Josie & Jack

The street lights were still on at precisely four o’clock when Josephine Beaulieu opened the shiny chrome doors of her diner with a whoosh, switched on one row of schoolhouse lights, then another, and placed a clean glass carafe on the coffee maker. High heels clicking, she moved to the kitchen, flipped a row of switches on the fryers, setting their red lights aglow, then disappeared into the refrigerator. She returned to the lunch counter balancing three golden pies. She settled them gently inside their glass case as the coffee machine burbled cheerfully in the background. With a clean, white cloth in hand, Josephine moved briskly along the row of shiny stools lined up in front of the counter, stopping to straighten the last one, perpetually askew. A quick loop around the dining room booths with the cloth, and each individual jukebox on each red formica table was gleaming in the early morning light.

As the sun began to kiss the Hollywood Hills outside the tall plate-glass windows, Josephine’s staff began to trickle in. Cooks first and busboys, then wait staff, bursting through the doors, shrugging off hoodies slouched over white button-down shirts and poodle skirts, bow ties and spit-shined loafers. They tucked their cell phones away, shaking off the 21^st century, before they fanned out across the black and white checkered floor, firing up the big chrome range, placing glass jam pots on tables next to the salt and pepper. They were all actors, young and bubbling over with ambition. They willingly took extra shifts and worked holidays because working at Josie’s was just like stepping into another time. Plus, it was fun. Josephine watched over them all, pushing them to do better, encouraging them when they were down; a petite mother hen in jewel-toned sheath dresses and matching pumps.

Every morning, when the neon-rimmed clock above the doors struck exactly six o’clock, Josephine pressed a button on the perfectly restored Wurlitzer in the front lobby. As the first notes of “Blue Suede Shoes” wafted through the room, she took a deep, satisfying breath, glanced around the world she had created, and flipped the sign hanging on the door from Closed to Open, Please Come In. 

Once the restaurant was humming with customers, Josephine moved to the phone at the hostess stand, fielding calls from studio assistants placing lunch orders. They would pour in at noon from the shiny high rises and yawning stages that gave way to a jumble of vintage storefronts and fast-casual restaurants surrounding the diner. They leaned against the wall as they waited, enjoying the break, talking about their endless lists of errands, props, coffee, costumes. “The director wants everything super authentic,” they would say, “Josie, didn’t you say there was a great second-hand store in the valley?”

“Why yes,” she would smile, her accent hinting at her childhood in the suburbs of Paris, “Right there, on Caheunga, of course. It’s the best.”

After the lunch rush, Josephine often took few minutes to catch her breath in the bar. While the front half of the diner was Happy Days, bubble gum and bobby sox, the bar in the back was classic LA Noir; cool, dark, mysterious. She had worked hard to restore the lounge from a worn 1970’s dive bar to its original polished-wood glory. It still smelled faintly of cigarettes. Together, the two spaces reflected everything Josephine loved about the 1950’s, the light along with the dark.

Josephine slid onto a red Naugahyde stool. The bartender gave her a friendly nod. Rudy had gotten the showbiz bug working on a movie in Baton Rouge. “It was a lucky break,” he liked to say with an easy grin. “Now here I am.” The customers told him all of their secrets. 

At this time of day, the bar was usually empty, save for an early bird here and there, nursing a beer, fighting writer’s block or licking the wounds of a bad audition. Today there was a new customer, a man, neatly dressed in a suit and tie. His hat rested on the bar next to him, his shoulders shrugged, hands cradled around a thick-bottomed tumbler of whiskey, half empty. Josephine glanced his way. An actor, probably. Rudy slid a cup and saucer in front of her, two tea bags, a slice of lemon. The man looked up, then dropped his eyes back down to his drink.

Josephine rarely ate her lunch at this time because, inevitably, a busboy or a waiter would poke their head through the door with a question or a crisis. Today was no different. By the time she returned to her stool that evening, the man was gone. Rudy had a glass of red wine ready for her.

“The customer earlier?” he said, “Tried to stiff me.”

“The man with the hat?” Josie took a sip from her glass.

“His name is Jack, he’s a studio man,” Rudy grinned. “His words.” Jack had left one crisp dollar bill for his drink. Rudy ran after him to set him straight. “I mean, we’re authentic, but not that authentic. You should have seen his face. He was good for it, though. Nice guy, just a little confused.” 

Jack returned to his spot at the bar the next day and the day after that. Always dressed impeccably in his suit and tie, hat on the bar. Always nursing a whiskey. Josephine sat down next to him. 

“I’m afraid you are in danger of becoming a regular here. So let me introduce myself. I’m Josephine, but everyone here calls me Josie.” He looked at her hard for a beat, then he smiled.

“Your accent. It’s French.”

“Yes, I lived there as a child.”

“I was there in the War.” Jack slowly swirled his glass, turning the amber liquid from one side to the other. 

Iraq? Gulf war, maybe. He didn’t look like the other veterans she’d met. “So what brought you here?” 

“What brings us all here? Showbiz,” his voice edged with irony. “I’m on a picture. It’s called Rebel Without A Cause.”

Josephine raised her eyebrows slightly, her mind turning. “Hmm. James Dean. It’s one of my favorites,” she said slowly.

A cloud of confusion crossed Jack's face. "You seem to have seen it."

"I have seen it" Josephine smiled gently, holding Jack's gaze. "Many times."

“You know," he said finally, "Yre not like the others. They look right through me. All these people walking around with wires coming out of their ears, staring at their hands all day. Can I be honest with you?"

"Of course."

"I..." Jack paused, then sighed. "Everything is upside down. Nothing is the same."

“The same as what?”

Jack sipped his whiskey, staring straight ahead. “1954”

“1954. The year?”

“You think I'm crazy.” Jack slid a card across the bar, his driver’s license. Josephine looked at it carefully. If it was vintage, it was in perfect condition.  

“Well, this town is built on imagination and a little bit of magic, and I believe in magic,” she said. “So, I’m still deciding. Tell me, what happened to you?”

“There was an accident.” Jack patted the back of his head instinctively. "On the set."

Jack had showed up for work at the studio a week ago, early as usual. He had decided to get a cup of coffee before starting work, so he had crossed the street sideways to get to the commissary. At that exact moment, a slow moving truck had turned the corner out of the blue. The last thing he remembered was being taken to the infirmary.

The next morning, Jack found himself in a busy production office. People everywhere, tapping on strange silver books, talking into wires. Stacks of papers, odd graphs, photographs in color, swatches of fabric all over the walls. The smell of coffee in the air. At barely seven o’clock in the morning, the place was buzzing like it was noon. Jack felt a lump on his head. A lovely young lady had mistaken him for an actor and hustled him out the door. 

“Hi there,” she’d said briskly, pausing to speak into a wire coming out of her ear, “You must be lost. This is Some Hearts,” she slid a small silver and glass square out of her pocket. “You’re looking for The Bandit. That’s on...let’s see…stage 16. Ok, head that way, two rights and a left. You can’t miss it.”

Jack had spent the rest of the day wandering the studio lot. He wasn’t sure what had happened, just that he’d landed somewhere else.

Jack looked at Josephine, swirling his glass again, slowly. “Everything has changed. The auto wash, the Safari Motel, the coffee shop on the corner with the car show on Fridays. They’re all still here, but so different. And everything else...,” Jack’s words trailed off. “This is the only place that really feels like home. It’s yours?”

“It is.” Josephine paused. “I didn’t get to live in the 1950’s, so I recreated everything about it right here.”

“But you’re…?”

“A woman?” Josephine smiled.

“And you’re colored.”

“Black. Yes.” Josephine held Jack’s gaze. “It is the twenty-first century now. And you’re right, a lot of things have changed.”

“The twenty-first century. Oh boy.” Jack whistled. He dropped his eyes into his drink, lost in thought.

The bar began to fill up with customers. Glasses clinked, music drifted in from the dining room.

“But why would you want to recreate the 1950’s?” he swept the room with his hand. “People like you don’t get to run their own restaurants.”

“It’s different in France, where I come from. To be a woman. To be black. My family emigrated there from Louisiana, after the Civil War so I always knew I had some roots here. My mother was a jazz singer. I grew up with stories of the American GI’s who came her club during the War, their music, their style, it always interested me. Some of them became friends, kept in touch.” Josephine nodded hello-goodbye as the bartenders traded shifts. “I wanted to know about life in America. For me, that was slumber parties and sock hops. In time, I realized that there was so much more to the 1950’s. Noir, rock n’ roll, rebellion. I wanted to experience all of it.”

Jack’s eyes were locked on Josephine, a flicker of understanding touching his face.

“In Paris, in the 1980’s, there were rockabilly groups. These were my friends. We dressed up in scarves and saddle shoes and we danced on Fridays on the Grands Boulevards. All together, Black, blanc, beur. All colors, all cultures.” Josephine smiled at the memory. “If you wanted to dance, you were welcome. If you wanted to hate us, you were not. It was rebellious. I wanted to bring that spirit here, to the US, and so I did, in my own way. I can’t change history, but right here, in this place, I can recreate it. I can give these kids, the waiters and the waitresses, the cooks and the bartenders that work here; I can give them a shot at living their dreams.”

“I like the sound of that, Josephine,” Jack paused. “The 1980’s. That’s a lot of water under the bridge. You think I’ll be alive then?”

“You’re here now,” said Josephine. "So. You'll need a place to live. And a job. How are you at doing dishes?"

Jack nodded slightly, then smiled. "I've done my share," he said.

"Well then," Josephine said briskly, standing. "Come with me, Jack. Let's get you started."

The hum of conversation floated around them, dishes clinking, bursts of laughter, music. The front doors whooshed open and closed, and the sun dipped down behind the Hollywood Hills.