January 3, 2013--Snowbirding: Top Spot

"I know what you're thinking."

We were at our usual table by the window waiting for our cortaditos and Eggs Bohio.

We'd seen her before, always at about 9:00.  I squinted into the sun, didn't say anything back to her, but nodded acknowledgement in her direction.  But never previously had she come over to us. "Maybe," she said, "you're thinking--What kind of a job is this anyway?"

That was not what I was thinking. Maybe just that it looked like it was a hard way to make money, standing at the highway all day. "Not really that," I said. I was happy when the coffee arrived and hoped I could turn my attention to sipping it while it was still hot.

"But do I look to you like someone who should be doing this rain and shine?" I couldn't think of what to say to that. "I never thought I'd wind up this way. But you gotta do what you gotta do."

I mumbled something to indicate I agreed. To what exactly--not wanting right then to know too much more--I wasn't sure.

"I'm not complaining, mind you, but just want to let you know."

I also didn't follow what she was trying to say about whatever it was that she wanted me to know. Since I had had a sleepless night I needed my caffeine before I could figure any of this out or engage her, or anyone else for that matter. So I gulped down more of the cortadito and in the process burned the roof of my mouth. "Shit," I muttered under my breath.

Undeterred she said, "Take a look at this." She held up a large yellow and black sign, on end taller than she, on which in bold letters it said--

                                                   Top Spot
                                             Bahamian Restaurant
                                            Lunch Special--$5.99

It also included an arrow directing potential customers, when she held it across her body, to the Top Spot in the same plaza where El Bohio is located.

"Looking for customers. That's my job. I stand out there on Federal Highway," without turning she gestured behind her toward the road, "all day, from now until 5:00. Then I'm done. They pay me in cash, and that's it. My job." She shrugged and shot us a that's-it smile.

"It's going to be hot today," Rona said, trying, for the both of us, to be empathetic.

"You should have been here in the summer. Humid too. But as I said, I gotta do what I gotta do."

"True for sure," Rona smiled.

"You guys from here?"

"When we're in Florida we have a place in Delray. South of here."

"Nice there. Real nice. I'm originally from Alexandria. Up in Virginia. Worked in the hospitality industry. Catering. Special events. That sort of thing. I liked it well enough but when it dried up my house slipped under water and I walked away from it." She tried to smile. "Then my sister, who lives in Boynton, just down the road from here, took me in. Real decent of her. But a big strain. She has two kids. Nine and eleven. And to tell you the truth, we don't always get along all that well. Especially now when we're living on top of each other. So I'm making plans to find a place of my own." She shrugged again, leaning on her sign. "Though from what they pay me doing this it could be ten years before I can do that."

"Maybe . . ."

"I know what you're about to say," she said to Rona, "It's true, I'm making things worse than they are. They're bad enough that I don't have to do that."

"That's not really what I meant," Rona said, "But from the look of things between here and Delray, especially in Delray, it feels like there's some more activity in the hotel and restaurant business. There are a lot of new places on Atlantic Avenue and at least one new hotel so maybe . . ."

"Do you have any idea how many people like me are looking for whatever jobs there are? Probably at least hundreds. I consider myself lucky to have this."  She pointed to the Top Spot sign and gave it a loud smack.

"But it sounds like you had, I mean have good experience, so maybe that would make you stand out. From what I hear having worked up north gives one a leg up down here."

"I've heard that too. But from me you'd never know that's true. So I'm thinking maybe it isn't true. I mean the value of experience up north." Sounding resigned, she took a deep breath.

With coffee flowing through my system, I finally joined in and said, "No matter how hard things are it's important, don't you think, to retain an optimistic attitude." As soon as the words came out of my mouth I wished I could have retrieved them--to myself I sounded so insincere and banal.

She looked skeptically at me to let me know she too felt I was spouting cliches. "You try this for a few days," she said with muted aggression, "and then tell me how optimistic you feel.  But don't mishear me," she added to be sure I didn't think she was giving me that hard a time, "I know this is a get-by strategy--doing whatever I need to do to get back on my feet--but it does get you down after awhile."

"How long have you been doing this?" Rona asked.

"Not long enough for me to feel that this is it; but too long for me to delude myself that things will be better soon."

Not knowing what to say but wanting to be helpful, I suggested, "Have you thought about getting into the health care field? Down here, or for that matter back up north, aren't there lots of opportunities for that sort of work?"

"In hospitality, it's true, your job is to take care of people's needs. So I can see a connection. But it's not that hands on."

I noticed her eyes beginning to flutter. What had I inadvertently stumbled on? I thought about re-concentrating on my eggs and coffee, but was in too deep in whatever that might be to again turn away from her.

"My mother . . ." she said, struggling to complete the thought.

Rona reached toward her through the open picture window. She took a half step back and let the sign fall out of her grip. It clattered on the asphalt of the parking lot.

Half turning from us, she swatted at a tear that was forming on her cheek. "For eight years, until about the same time I got laid off, I worked at the hotel evenings and nights--when events were scheduled--but during the day, I took care of her. All her needs. We couldn't afford aides and she didn't want to be put in a care facility. We couldn't live with that either. My other sister and me. So we did the best we could. 24/7. We had no other life.

"She weighed nearly 300 pounds and any time my sister or me would go out, even for just an hour, or tried to get some sleep--my sister worked as a waitress at the hotel at special events and catered parties--when we'd come back or wake up, we'd find her on the floor. It was if she waited for us not to be with her or when we were catching a nap that she would try to rouse herself and get herself to the bathroom, or whatever. And with all that weight plus the Parkinson's, she couldn't walk or pick herself up off the floor. So we had to do that too. I'm strong, but it's so hard to lift someone that heavy up off the floor and then into bed or the wheelchair. I was afraid I'd cripple myself."

Neither of us could think of what to say. We looked back at her and nodded with as much understanding as we could summon.

"Did I tell you we did that for eight years?" We nodded in tandem. "Eight." We kept up the nodding. "That felt like a lifetime. I had nothing left when I was let go and, although I knew we would have big money trouble, to tell you the truth, I wasn't half-sorry not to be working. I mean at the hotel because at home things only got worse. Especially when she began to stiffen up from the Parkinson's. That can happen too. Do you have any idea what it's like to have to take care of someone with all that heft who's becoming stiff as a board?" As if to illustrate, she kicked at the signboard she had dropped at her feet.

"So when you suggested that I go into the health field, I . . ."

"I was just trying to be helpful," I said, feeling guilty, chocking back a cough, "Not that . . . I mean, I didn't . . . how could I . . . know? Sorry."

"No need to say that," she looked right at me, "I know you were trying to help." She paused to take a deep breath and looked around as if to check to see if the Top Spot people who hired her to bring in customers would notice she hadn't yet set herself up on the highway.

"Did I tell you she died? My mother."

We mouthed, "No. Sorry."

"It was a blessing. For her and, to be honest, for us. She wasn't going to get better. Only worse. So this was a release."

"I wish . . ." Rona began to say.

She waved away the thought and, bending to retrieve her sign, said, "You seem like good people. I see the way you talk to people who come here for coffee and breakfast." I wasn't feeling that good about myself--how I wanted to ignore her when she approached us. "That's why, I suppose, I came over to talk with you. Just to have someone who could understand my situation before heading over there," she again gestured toward the corner where she was about to spend the day, "just someone I could tell a little of my story to."

"We come here once or twice a week," Rona said, "so I hope you'll feel you can stop by and talk with us whenever you want."

"I promise not to bother you," she said, "You're here to have a good time. Not to be brought down by the likes of me."

We shook our heads to disabuse her of that thought.

She held up the sign so we could see it again. "That's me all right. At the top spot." She laughed at that. "But, not to worry. I'll be OK. I'm still getting myself back on my feet. Things could be a lot worse."

And with that she trotted over to the highway.