In walks this woman wearing a sandwich board reading, “I Gifted My Kidney to a Stranger. Ask Me Anything.” I’m taking an order from Mrs. Olinger, who comes in every Thursday, hammers me with a million questions about everything on the menu and then always ends up ordering the same thing — Mushroom, Lentil and Buckwheat Risotto.
While I’m answering Mrs. Olinger’s questions about what kind of beans are in our signature Cool Beans Salad and how big the Red Cabbage Steaks are, the woman takes off the sandwich board and leans it against the wall under all the framed black-and-white photos of famous vegetarians. Not that River Phoenix or Pamela Anderson have actually eaten at Cool Beans, but Mike, the owner — who’s seated at the bar/cash register scowling at invoices and drinking kava that always makes him cranky — thinks it makes the place look like a celebrity hotspot.
I make eye contact with the woman to let her know I’ll be with her shortly. There’re actually two waiters on duty. Me and Petey — but Petey is out back getting his nic fix for the upcoming lunch rush. It’s only 11:45 a.m. — we’re dead, but from noon until two, we’ll get slammed — mostly workers from all the hospitals on York Avenue — and we’ll be wall-to-wall Scrubs.
By the time Mrs. Olinger finishes her weekly questions, orders Mushroom, Lentil and Buckwheat Risotto and makes me repeat it back to her — twice, Sandwich Board has taken out her phone — usually a sign of impatience.
Not always, of course. These days cell phones are like security blankets and people whip them out whenever they need to validate that they’re as loved and as important as they think they are, but Sandwich Board is also tapping her foot.
That’s when I notice she’s wearing those shoes that came out a while ago. You know the ones made of rubber and each toe has its own special compartment? They were supposed to be so much better for your feet and your back and solve all your problems. I think they became popular when the Paleo diet was at its peak. Guess it makes sense to walk around looking like a cave dweller when you’re also eating like one.
The toe shoes don’t look completely ridiculous with the yoga pants and Lululemon long sleeve tee she has on, but still.
I hurry over to her as soon as I drop off Mrs. Olinger’s order to Raul in the kitchen. “Welcome to Cool Beans,” I say. “Thank you for your patience. Table for one?”
I’m what you call an overachieving waiter. I go above and beyond with service — it’s why Mike likes me so much. Obviously, I really do it for the tips. I need every dollar I can get to pay rent on my lousy 14th Street walk-up. And even though this woman looks like a major pain in the ass and there’s no guarantee she’ll tip well — or at all — I’m going to do everything I can.
“No, two,” she says and tucks her hair behind her ears. “A friend will be joining me shortly.”
Her hair is that silver shade all the Millennials were getting because they saw it on TikTok, but this woman is no Millennial — she’s got to be in her fifties. I can also tell she probably has that silver hair cut every six days at one of those salons on Madison where you have to know someone to get an appointment.
“Is my sign okay where it is?” she asks.
I know she doesn’t care if the sign is in the way or endangering the right angles of Kristen Bell’s and Brad Pitt’s cheap plastic frames. She wants to be sure I’ve seen it and I know what a compassionate person she is.
“It’s fine.” I tilt my head and nod with great pathos to acknowledge I’ve read the sign and I’m touched by her unselfishness. “But I can take it in the back if you like.” Knowing full well she doesn’t want it hidden away.
“No, that’s okay.”
I start to lead her to a deuce near Mrs. Olinger so I can keep an eye on both of them while I’m wrapping the knives, forks and spoons in the green poly-cotton napkins — it’s a constant job if you want to know — so is leveling the tables — but she picks up the sign to take with her.
“May I help you with that?” Now I’ll have to seat her at a table next to a wall so the sign can be propped up and Scrubs won’t be tripping over it. You’d be surprised how unaware and clumsy they are. I wonder how many bedpans get dropped on an average day.
“Thank you,” she says and hands it to me. It’s really light, just two pieces of foam core and some string so she can wear it over her shoulders. “I Gave My Kidney to a Stranger. Ask Me Anything” is printed on both sides with black Sharpie.
I take her to Table 7. That’s in Petey’s section, but I’ll tell Petey she’s a real pain and he’ll let me continue with her. Petey’s philosophy is turn ‘em and burn ‘em. He thinks volume and avoids challenging customers if he can help it.
I prop up the sign so it’s out of the way but still visible, get her seated — and she immediately pulls the table closer, making it wobble to the point that the bud vase with the single white carnation from the deli across the street almost topples over.
One of Mike’s big obsessions is he doesn’t want any of the tables to wobble. I see his point — wobbly tables are annoying as hell — but he could solve the problem by replacing the shitty tables that were in the restaurant when he first opened it twenty years ago. Instead we carry a supply of these little rubber wedges called SHUV-ITS in our aprons and perform an ongoing ritual of leveling.
I bend down, fiddle with the SHUV-IT that’s already there and see those freaky toe shoes up close. They’re like something from a 1950’s horror flick and I imagine they make her feet stink, so I don’t inhale when I’m down there.
Then our first group of Scrubs come in. Four of them. All the age where they’re probably paying off student loans and unlikely to tip much. Petey — reeking of the Febreze he’s sprayed on himself so he doesn’t smell like an ashtray — ushers them to Table 2 by the windows.
“Would you like a drink while you wait for your friend?” I ask Sandwich Board. “We have a lovely Matcha Martini. Or perhaps a Vodka and Beet Juice?”
That’s another one of Mike’s obsessions, pushing the booze. I get that too, there’s a high mark-up on liquor, but Cool Beans is just not that kind of place — especially at lunch.
“I can’t drink,” she says. “I only have one kidney.” She pats the sign like a beloved Cocker Spaniel.
“Of course,” I say. “How about some Hibiscus Iced Tea?”
“Maybe with my meal. Just water for now.”
“Perfect,” I say. I actually hate when people say ‘perfect,’ but Petey started using it and I’ve picked it up. I cringe every time it comes out of my mouth, but I just can’t stop myself. Thankfully, I never picked up his ‘namaste.’
“Tap or sparkling?” I ask.
“Tap.”
So far, her check is at zero and a twenty percent tip of that is also zero, but I bring her a bottle of tap, pour some into a glass of ice with all the elegance of pouring a glass of Château Latour, hand her a menu and go back to Mrs. Olinger.
As usual, Mrs. Olinger has picked out all the baby corn from her Mushroom, Lentil and Buckwheat Risotto and piled the ears at the edge of her plate like corpses on a battlefield.
She’s never asked if she can get her Mushroom, Lentil and Buckwheat Risotto without baby corn and I’ve even asked her if she’d like Raul to leave them out, but for some reason Mrs. Olinger prefers her little ceremony.
“Can I get you dessert?” I ask her. “We have a wonderful Flourless Mint Chocolate Cake today. Or perhaps a White Bean Blondie? Coffee?”
“Just the check.”
She never seems happy at the end of her meal, but she always tips really well — and cash, even though she pays with AmEx.
Two more Scrubs come in — wearing maroon. That means they’re technicians. Scrubs, for the most part, are color coded, in case you’ve ever wondered. Surgeons wear green to give their eyes a break from the red of blood; doctors, dark blue; nurses, light blue — and if they’re in pink with smiling choo-choos — they’re in pediatrics.
I get the Tech Scrubs seated and menu-ed, clear off Mrs. Olinger’s table, make sure it’s level, then swing back to Sandwich Board who’s tapping away on her phone.
“No sign of your friend yet.” Not really a question, since the chair opposite her is still empty.
“I’m sure they’re on their way,” she says.
I refill her water glass and wonder about her friend’s pronoun of ‘they.’ She doesn’t look hip or woke enough to have a lunch date with a ‘they.’
Two more parties of Scrubs in various colors come in, along with Dr. Singh and Dr. Wannamaker. I think they’re having an affair — they’re always playing footsie under the table. Then a couple of delivery guys pop in to pick up their orders. It’s getting so loud you can barely hear the jazz on the cheap speakers in the corners and Mike has stopped scowling at invoices and is helping Raul in the kitchen and keeping an eye on things in the dining room through the pass.
He asks me about Table 7 when I pick up the Coconut Curry Zoodle Ramen and Pinto Bean Tostadas for the lovebird doctors.
“Is she going to order anything or what?” He’s crankier than usual because of the kava he was drinking and the invoices he was scowling at.
“She’s waiting for a friend,” I say, “and they’re late.”
“Well, she better order something or wait for her friend outside. She’s taking up valuable real estate. I’m running a business here.”
He’s right of course. The tables are filling up fast and if someone comes in and sees they’re full, they’ll just go someplace else. It’s not like this stretch of 1st Avenue is some restaurant food desert. There are at least five lunch spots on every block.
I serve the Coconut Curry Zoodle Ramen and Pinto Bean Tostadas to the doctors who look like they’re about to start copulating right on top of the table; seat and menu two Office Bros in fleece vests and head back to Table 7.
“Any news from your friend?” I ask, pouring the last of her water.
“No.” She’s pulled her hair back into a ponytail, making her look much younger, but also sad.
“Have you tried texting or calling them?” I ask.
“Well, that’s just the thing. I don’t have their number. I don’t even know their name.”
“Oh.” I do a quick side-glance towards the door where Petey has snagged a party of three and is leading them to his last empty table.
“You see, I’m waiting for the person I gave my kidney to.”
The two women at the table next to her, another one of Petey’s tables, wearing lab coats over street clothes — so they probably work in administration or research — signal me for the check.
“Excuse me,” I say to Kidney Donor. “I’ll be right back.” I tell Petey about his table, pick up a Cool Beans Salad and a Red and Black Bean Personal Pizza — along with an ultimatum from Mike about Kidney Donor ordering something — serve the meals, seat a solo Scrub in NYU purple who claims he’s allergic to cilantro and return to Table 7.
“So you’ve never met the person who has your kidney?” I ask.
“It’s anonymous. Patient privacy and all. But you can meet if both parties agree. My daughter, Agatha — she has lupus — like Selena Gomez and Paula Abdul. But she met her donor. They became good friends.”
Paula Abdul was one of the vegetarian celebs on Cool Bean’s Wall of Fame — although there are rumors she eats chicken. When I told Mike about that, he’d waved it off. “Nobody’s gonna fact check our photos,” he’d said.
“Why didn’t you give your own kidney to your daughter?”
“I wasn’t a match. Neither was my husband.”
“Huh,” I say. “Was she adopted?”
“No, that’s just how kidneys work. Agatha ended up getting her kidney from a woman in Laguna Beach. But my husband — well, ex-husband now — and I kept on the donor list. Ten years later, I got matched.”
Petey mumbles an ‘excuse me’ as he brushes past to seat two more Scrubs and a new party of three comes through the door.
“Would you care to order something while you’re waiting?” I ask Kidney Donor and I hate how gruff I sound, so I try to soften it. “Maybe our Lemongrass Soup? We’re rather famous for it.” This isn’t true, of course. We aren’t famous for anything. It’s just another one of Mike’s marketing ploys.
“I’m sure they’ll be here any moment. I’ve been texting the patient liaison at the hospital.”
“You need to keep up your strength,” I say.
“Yes, of course,” she says. “Some soup would hit the spot.”
Her cheeks get pink and I realize I’ve actually embarrassed her into ordering. I feel bad, but triumphantly run the order to Mike, wait for him to ladle out the Lemongrass Soup and garnish it with toasted coconut. “There better be an entree in the future,” he says. I don’t reply; just take the soup and another bottle of tap to Table 7.
“Here you go,” I say. “Loaded with antioxidants.”
“Thank you,” she says and spreads the poly-cotton napkin out on her lap. “It smells wonderful.”
More Scrubs come in, so I leave her with her soup to take care of them, drop the checks to the Tech Scrubs and Office Bros, bring cilantro-free Braised Chickpeas to the NYU Scrub and then make another couple rounds of greeting, seating, leveling and taking orders.
By now it’s one o’clock and everything in Cool Beans is moving. Me, Petey, Mike and Raul, the customers, delivery guys. Food is cooking; getting plated; getting chewed; swallowed, paid for and tipped upon. Everything is moving except Kidney Donor. She’s completely still, watching the door, watching her phone, not eating her soup.
“Is something wrong with your Lemongrass Soup?” I ask on my way to bus Table 12.
“No, it’s lovely.” She picks up her spoon, shovels some Lemongrass Soup into her mouth and swallows hard enough to make a gulp sound.
Now I’ve bullied her into ordering and eating. I feel obligated to ask her more questions about this whole kidney-thing. It’s obviously really important to her — it’s on her sandwich board for chrissake — but then Dr. Marino comes in and since I’m not waiting tables out of the goodness of my heart, I zoom over to him and seat him in my section before Petey even knows he’s there.
As usual, Dr. Marino orders a Vodka and Beet Juice. “And hold the Beet Juice,” he says.
I laugh like I always do, knowing the good doctor will be hammered when he leaves and will also tip me quite well.
I mix Dr. Marino’s Vodka and Vodka, take care of a complaint about the Cool Beans Salad having too much cumin in the dressing; bus and level more tables and seat an old couple in matching track suits. By the time I get back to Kidney Donor, she’s finished her soup and is back on phone-and-door-watch. It’s nearly 1:30 p.m., we’re starting to slow down and I can finally ask her some more questions. I’m looking for a good tip, of course — but I also feel guilty about the soup. And I’m kind of curious.
“So how are you doing?” I ask as I pick up her empty bowl. “I mean after donating your kidney and all? Was it painful?”
“It was pretty bad,” she says, “but they give you painkillers then get you up and walking so you don’t get blood clots. I’m pretty much back to normal now — although I do miss my cocktails — I can actually still drink but I have to be careful. Not that I ever drank a lot.”
I nod, look over at Dr. Marino on his third Vodka and Vodka. “And your daughter,” I ask, “is she okay?”
“She’s fine.” Kidney Donor sighs and looks down at her phone, it’s smeary with fingerprints. The wallpaper photo looks like a younger version of herself — her daughter probably — brown hair instead of silver, a constellation of freckles on her nose. “She moved to Portland, of all places.”
She then tells me her name is Carol and that once she’d gotten out of her oxycodone haze, she started calling the staff at Weill-Cornell about meeting her kidney recipient. Not because she wanted thanks for saving a life, she just wanted a face, a person, a story to attach her kidney to.
“Who knows who it could be?” She crosses her legs. The creepy toe-shoes — that I almost forgot about peek out from under the table. “Maybe a college student that’ll someday find a cure for lupus. Or a mother that can now have a normal life with her child. Maybe even a celebrity.”
When she didn’t get a response from the recipient through her phone calls, she began standing outside the hospital wearing the sandwich board. Sure, she wanted to drum up some kidney donations, but she was really hoping the recipient would see her on the way to a follow-up appointment and introduce themselves. But very few people ever even spoke to her. Mostly it was just to ask her how much money she got for doing it. Which, by the way, is absolutely nothing.
I look around at the remaining Scrubs and wonder if one of them took her blood pressure weeks before the surgery or gave her anesthesia the day of or even performed the surgery. There are three of them wearing the green scrubs of surgeons. None of them seem to recognize her. Or maybe they do, but can’t say anything because of HIPAA or something. Or maybe they just want to fill their bellies and get back to work.
“I finally got word today they agreed to meet here,” says Carol, “after their last checkup from the surgery. Maybe they changed their mind.”
“I bet the checkup is just taking longer than they thought it would,” I say. I don’t want to believe that someone whose life was saved wouldn’t show up for a thirty minute lunch with the person who saved them — even if that person is a bit obsessive.
Carol smiles one of those sad, brave smiles that can also look like a smirk, then — without any prompting — orders a glass of Hibiscus Ice Tea. “And could you put a splash of vodka in it?”
“Coming right up,” I say and wink.
I put a full shot of Tito’s into her Hibiscus Ice Tea, leave her be while she drinks it, then run the rest of the checks and start rolling silverware.
By 2:10 p.m., you can once again hear the tinny jazz on the speakers. Petey’s out back smoking, Raul is cleaning up the kitchen and Mike has gone out to do whatever he does every day after the rush — probably eating a cheeseburger over on 3rd Ave.
“Looks like they’re not coming,” says Carol, rather loudly, when she finishes her drink.
“There’s still a chance,” I say. “Don’t give up.” I really want to see them now. What if it is a celebrity? What if it’s Paula Abdul? Mike would kick himself that he was out when she came in. “Would you like a refill?” I ask and nod at her glass.
“I better not.”
“Then let me bring you a slice of our Flourless Mint Chocolate Cake. On the house. You deserve it. And who knows? They might show up while you’re eating it. Just ten more minutes.”
“Okay,” she says. “You twisted my arm. I do have a sweet tooth.”
I go into the kitchen and cut a healthy slice of Flourless Mint Chocolate Cake, plate it and decide to add some Cashew Whipped Cream, but the pastry bag is nearly empty and the last dregs of Cashew Whipped Cream come out with a fart-sound loud enough for Raul to turn around and start laughing like a hyena. But — I swear to God — the dollop of Cashew Whipped Cream plops onto the Flourless Mint Chocolate Cake in the exact shape of a kidney. There’s even a little indentation in the center.
I gasp, but not loud enough for Raul to hear. This is obviously a sign that Carol’s recipient will show up. I almost start to cry. I quickly put a sprig of fresh mint on the side of the cake so I don’t ruin the kidney shape and carefully carry it out to the dining room, holding it with both hands, but when I get to Table 7, Carol is gone. There’s a hundred dollar bill by her green poly-cotton napkin, with ‘Namaste’ printed on it in the same black Sharpie lettering as the sandwich board propped up against the wall.
Heather Holland Wheaton’s short fiction has appeared in Press Pause Press, Shooter Literary Magazine, The Morning News, Every Day Fiction and the anthology Hell’s Garden: Mad, Bad and Ghostly Gardeners. She’s also the author of You Are Here, Eight Million Stories in a New York Minute and her beloved annual Heartwarming Holiday Stories. She lives in Manhattan and will never leave.
ELEVENTH HOUR LITERARY 