Free A White Coat Is My Closet by Jake Wells Page B

stayed with my sister. Her English had become pretty fluent by then, and she helped me land a job pretty quickly.” He smiled fully. “You’re making it sound as if I traveled over here on a banana boat and was forced to live on the streets.”
    “You’re Italian. I know you didn’t come over on a banana boat.” I grinned like I was going to clarify what I knew would have been the more likely scenario. “It was probably in a pizza box.” He threw his rubber sandal at my head but couldn’t stifle a soft chuckle.
    “So what did you do?” I asked curiously. Though Sergio was playing it down, it seemed apparent, to me, anyway, that he had somehow managed to succeed despite a fair amount of adversity.
    “What do you mean, what did I do?” He looked at me as if he expected my question to have some hidden element of complexity.
    “For work? What kind of job were you able to get without being able to speak English?”
    “Oh.” He relaxed with the realization that my intention hadn’t been to extract some deep-seeded personal information. “I started working in an Italian restaurant. Lala—my sister’s name is Laura but we call her Lala—was pretty well connected in the Italian community, so when I arrived, helping me to find a job wasn’t too difficult. As a matter of fact, because I had waited tables before, it was easy. The trouble was not speaking English. I had to start as a busboy, and everyone assumed I was Mexican. Pissed me off.” He sneered when he looked at me. “Do I look Mexican?”
    “No.” I tried to keep a serious expression. “With your accent and dark features, I would have guessed that you were Swedish.” I grinned. “Who cares if they thought you were Mexican? How long did it take you to work your way up? How long before you became a waiter?”
    His tone gave the unmistakable impression that I had again touched on a sensitive subject. “There’s a big difference between Mexicans and Italians.” Then, apparently deciding not to make it an issue, he continued. “I bussed tables for about six months, then became a waiter. I worked at the same restaurant for about a year, then was recruited to the restaurant where I’m working now. I still wait tables but am also the floor manager.” His voice definitely resonated with a tone of pride. “Osvaldo’s on La Cienega. Have you been there?”
    “Wow,” I said, conveying to him that I was genuinely impressed. “That’s one of the nicest Italian restaurants in town. I’ve never eaten there.” I smiled at him, giving the impression that what I was about to say was also intended as a compliment. “Too rich for my wallet.”
    He seemed pleased by the recognition. “You’ll have to come by sometime. I’ll treat.” Then, realizing that the invitation might have seemed too forward and not wanting me to assume he was already suggesting a bona fide date, he quickly retreated. “I’ll throw a scoop of gelato in your direction. We make it ourselves. I’ll even go so far as to let you choose the flavor.”
    “Cool, I’ll hold you to that.” Then, to let him know I recognized an attempt to backtrack when I saw it, I continued teasing. “A scoop of gelato.” I smiled enthusiastically. “Sounds like an excellent first date.” I continued to hold his gaze, looking for any indication that my comment had made him squirm. It wasn’t a direct proposition, but the intent was none too subtle. Make no mistake: I was hoping for a first date.
    His expression, however, remained completely neutral. He looked neither uncomfortable nor eager. In fact, he lay back down as if any inference had been lost on him completely.
    I was disappointed. I had been hoping for a sign. Was he interested? I knew his English wasn’t perfect, but I also knew that he wasn’t naïve. He had probably understood my hint perfectly and had decided to just play it cool.
    I arbitrarily decided not to let my disappointment leave me disheartened, though. It was pretty