It's 1987.
Michael Jackson is shattered by the marriage of Diana Ross, isolated by fame, and finding it hard to cope.
That is until he meets Sheri Carter - a hard-working, quick-witted single parent who swears she'll never love again.
They form a st...
'Always the wrong person gives you the right lesson in life.'
Shakespeare's right on.
In fact, reading just about anything Shakespeare is my favorite thing to do, especially on a warm, breezy Saturday evening in March. Springtime—edging toward Summer—and the temperature outside is just right, and there's an occasional chill in the air.
The Maple was usually quiet and empty by sunset. It was a small, traditional bistro on the very end of Ventura Boulevard. Waitressing was hardly my dream job, but I got a kick outta working there when Ol' Man Sam hired me back in 1981. He hates when I call him that, but Samuel Winston, my cheapskate boss, was the only person in the entire world who gave me endless support through the toughest time of my life.
I was working late on one of those blissful March evenings as usual. Just me and Sam. He's a chunky, wide-nosed man with two deep laugh lines and rough, grey goatee stubble. He always came into work wearing one of his faded plaid shirts and his trusty, tan-colored tweed cap.
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"Get on home, now!" he'd say.
"Gotta pay the rent!" I'd tell him.
Then he'd sigh and retreat into the back kitchen area, only making a few occasional appearances till it was finally closing time. The entire place was still and thirsting for customers. There was no movement. No sound. I sat on the cashier side of the bar which I wiped clean three times in the last hour, staring opposite at the row of empty barstools which mocked the lifelessness of The Maple. I just read King Lear twice. I studied the Da Vinci painting on the wall again. The indigo sky had faded to a deep, dark blue. It was quiet enough to hear the crickets chirping in the distance.
"You still here, Sheri?" Sam called out from the back.
That's the fifth time he's asked me that. "Still here!"
The clock was ticking, I glanced at it on the wall behind me. There was still an hour to go till 9 pm.
The bell at the front entrance unexpectedly chimed as it opened. A black-hooded figure wandered in and sat at the table furthest away from the window. Their cap was sticking out under the hood, their hands thrust deep into their pockets. Sunglasses? The sun already went down. Talk about making a fashion statement. Whoever it was either wanted to be invisible or stand out completely. It was impossible to tell.
I always liked to greet customers in a warm way and crack a joke or two. On this odd occasion, I broke the ice with a quote from The Tempest,
"What have we here? A man or a fish?" I said cheerily.
Silence.
They didn't once look up, even when I took their order, which I didn't appreciate. As a waitress, I at least expected basic politeness from customers. It took about three tries before I could actually hear what they were saying. After I scribbled the simple request on a small white notepad, I entered the old kitchen: a brick-walled area with white tiles and counters and a small workspace. Sam was sat on a stool, playing Solitaire on one of the counters.
