Swiss Miss No More by Rose Divecha
2025 Honourable Mention
Susan had been working at the Bavarian restaurant for nearly three decades. At 56, she resented having to wear the girly dirndl uniform. She thought she looked foolish, not sweet and wholesome like the newbies recently brought on to fill the summer positions. Those girls, all eager and perky, would be assigned the patio waitressing duties in an unabashed attempt to draw in more customers from the street. Susan conversely, would remain indoors, in the heavily beamed dining room painted to resemble the Swiss Alps.
She never used to mind but now she felt intentionally hidden away. The manager, Karl insisted that wasn’t the case.
“You never liked working outside.” he’d tease her with a wink.
It was a not-so-subtle reminder of the six year long affair they’d had, when being summoned to the back storage room had been a welcomed reprieve from serving customers and cleaning tables. But that was a long time ago, after Susan’s first husband Rob left her with two small mouths to feed. She’d been lonely and vulnerable to Karl’s charms. Besides, saying no hadn’t been an option. She needed the money.
Her mother had warned her, between puffs of her Benson & Hedges, not to rely on a man like she had. “Leeches” she called them but Susan never realised they were leeches until they’d slept with her girlfriends and cleared out her bank account. By then, it was too late.
There was a brief time when she had thought of leaving the diner, back when she married her second husband Pete but he too soon strayed, and with each passing year Susan’s confidence, like her once golden hair, faded a little more.
Now, more and more, she’d been feeling it was finally time to hang up her apron. Maybe withdrawal the meager savings she’d been stashing away and go someplace exotic, see the world while she still could. Before she received another drug fueled call from her son asking her to bail him out one more time. Or a guilt inducing request from her mother, looking to make the rent after spending her disability cheque on lottery tickets and cigarettes.
“Order’s up!” the new line cook hollered from the pass-through window, smacking the little silver counter bell with his spatula, before scratching his back with it.
Susan looked at the Alpine mural that had been in her periphery six days a week for the past thirty years. She studied its snow peaked mountain tops and green fields dotted with wildflowers before turning her focus to the diner’s grimy windows and the sun dappled patio beyond. She wondered if she still owned a bikini.
A second summons to the pickup window shook Susan from her brief reverie. She grabbed the two plates of schnitzel laid out on the counter before Cook could strike up a conversation. But when her shift finally ended, there was no avoiding him in the staff cloak room.
“How long ya been workin’ here?”
Susan kept her eyes downcast as she reached across him for her jacket. “Goin’ on twenty-eight years.” She dug into her purse in search of nothing in particular.
“No kiddin’.” There was no judgement in his voice, only a subtle hint of admiration.
“Name’s Paul.” He held out his hand for her to shake. She took it and looked at him for the first time. Happy crows feet formed around the corners of his eyes.
“I should get goin’. I’ll miss my bus.” She flushed slightly as she brushed past him. He followed her out through the restaurant’s back exit. The smell of fried schnitzel, undetectable moments ago, clung to them as the evening air washed over them both.
“Can I give ya a lift anywhere?”
Susan took a deep breath. The late setting sun shone in her direction and she lifted one hand to shield her eyes as she spoke, head cocked, squinting.
“Balsam and Main?”
Paul gave a quick bob of his head and led her to his truck. She climbed in and studied
the knick-knacks littered across the dashboard. A sun-sensored hula girl sat amongst old gas receipts, crystal talismans and pine-scented deodorizers. Susan watched her sway gently as Paul drove, his steady pace matching the dependable drone of his voice.
“You can have it.” He said as they pulled up to Susan’s building.
She turned to look at him. “Wha—?”
“The hula dancer. Take her. She’s always brought me good luck.”
Hesitantly, Susan reached for the plastic figurine. She yanked it free from the suction grip which kept it securely in place and laughed when it gave a little pop!
“Thanks” She smiled at Paul as she hopped down out of the truck.
“See you tomorrow?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, I don’t mind picking you up…you know…if you decide to go in, that is.” He searched the dash for a scrap of paper and pulled a pen down off the visor. He handed her his number. She waited for him to veer out onto the street before shoving the crumpled Canadian Tire receipt in her pocket and entering the door to her building.
In the elevator, Susan looked at the hula girl she held in her hand. She examined the expression on her face, the flower in her hair, the tropical lei covering her tiny plastic breasts, and the faux-grass skirt which trembled whenever a light source activated the swaying of her hips. Across the sandy coloured base on which she danced, Maui was printed in bright pink letters.
Susan slid out of her shoes as she entered her apartment, and shrugged off her jacket, carefully retrieving the wrinkled note. In the kitchen, she put it on her fridge under the faded magnet of Niagara Falls. The one she picked up on her honeymoon with Rob. She walked over to the sink and planted the hula dancer on the windowsill between her favourite African Violet and the Christmas Cactus she’d been given last year at the diner in lieu of a bonus. Susan watched the hula girl sway slightly before turning on the kettle and checking her phone for messages. She resisted responding to her neighbour Joan’s request to watch the cat for the weekend and her son’s plea for a few bucks. Instead, she opened the Google app and typed in Hawaii.
Moss-covered volcanic peaks emerged on the screen. The frothy foam of turquoise seas, umbrella palms and sailboats framed the rocky eruptions. There was not a snowcap in sight. She searched luau and hula and eventually went to sleep to the sweet sound of ocean waves and the soft strumming of a ukulele.
Sun streamed through the crack in the bedroom drapes when Susan woke the next morning. She lingered, watching dust particles float in the golden rays, before rising from bed and shuffling to the kitchen. She picked up Paul’s number, put it in her phone and texted: So, have you actually been to Hawaii?
The response bubbles were immediate: Long time ago. You thinkin of goin?
Susan’s fingers hovered above the keys as she contemplated her reply.
Rose Divecha is a Hamilton writer who spends much of her free time on Pelee Island, reading, writing and riding her bike. Her personal essays and short stories have been recognized by Geist Magazine, More of Our Canada, PULP Literature Press and HAL Magazine. Click here to see the complete list of Rose’s publications.
