Call Me Darling

Chapter One

Chapter Text

In New York City, when the snow was five inches high and the wind blew a chill of just under eighteen degrees, fifty cents could get a hungry person a hot meal, served from behind the door of a small shelf set into the wall. Only ten cents and a person could thaw out with a cup of coffee in the corner of a mint-colored corner booth at the L&L Automat. December meant the loud bell over the door clanging more often than usual, coins dropping into the vending machine and cabinets opening and closing. Muddy ice tracked onto the pink-swirled tile, the sound of a palm striking a clothed behind followed by raucous laughter.

She did not, Angie Martinelli thought, her skin smarting as she walked away from the man to retrieve a "better" plate of eggs, get paid enough for this. Seventy-five cents an hour barely covered her forty-five dollar a month rent, and the Griffith wasn't even the nicest apartment in New York. She wasn't even sure you could count The Griffith Hotel for Women as an apartment. A room, really. A Murphy bed and a closet, a desk and chair to use for writing letters home. The best part of it was not having to worry about groceries; communal meals in the dining room took care of that. The worst part was dealing with Ms. Fry, and pulling extra shifts as a waitress just so Angie wouldn't have to take her father up on his offer to pay for secretarial school.

It wasn't all bad, Angie told herself on a daily basis. She did make rent every month, and if she scrimped and pinched and held off on buying that new dress on display in the window of the Emerald Department Store, she'd have an extra five dollars every so often to see a show. And she wouldn't trade that for anything, even if her plaid coat was getting a little threadbare and she had to deal with Mr. Professional-Something-or-Other thinking he had the right to smack her and say "Make yourself useful, sweetheart."

When all was said and done she did at least have the freedom to leave at the end of the day. Angie could go back to her room at the Griffith and shed the light blue and slightly peachy uniform. She'd kick off her heels, indulge in dinner if she felt like it, rhubarb pie and schnapps if she didn't. And always, always her music. Ms. Fry disapproved of records, lecturing the girls one morning that she felt they led to "thoughts, which lead to temptation, which leads to ill repute." Angie was pretty sure it was the "no men above the second floor" rule which led to ill repute, as well as broken drain pipes.

The player had been a Christmas gift from her parents five years ago; its case was falling apart and its needle really ought to be replaced. But it played her records well enough, with Angie sitting barefooted on the floor against the side of her bed, listening as the soft tunes of jazz and Broadway took her away from the grease and guys of the L&L.

Martha rescued her on the way to give Mr. Professional his new plate of eggs, taking it from her hands and whipping it 'round to him with a flourish, before returning.

"Hey, thanks," Angie said, noting with some satisfaction the disgruntled sneer on his face.

"Sure thing, Ang, but listen..."

She quirked an eyebrow waiting for the inevitable request.

Martha didn't disappoint. "Watch my tables while I take a break? Only one customer right now, she's havin' coffee by the door."

Angie glanced over and time, for a moment, stopped.

When Angie was at "home" tucked inside her room at the Griffith, the diner would fade away until it was little more than a persistent buzzing in her ear. She couldn't ever really let go of the diner, after all. It was her bread and butter, the living for which she had to get up every morning at 4:30 a.m. But sitting against the side of her bed with her legs splayed out in front of her, listening to Ella or Oklahoma! while drinking schnapps and eating the last slice of pie, she could forget everything. Imagine she was taking her bow on Broadway, having to step lightly to avoid tripping as she picked up the roses that were thrown at her.