“It was built by the workers,” she said. “They wanted me to stand under a banner and say some businessman had given it to us.”
“Did they name the businessman?”
“No. That’s what bothered me. Everyone in their photographs had a name except whoever they wanted me to thank.”
She opened her wallet and removed a visitor pass. On it was the logo of the new concession and the printed words COMMUNITY MEMORY ADVISER. The pass expired that evening.
“I kept this because they said they’d pay me two hundred dollars if I showed up and smiled. Two hundred to use my face. Maybe they’ll pay a little more to rent my opinions.”
Daniel asked whether she would speak about it publicly. She looked toward the window, where a dark SUV had parked near the curb. A man inside appeared to be looking at his phone.
“I’d rather speak when there are enough people to make silence difficult,” she said.
Before leaving, she slipped a folded menu under Daniel’s receipt pad. On its back she’d written the names of three former dockworkers who might remember the original cooperative. Daniel glanced at the names, then caught himself treating the paper like a magic solution. None of those people owed him a public testimony. He would have to explain why their voices mattered, then accept their answers.
At the end of the shift Kent asked him to stay. The manager had heard Daniel talking about the waterfront; he disliked the idea of his restaurant becoming the center of an argument. Daniel said the diner wasn’t involved. Kent countered that the customer’s car outside had remained for an hour, and he couldn’t tell whether the driver’s attention was directed toward Daniel or the entrance.
“You never know who is working for whom,” Kent said. “And I have twelve employees to worry about.”
It was the first time Daniel heard his manager include the staff in a sentence about responsibility. He should have been grateful. Instead he felt a strange sadness. Kent’s version of responsibility stopped precisely where his own inconvenience began.
By closing time, Daniel had answered the questions on the day’s specials, refilled countless cups, cleaned the grill hood, and learned almost nothing about who was watching him. He went home through the busy streets rather than the short alley. When he reached June’s shop, she was fixing a child’s blue bicycle with a broken chain.
“Tomorrow, we go to the pier,” he told her.
June kept threading the chain through the gears. “And what are we looking for?”
“Not who owns the sign. Who has to work under it.”
“Better answer,” she said, and handed him the bicycle so she could test the brakes.
