Tracy Del Campo
Los Angeles, 1938
Famished and faced with bare cupboards and an empty refrigerator, I slipped out of my second-floor apartment by way of a jacaranda tree to grab a bite to eat, dodging the photographers waiting with their flashing bulbs on the building’s front steps. They’d been trailing me for days, convinced I was involved with a budding young starlet, aiming to snag a photo to peddle to fan magazines or Louella Parsons.
With my fedora pulled low, I hoofed it down the sidewalk, brushing bark and foliage from my trousers. I turned right on Fairfax, and a few blocks later, stood beneath the humming neon sign of an all-night diner. The tin bell above the door jingled when I stepped inside. The scent of cigarette smoke, hot grease, and freshly brewed coffee tinged the air. Two fellas sat at the counter, gripping white ceramic mugs. A young couple canoodled in the corner. Apart from a heated conversation on the payphone, the place was quiet.
Taking a booth, I removed my hat and polished the lenses of my glasses with a handkerchief. I pulled a script from my jacket’s inner pocket and placed it on the table, skimming through its pages. The waitress came by with a glass of water and a menu, her shoes squeaking on the gummy linoleum floor. Her eyes went wide, a smile unfolding.
“My roommate is an admirer of yours, Mr. Carlisle.” Her voice carried a warm Southern lilt, the vowels pronounced and drawn out.
“Is that so?”
“Mm-hmm. There’s a framed photo of you on her bedside table.”
I took a sip of water to hide my amusement.
“The glasses threw me off at first, but the cleft in your chin gave you away.”
I bent forward, my hands joined and resting on the table. “Between you and me, I’m nearsighted. But the studio’s not so keen on me sporting glasses in public. Apparently, they make me look ‘bookish,’ which doesn’t suit my leading man image.”
She stood there, eyes narrowed and head inclined, biting her lip as she studied me. “What a shame. I rather like them on you.”
I thanked her for her kind words, while admiring the delicate freckles on her cheeks.
“Care for something to drink?” She fetched an order pad from her apron pocket, followed by a pencil, rolling it between her fingers. “Coffee, juice, soda?”
“Root beer, please.”
“One root beer coming up.”
“How’s the meatloaf?” I asked, browsing the menu.
“Better than my Aunt Dot’s, but don’t tell her I said that.”
I snapped the menu shut. “Meatloaf it is.”
She pushed through the swinging kitchen door, soon emerging with a tray of food and drinks, stopping at the lovebirds’ table before heading to mine. Our fingers met briefly as I reached for the plate.
Spotting the script, she leaned in for a peek, a hint of perfume lingering on her blue crisp-collared uniform. “A new movie?” she asked.
“It is.”
“Anything exciting?”
“Just your usual melodrama. Passion, calamity, and a moral quandary.”
She brushed a dark curl from her face and set extra napkins on the table. “You know, Mr. Carlisle, you’re the first celebrity I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.”
“Honestly, I’m just a guy from Muncie who happens to be an actor. That’s all.” I extended my hand. “And please call me John. Being called Mister makes me feel old, and Elliott Carlisle is a stage name my agent came up with.”
“Nice to meet you, John.” She slipped her hand into mine. “I’m Adelaide, Addie for short.”
“The pleasure is mine, Addie.” I pushed up my glasses. “Just out of curiosity—do you keep any photos on your bedside table?”
“Just a book at the moment. Shorthand Simplified.”
“Secretarial school, I take it?”
“Uh-huh.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Speaking of curiosity—my roommate’s been moping for days, certain you’re seeing a blonde actress.”
Swell. News traveled fast. Any day now my mother would be telephoning.
“Is it true?” She arched a questioning brow.
“No, it isn’t true. It’s merely a rumor fabricated by the studio to drum up publicity. To anyone interested, I’m still waiting for the right girl to come along.”
Her cheeks turned rosy. A demure smile formed.
The door swung open, and a rush of people poured in, filling seats and raising the din.
“Pardon me, but I’ve got to scoot.”
“Of course.”
“Holler if you need anything,” she said, flashing a grin.
Between bites and studying my lines, my gaze drifted to Addie, who was moving between tables, chatting, taking orders, and sharing some laughs.
I paused, setting my fork down and wiping my mouth. It’d be easy for a fella to read more into her kindness. Perhaps I did.
The door’s bell sounded. More night owls. More clatter and chatter.
I downed the last of my root beer and then checked the time. Almost midnight. With my appetite satisfied, it was time to go.
Gathering my things, I rolled up the script and slipped it into my pocket. I laid a bill on the table and pushed up from the booth, tugging the curled brim of my fedora low and flipping my jacket collar up as I made my way down the aisle. Hesitating at the door, I cast a glance over my shoulder. Addie spotted me, our eyes connecting across the room. I waved goodbye and stepped into the night, the door closing behind me.
As I crossed the intersection, the bell’s familiar ring caught my ear.
“John!”
I stopped mid-stride and spun on my heel. Addie stood on the sidewalk, a stack of menus in her arms, the neon light catching her dark hair.
“I’ll be here tomorrow in case you’re wondering.”
I slid my hands into my pockets. “Actually . . . I was wondering.”
We shared a smile.
“Goodnight, Addie.” I doffed my hat. “See you tomorrow.”
Fond of history, Tracy also fancies old houses, classic movies, museums, road trips, rainy days, stylish footwear, and a good cup of coffee.
With Midwest roots, she now resides in Southern California with her husband and is the mother of two.
Tracy’s other Spark Flash Fiction stories include: A Season of Change, A Date with Fate, Mrs. Boyd’s Ambrosia, A Ticket to Des Moines, An Unexpected Reunion, Taking a Chance on Love, and The Ruse.
Connect with Tracy on Instagram.
