gelato, and our Sorbetto is Red Raspberry which tastes like the berries were just picked yesterday. I’ve been fantasizing about putting a scoop of each in a bowl, imagining…” Wonder Woman put her finger up.

I’ve gone too far in my excitement about desert and annoyed the celebrity. I’m so going to get fired.

“Are you a writer?” Wonder Woman was again in uniform and asking me a question about myself. I paused. Took a deep breath. My mind went blank and for that moment I believed I might never speak again.

“Well...yeah... I did my undergrad in creative writing.”
Why was it so hard for me to look her in the eye and tell her I am a writer?

“I can tell.” Her impenetrable bracelets blinded me.

I pinched my left arm.
Then I pinched the right one.
I thanked her for saying so.
Then I got stage fright.
And she took off in her invisible plane.
I should have asked if I could borrow her Lasso of Truth.

Incoming call from "Withheld"

While sitting on my patio having a long distance drink with Atticus, call waiting alerted me.

“Atticus, let me call you back. I’ve got a weird phone call coming in.” Click over to the other line, “Hello?”

“Is this Liz?”

“Yeah, who is this?” Questioning now the decision to answer “withheld” at 10pm.

“This is Heather. Have you been spending time with Jaime?” I’ve seen this movie before.

“Yeah, well, we’ve gone out twice. Who is this?”

“I’m Jaime’s girlfriend. He’s been living with me for the past five weeks. The police just picked him up from my house and I’ve decided to call every person he’s called from my phone and warn them about him.”

Stop.

This isn’t a poorly written “chick flick”.

This isn’t a writer’s lie, or even an exaggeration.

Though at times I wish it was.

“The police? Why?” The script had been written; I had to say my lines for the cameras I imagined were hidden in the shrub to the left of my patio, in my neglected grill, in my dog’s collar.

“He locked my children out of my apartment today, while he hired a prostitute. My daughter went to the neighbor’s house and called me at work. I called the police to have him removed. He said she was a massage therapist. Then why were they naked?” Heathers voice has risen an octave since I first accepted her call. I hear Heathers hysteria and want to run away from it.

“I’m so sorry this is happening to you.” Lame words are all I have to offer. “I had no idea. He and I met a few weeks ago. We had lunch twice. He told me you were his sister, and you and his nieces were living with him for the next month. I’m so sorry this is happening to you.”

“Well, I’m not telling you what to do. Just thought you should know.” Heather has retreated from the cliffs edge, and I am thankful.

“Clearly, Heather, I will not be in contact with him anymore. I appreciate this phone call. Keep yourself safe, dear.” I never can resist the urge to call even a stranger dear or hon when I know they are in distress.

Gently giggling, I pour myself a glass of vodka. The giggling has turned into silent laughs as I resume my long distance drink with Atticus. Recounting the story I just participated in, the silent laughs turn into chesty chuckles. The therapist that lives inside my mind tries to speak, but those chesty chuckles have turned into belly laughs interspersed with a healthy snort or two and tears are running down my cheeks.

“Who do these things happen to, seriously? Whose life is this?” I ask Atticus.

"It’s yours Liz.”