A busload of hungry tourists was just dropped off at our door. Jim, our ancient hippie chef, is manning the kitchen grill while Shari and I run plates and pour coffee out front. We’ve run out of our daily specials, but nobody seems to mind. Even if the sky is gray outside, inside the Karma the music’s loud, the food’s good, and the retro tie-dyed t-shirts are flying off the shelves. I’m in a groove—fully locked in waitress zone. A crown of daisies sits on my head as I move from table to table, chatting with tourists and hustling for tips. I’m desperate to keep myself busy, so I’ve been grabbing every shift I can. That’s my life now: I go to school, work long hours, and then fall into bed too exhausted to think about anything. It’s been ten days since I last saw Beckett. Twelve days since I last saw Ricco. Neither one’s been anywhere near SFSU, a fact for which I am eternally grateful. Ricco’s left several messages on my cell, but I haven’t returned any of them.
