Chapter 4: Will work for Mai Tais.
Mike Nash was the darkest black man I'd ever laid my eyes on. He spoke in quick successive sentences that I strained to understand; I made a mental note to invest in a recorder so I could play back our conversations and try to pick out what it was he was saying. Mike also wore a shirt a size too small and pants that swished way too loudly. I was sitting cross legged doing my best to appear angelic in a button down oxford shirt and Express skirt I'd purchased for my cousin's wedding. The skirt fluted out at the hem. I was misinformed that it would make me look professional and savvy. Instead I felt like a child who had rummaged through her mother's closet. Mike Nash was none too impressed.
He pointed to a dry erase board emphasizing a name, and a number next to that name. Indicating that I should strive to be so lucky as to have a 2508 next to my name. This should have been the exact moment where I realized the difference between sanity and insanity. Instead, I nodded diligently, pretending to be interested and hoping to make 2508 my goal for the next two weeks. What did that even mean?
"You need to attend our employee orientation and fill out the forms. The orientation will be held at our new facility. That is the one you will be working out of, but it doesn't open until August." He said curtly and ran me through some more 'you plus so and so equals excellence' bull shit. I don't think he blinked once during the entire interview. Gosh, it was like being interrogated by a black Chuck Norris. Was this man always on?
I could feel the twitch in my eye start up. This is my psychic instinct telling me to run for the hills. Best to ignore these things when dealing with a paycheck that would at least pay rent. I assumed that this was the best of the best, and set out on a course to crash and burn. I'd gotten a call from Perform Fitness, a gym chain where the guys are wider than they are tall. Dress code was a pair of nylon or mesh gym shorts and a ripped sleeveless old P.E. shirt, covering a hand's span across the chest down to the waist. It looked more like an apron. I was going to see a lot of side boob today.
The position I thought I was taking was a sales associate. It would hopefully get me thirty hours a week and a free gym membership since the student recreation center was off limits now that I was a college grad. I started to despise that word a little more every day. Within a week at P.F. and I would need to remind myself each hour that I was a human being and that one day I would be happy. The staff including Mr. Mike Nash, were a hodge podge group of athletic gurus. One did running, one did weight lifting, one ate on a timer. No one had ever heard of chocolate. If they had, it came in the form of a chalky protein shake consumed only after a gut busting work out.
I came home exhausted and relieved not to hear heavy metal pounding the polish off of my fingernails. On the drive home, I made another personal promise to find a better job. One hadn't jumped out in front of me yet, so I was stuck with this one till tomorrow.
I scavenged the refrigerator and nibbled on a few items before giving in and ordering Chinese. It was three blocks away to pick up and I was feeling randy. They said it would be done in "ten minute." My best guess was twenty. Shucking off my dress shoes, wrenching down that stupid skirt and pitching it in the vast cavern that is my closet, I pulled on some gray sweats and a long sleeved t-shirt. There was no denying it. I looked like shit. My family is notorious for not taking break ups well. My brother Tory talked to the newspaper telemarketer for five hours after a broken engagement. My mother felt so bad she bought a subscription to Parade magazine to compensate the time lost with potential customers.
Kevin had been right about Chase. He'd been philandering with some cute and sprightly, but smaller titted girl three nights ago. I drunk called him and said some slurred words of hurt. I don't think "You thupid asth muther ucker" comes across as strongly as "You're a whore, we're over." But the point was still the same. Chase had moved on to greener pastures, Chicago, while I was stuck clinging to the glory days of living in a college town, but not going to college. Getting over Chase though was a bit easier than I thought. I guess that's what happens when you haven't left the first tier of Maslow's hierarchy.
My phone buzzed and I had to dump out my business but black hole of a purse to find it. It was a number I didn't recognize. Let's let fate take this one.
"Callie Cronin," I answered professionally because I was trying to shed my college lush reputation. It also inspired the caller to do the same.
"Very nice, Cal." a guy's voice replied. Okay, throw me a bone fate. Who the hell is this again?
When in doubt, go along with it, "What's up?"
"Just hanging out."
I was silent. When I think, I go silent. It's how you can tell I'm thinking.
"Hello?" he asked. I must have been thinking too long.
"Sorry, I was distracted." By the fact that I have no idea who you are.
"There's an art show tonight at eight at the Jersey Hoop. My friend's got some stuff, he was depressed when he did it. So it should be pretty good." Mr. Question Mark said. I thought some more.
"Sure, sounds good." I love mysteries and who doesn't like pretty pictures. I didn't have enough money to buy good art, but I had a passion for keeping my place charming. Depressed art isn't really pretty, but they're might be some other options. We hung up with a plan to meet at the Hoop at eight. Hmm. It was like a real life version of Mystery Date. It wasn't Kevin; he was under DO NOT ANSWER in my phone. It wasn't Chase either; I burned that bridge and spit on its ashes.
My deductions stopped there, and I'd been standing at the door thinking for too long. My Chinese was getting cold. To combat the sweats, I pulled my hair up in a high and tight perky ponytail, putting to ruins the hours of ironing and hairspray I'd given it this morning for my interview. The tail brushed lightly against my shoulder blades and all was right with the world again.
Walking the three blocks to Golden Dragon was easy. No one paused to look at frump girl which is nice about a college town. Sweats and t-shirts are common place for rolling out of bed, taking a test, or picking up take-out. It was when I was coming back with my chicken broccoli and three dozen almond cookies that I ran into problems. Kevin Miller was standing at the corner, unaware that I was the person behind the load of hot food.
I took the opportunity of anonymity to kick him in the shin while he was counting cracks in the pavement.
"OUCH!" he gasped, grabbing his leg and hopping up and down on the other. Kevin doesn't balance well. Unlike Webbles, he wobbles and falls down.
"Miss me?" I asked shifting the bag to one hand so he could see that I was past the angry phase of our last encounter and had moved on to sweet revenge.
"What the fuck! Are you on your period or something?" No, PMS is a Pre-menstrual, dumbass.
"I saw you and thought I'd say hello. Hello." Come on, give me another reason to kick you while you're down. Kevin rubbed his shin hard and gave me his best angry eyes. I felt bad, I truly did. He had given me, without trouble, the contents of his wallet the other day. The least I could do would be to share some Chinese with him.
The thing about Kevin is that you can't hate him for too long. When I was five my brother Joe, one year senior, killed my pet hamster by letting him out into our yard and into the neighbor's cat. I threw his Power Ranger action figure into the garbage disposal. Once we were even, we got back to our dysfunctional lives. Kevin spies on me, I kick him in the shin, and we have dinner.
"So, can I watch you again?" Kevin asked while cracking open the one fortune cookie in the bag. I scowled at the idea of performing for him and because he took my cookie.
"Do you have a hundred bucks?" Kevin came into money through questionable sources. As far as I knew, he was a stand-up citizen with a respectable job at the Thortan Jubilee, the town newspaper. He had a couple of front page articles that got tossed in the trash with the coffee grounds the next day. In his mind, he was Clark Kent, in my mind he was a lovable loser.
"Not on me, but I was watching porn online last night," Oh boy this can't be good, "And I was trying to find girls masturbating and I saw that they got like billions of hits, you know views, and I thought, what if Callie did that."
