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Slowly rolling over, I can only watch. The boy does not move like Jake. He lacks the natural grace. Then, closing my eyes, I listen to the conversation. The boy does not sound like Jake. So the similarity is only in the hair. And the eyes. The jaw line. And the smile. The shape of his face. That's all.
My pulse thrums in my ears and warms my face. I set a palm to my over-heated cheek. What the hell? It isn't him. I tell myself, and pull to stop tableside.
The two are talking in low voices. I place the pie plates and milk in front of them.
"Madam, we didn't order this." The one with curly hair says.
It's a half-scoff, half-laugh that comes out before I ask, "Did you just call me 'Madam'? And I know you didn't. It's my way of apologizing for running off a few minutes ago."
"Technically, I think you rolled." The one that isn't Jake says and folds his hands over the tabletop. His fingers are long and slender. The edges of each nail bed are lined with dirt. On the back of his right hand, is the stamp; the shield that says he is in need.
My mouth goes dry and whatever blood was heating my face has fled. I feel pale and cold. It's too much.
"Are you well?" The one with curls asks.
I shake my head and point to the stamp. "That's a rough place."
"Rough's a mild description, I'd say." Curly unwraps a straw and puts it in his milk as the boy who isn't Jake pours way too much ketchup all over the French fries. "We're grateful for your generosity."
I clear my throat, trying to keep my eyes on the slightly older looking boy with the curls. "What's your name?"
He places a hand over his chest, "I'm called Marcus." Then, extends the same hand to his friend. "This here's me mate, Evan."
I can't bring myself to look at Evan for long, as he dips his head in greeting, his mouth full of food. "What brings you two to Los Angeles?"
"I'm going to be an actor." Not Jake-Evan-says at the same time that Marcus says, "He's going to be an actor."
My heart aches and I rub at my chest. Another commonality: an artistic mind. But I tell myself it's not the same. Jake was one of a kind. But I guess it's not so bad . . . having a real someone walking around who actually looks like him.
"Have you landed any jobs yet?" I make a point to keep my eyes on Evans' shoulder, which doesn't look as broad or as sculpted as Jakes was.
Marcus sighs. "We've only been 'ere . . . Not a month, yet an 'ave no place to start."
And because I spent nearly six months living with dancers-slash-models-slash-actresses and listened to them bicker about this part or that casting call, I am filled with useless information about this sort of thing. "Well. Up at the corner is a news stand. There you'll find a circular called Backstage. It's free and comes out every Thursday. The ads aren't for anything beyond toothpaste commercials or billboards, but it's a place to start." Mustering my courage, I look Evan in the eye. "Do you have head shots?"
His mouth is full of blackberry pie. He swallows and politely wipes at each corner with a napkin before speaking. "Not yet."
I can tell by the troubled look on his face that this is an obstacle. "I might know someone who can help. One of my former roommates majors in photography." She still owes me seventy dollars for long distance calls she wracked on my personal phone line. "Can you sound American?"
Evan sets his empty glass of milk down and almost smiles. "Actually, it's my best accent." He says this without inflection and I have to concede. It sounds pretty good.
Examining him further, I try to ignore the aching similarities to Jake and really see him. His energy.
Turning back to Marcus, I aim to avoid the mega-watt smile stretching Evans' face. "He's got an interesting look and presence, which should help him find an agent. It's nearly impossible to find work without one. He'll also need to start exercising and eating healthier than fruit pie and French fries. In this business, your looks are your livelihood."
Something inside me swells and I don't know why, but I have an uncontrollable desire to help these two.
Marcus nods his head as Evan clears his throat. "I am right here. You might try talking to me rather than about me. Do I really look so bad?"
Turning his direction, I notice another table has filled up in my station. A party of five. Three men, two women; dressed in business attire.
"Don't leave. I'll be right back."
I might be going crazy. But it doesn't feel like it. Helping a person in need is the right thing to do, (isn't it?) setting aside the fact that I have steadily avoided getting involved in anyone else's affairs. But finding someone that is so much like Jake is impossibly weird. Remarkable, even. And doing as much as I can to help him feels strangely, exactly right-like helping Jake himself in a round-about way.
Grabbing a stack of menus, I make my way over to the new table and introduce myself, then rattle off the Specials. It's very easy to serve people who are on their lunch break. Since they're working in a timeframe, they almost always know what they want when they walk in the door. It's no different for this crowd: no one wants a menu, or appetizer. I take out my notepad take everyone's order, and then pass off the ticket to the kitchen so Joe can get to work on it. After that, I fill and deliver their drinks, make a quick stop to check on table five-they want some more napkins and the check, which I promptly deliver-before finally aiming back to table two.
To Marcus and Evan.
