Selka Ebonstone & the Prophecy of 7

The So Called Life

There comes a point in everyone's life when they realize what they are meant to do and who they are meant to be. They can picture their lives with that perfect job and the little picket fence that encases their loving spouse, two to three children and maybe even an adorable, household pet.


As I gazed into the mirror I began to ponder the likelihood of me having just that; the house, the spouse, the kids or the dog, well, I thought, I could always buy a dog. I studied myself; full, dark hair, large, brown eyes matched with plump lips and with sun kissed, but strangely pale skin. Thick limbs supported my chubby, but not quite fat torso... well to be honest I guess many of the local physicians here would consider me overweight. But that's how they are here in Seattle, very physically fit and organic; as if working a full-time dead end job and taking care of one's elderly family members allowed for any time to exercise, let alone the budget to eat healthy... At least in my defense I am quite tall, five eleven and three quarters to be exact and that adds to the scale right? The phone rang.


For some reason I didn't feel like picking up, I just let it ring. I couldn't help, but think that maybe, just maybe the reason why I couldn't picture myself living with all the essentials of the fairy tale was, because I didn't fit the part------ I wasn't the quaint princess that you saw in movies or read about in story books, I wasn't even the image of the silly sitcom mom, that you would see on TV. I was the quiet, quirky, artist, who liked to read. And when did you ever see Cinderella with glasses?


"Well Selka," I heard my friend Gemma saying "fairy tales aren't real, so get a grip, everyone has relationship issues and insecurities." She was right, I knew that, but doesn't everyone day dream about having their happily ever after? Can't they at least picture it? It wasn't that fact that I was a twenty two and hadn't been in a decent relationship since I was eighteen in high school, it was simply that I couldn't picture myself happily settled down, working the mundane nine to five job. I don't know but maybe there's something wrong with me?


I shoved the thought from my mind and pulled my jeans over my thighs, but stopped to stare at the birthmark on the on the side of my stomach; such an odd thing, the size of a fist and in a shape of a clover. Grammy called it my good luck charm, I hadn't the heart to tell her that only four-leaf clovers brought luck, mine was clearly had three leaves.


So who is "Grammy" I hear you asking? Well... yeah I forgot a little back history about me, as a baby I was left at the back side of the house of the lady whom I call Grammy. I was wrapped up in a strange material that Grammy said seemed similar to and definitely smelled like seaweed and inside of a wicker basket; Grammy says I couldn't have been more than a few days old. The name Selka Ebonestone was embroidered on the basket and unsure if the name was my mother's or just a label on the basket, Grammy decided to call me that. Along with the name, I kept the basket and the cool, black stone that had lay in its' center weavings. No bigger than a quarter, I had taken the probably worthless rock and made it into a necklace with some of the basket weavings. I don't know why, but wearing it gave me a sense of wholeness. And sometimes just at the right angle, I swore I could see some shine to it. Just then I gave it one superstitious rub and threw on my shirt. Nerves now calmed I left my room and jetted down the stairs.


As usual I was anxious to cook breakfast and be on my way to work. Joe, my boss always hated it when I would arrive a few minutes late. The thing is I am always half an hour early, because of the make-up or costuming (as I call it) issue, but I wasn't getting paid for the half an hour that I was there, so I didn't see why being a few minutes late really mattered. I turned on the stove and cracked four runny, yellow yolks out into the frying pan.


The reason why I had to arrive half an hour early was so that Joe's "crew," could do my hair and make-up. See La Crème de la Crème is the five-star, high class restaurant that I waitress at. And La Crème (that's what us waitresses called it for short) had a reputation for having the finest dining, attendants, and clientele in the city and waitresses were no exception. So a year ago, when Joe Pratt became head manager he implemented "the salon," to ensure that La Crème’s waitresses upheld its' reputation. Damn that Joe, I thought, always reminding me that it was his generosity that kept me employed at there.


"You know Selka," I recalled the conversation from our last encounter "running a successful business requires the aide of many little people and while not everyone is born with such graces as beauty and charm, there are those who can compensate for such disabilities with hard work. One day management may not be so generous. Just something for you to think about./One day management may not be as generous/lenient as I. Just something for you to think about./I recognize this and suggest you work harder. One day I may not be so generous." I remembered that day, it had been raining and I hadn't taken a jacket. My hair was wild and no matter what the stylists attempted, my hair would not behave. I tried to explain that my hair texture would not cooperate with more water, but they didn't listen and it just got worse. It wasn't that the style looked bad, it was bushy and full of curls, which did not fit the slick, straight look, required for La Crème waitresses. Oh how I wished that Sophie, had been there. Sophie was the only stylist at La Crème who did not have super straight, thin hair. Being Korean her hair that was thicker and more difficult to manage. Not as thick or as kinky as mine was, but she would have been able to do something, something better than what they had did. As the night progressed one of the male guests happened to be staring at me, more than his wife had enjoyed and by the end of the night, Mrs. Gowan had found a long hair in her food. Later that night I was called into Joe's office and of course I was blamed for the incident. When I tried to defend myself, stating that obviously the hair resembled the color of Mrs. Gowan's own russet mane compared to my onyx crown, I was accused of calling La Crème’s faithful patron a liar. I shut my mouth and Joe ended his pompous speech with that generosity crap.


Looking down at the cutting board I realized I had been taking out my frustration on the innocent vegetables. Now more of a puree than diced pieces, I scooped them up and threw them into the pan.


Psssh, I frowned angrily, more like he couldn't find another waitress who would volunteer to learn the things I knew or who would work the shifts that I did. La Crème' opened at four in the afternoon, so all waitresses worked nights, but the majority left around midnight, I usually left around two in the morning.


So I bet you are wondering why the hell I am working for such a lousy place? Well to be quite honest I had been working at La Crème' for five years, years before Joe had even been around while I was in college and now that I have graduated I have been desperately looking for a job that actually required the skills that I had obtained in school. Unfortunately for me I graduated when the economy had been plummeting and have been unsuccessful in getting a better job. My hopes of leaving La Crème anytime in the near future weren't high.


A bitter twinge hit my nostrils; I glanced down and saw smoke. "Crap, crap, crap," I was burning the eggs. I stirred the mix and turned down the burner. Not all is lost; I thought, grating some cheese and added it to the omelet. With a second glance just to make sure the burner was low enough, I poured two mugs of coffee and sat down. Just then Grammy walked in from the living room; soft while hair, almost blending in with her skin. "Good morning Hessie," she said with a raised eyebrow. Hester was the middle name Grammy had given me after her mother; she called me Hessie for short.


"Morning," I said avoiding her questioning gaze; she could always tell when I was bothered or upset about something. I got up silently, turning my back to her. I gave the egg scramble one last stir and divided the meal onto two plates, setting them on the table, sat down and started eating.


"Headed to work?"


I nodded knowing that Grammy already knew I was working today, she was trying to start a conversation and I didn’t want to talk about my insignificant doubts. I was ashamed and talking about it would make me even more self-conscious trying to explain, but the main reason was because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. I mean I love my life, but still a big part of me felt unfulfilled. I knew if I told this to Grammy, she’d smile and agree with me, but deep down she’d be hurt and I didn’t need both of us to be in unhappy moods today. I also knew that if I complained to Grammy about my job, she’d lecture me on my previous decisions about turning down graduate school.


So I bet I know what you are thinking. "Stupid girl turns down graduate school, to work as a waitress for rich snobs?" Well in this case you are right, I did make that decision not to go to graduate school and it’s my own fault that I am in the position I am in now, but the thing is… it’s just that well I graduated with my bachelors degree in art and art history and I planned on being an art curator and creating art pieces of my own on the side, but no one tells you that if you choose a major that you truly love, that you’ll probably end up living in a box one day. See I want to do something I love, something that gives me drive when I wake up each morning, don’t we all? It’s just I’m not quite sure what it is yet and when I was accepted into graduate school, my mind drew a blank. I thought long and hard about it; different trades I could do, different people I could become and I realized that I didn’t want to wake up one day after fifteen years or so and think that I should have done something else, that I should have been someone else. So yes I am biding my time at La Crème, even though I complain about it, until I fully recognize what it is that I am meant to do and bite my tongue.


I looked up from my plate and saw that Grammy was still staring at me. I stretched my lips in an attempt to smile and asked "Working in the garden today," trying to take the focus off of me.


"Yes, I think so, with the weather we’ve been having my sunflowers will need some extra attention."


"That will be nice; you should bring in the cabbage and carrots to go with the corned beef for dinner tomorrow."


She nodded as I moved to grab my purse, "I won’t be home until late tonight, Joe is working me until about one-thirty tonight."


"And does Mr. Pratt know that your bus stops running after midnight," she asked eying me closely. Grammy could also tell when I wasn’t telling the whole truth.


"I’ll be fine Grams," I glanced back down and replied blankly, "Emilia will be giving me a ride home."


"Oh that’s nice," she said, still eying me, "I always liked Emilia.


Emilia was in fact the only waitress at La Crème that got along with me. Most of the other girls that I had gotten along with had left La Crème when Joe had become head manager, not wanting to deal with the scrutiny about appearance that now came with the job. Emilia and I were the only ones who had stayed. Emilia having straight, long, golden locks was more widely accepted as one of the La Crème waitresses than I. Her face was young and cherubic looking, even though she was a few years older than me. She had the oddest air of sweet innocence to her. She wore cat-eye glasses and I thought (only to myself) that the reason why Joe kept her around was to fulfill the rather common taste of clients who fancied the naughty school girl look. You may think this is a bit of an overreaction, but Emilia was the only waitress allowed to wear glasses at La Crème. It wasn’t openly demanded that waitresses at La Crème wear contacts, but those who had worn glasses after the suggestion of contacts, found themselves without a job within a few weeks of the work probation period.


Along with working the shifts that I did, I did rather suspect that Joe kept me around for similar reasons that he had kept Emilia; to satiate the different tastes of his clientele. I was far from resembling Emilia haloed in flowing gold locks, but I did stand out from the other girls; being at least a head taller and a few shades darker than the rest of them (although many of the girls had fake orange tans). I noticed that usually Joe assigned me to very particular and regular patrons of La Crème. After many awkward stares towards me from returning guests I realized that maybe these "gentlemen," preferred their meat well with a little fat on the bone. It was an uncomfortable feeling being stared at for my "distinct," look, but that’s all it ever was; me smiling, taking orders and refilling drinks. We all wore black shirts, pants and ties, definitely nothing skimpy as they did at that Hooters restaurant (no one went there for the wings). Joe’s clients always left generous tips and those tips supported Grammy and I; so I dealt with it.


I made my way towards Grammy and kissed her cheek, "have a good day Hessie," she said.


"You too," I replied and headed toward the door. As the door closed behind me I faintly heard her say "All in time my dear, all in time."


Wondering how Grammy always knew what I was feeling, I walked out onto the sidewalk. It was bright and sunny out today, something that is not always common to Seattle. For the last few weeks it had been nice and warm, something I definitely enjoyed. The sun rays were warming the hairs on my arms and warmth spread all over, pushing away this morning’s doubts. I walked down the street to the bus stop.


~


The bus was hot and muggy and sweat dripped from my brow. I didn’t mind this though, given that my feet and fingers were usually cold. On a typical autumn day in Seattle, I would have been constantly moving hands and feet to keep warm, but thank goodness summer was not yet over. I moved to the center of the bus and opened the window, reliving the passengers as well as myself of the stale air inside, before sitting down. Hmmmm tomorrow was my day off, I thought, and I had so much to do; get groceries, prepare dinner, buy some paint of my latest art piece, and oooh tomorrow was Thursday wasn't it? The Alki beach art museum would be having their annual open gallery, maybe I would get a chance to go see it. I love the art museum in West Seattle; they were true artists who were very much involved with the community. Every year the museum allowed non professional artists to put their work on display for the public to view and buy. It was one of those things that you look forward to every year. I yawned, eyes heavy, geez this morning events had tired me greatly, how was I going to get through the work day, when it hadn’t even started yet? My vision blurred… I was nodding off…


Suddenly out of nowhere a huge wave hit me like ice; ripples of cold ran though me, like someone had poured a bucket of ice water all over me. I tried opening my eyes, only to realize that they were open. Looking around I saw people starring at me from their seats... had I screamed?


"Ummm bad dream," I squeaked and turned back around, looking forward, trying to figure out what had just happened? It seemed as if I had only just dozed off, but then I saw, I felt a blue, wetness slamming into my body, ice cold… I looked down, felt my uniform... dry, they were dry. Had I imagined the whole thing? I couldn't have!


“Well,” I said and shrugged; it wasn’t the first time I had seen something that wasn’t in fact there. I was used to seeing small things sometimes little streams that looked like fruit flies that floated past my eyes which I could never catch. Floaters as my doctor had called them. “Eye floaters look like black or gray specks, strings or shadows that drift about when you move your eyes, Selka. Floaters are very common in people who are near-sighted; although you are quite young, it’s nothing you should be worried about.” She then patted me on the back, I was about seven then. What I hadn’t told my ophthalmologist was that I had seen other things, things that I am sure she would not have had such a direct explanation for. Even as a young child I knew that seeing things that no one else saw wouldn’t get a positive reaction and since none of those random objects ever bothered me, I tried my best to ignore them. I saw things more often in my childhood than I did now, but they would always be things that were out of place; huge trees or strange flowers in the middle of a busy street, rainbows on a days where there had been no rain, and now waves crashing into me. What really disturbed me though was the actual feeling of the water; wet and cold… I had never walked up to the mirage trees to touch them; I always just thought it was a trick of the light or my silly imagination, but just now the waves were so cobalt blue and when they crashed into me I felt the rush of wind in my face, the feeling was strange, the feeling was also cleansing, but the oddest feeling was the feeling of realness. I bit my tongue at the thought and tasted salt…


~


“Viente, Americano with sugar free caramel please,” I smiled to the barista. He was so good looking, tall, green eyes and with lovely red hair. “Straight out of a fairy book,” I could hear my Gemma, saying and rolling her eyes, "Selka you've got to do more than smile if you want to get with a guy, you've got to show more interest." I paid for the coffee, grabbed the warm cup and was out the door in seconds.


I gazed down the street and up at the large, elegant building toward the end of the pier; La Crème. I headed behind the entrance, to the entrance where all the workers were required to enter from. I admired the building as I always did when I came to work; even from the back it was beautiful. La Crème, tall, chic and dark looked like it was carved from black alabaster stone. An array of carved flowers mixed with real ivy, vines and sprouts draped the walls of the building, giving it a early Victorian air mixed with a modern American architecture. Grabbing the work badge and scanning it, I pushed through the door and into the La Creme De La Creme.