Chapter: 6 Goldilocks and Callie
Remember when the teacher called on you in class. You sit there staring at her for another five seconds trying to figure what the hell she wants. You might stutter, stumble on a few words and finally the answer comes to you. You don't give a shit.
I was having one of those moments with Mike Nash. I was staring at his mouth, waiting for a little mouth to pop out and try and eat me like in Alien. He had turned an interesting shade of blue. Not quite lavender. Iridescent almost. Mike Nash had choked on his protein bar. I gazed at the trainers. Their background checks required them to have taken CPR. They had at least three hours practicing on a dummy to prepare them for this situation. I recalled that the choking signal needed to be demonstrated first before any action was to be taken.
"Should I . . .," I asked trailing off looking to Abe, the trainer who ate on a timer.
"He looks fine to me." These guys lived on a strict diet of brown rice and chicken. The only other real protein I'd seen them eat was raw almonds. I think Abe needed more carbs. He needed to rub his two little brain cells together and make a fire.
"I think he's choking. I'm going to whack him on the back. Any objections?" I asked to make sure that in the case that Mike was normally a Smurf blue, I had the staff's full support. The other two trainers, I named them Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, scratched their heads and nodded. I whacked, Mike coughed. Tweedle Dee stepped out of the way of any possible projectile objects.
It took him a few seconds but finally he breathed enough air to say, "You're quitting?" I nodded. It seemed like an awful shame to be leaving a horrible job with a great pay check in a bad economy. Mike thought I was an idiot. I had the same idea about him.
"You want to explain to me why you're quitting?" Mike asked then gulped some water from a plastic bottle. He swished the water around in his mouth to clear out any debris. I hated those swishing noises. Nothing, and I mean nothing should have to be inside of his mouth for that long.
"I've been offered a better position." At a bar where I'd get my ass grabbed and the income came in the form of sticky liquor covered dollar bills.
"You haven't even been here a week." Correction. I haven't even been there for a whole day.
"I don't think this is the type of place for me." The guys' boobies were bigger than mine. I was getting boob envy.
"You'll be sorry," Mike sneered through his teeth. Don't even try that guilt trip. I have an Irish Catholic mother, dude. I'm immune to that shit.
I could try to be the better person. I could go up to him, kiss him on the cheek and wish him a beautiful life with many children who ran around doing jumping jacks sporadically and chasing cars. But no. I'm a bitch by nature.
"I'll make more money in a week than you do in a year and I'll do it without the ego trip!" There goes his professional reference. I strolled out of a job before my payroll was even processed. Damn that felt good. I'd called Nolan earlier to make sure I got his job. It required a quick bartender quiz over the phone. Let's see Mike Nash try and name all five clear liquors while maneuvering through the turnpike. I really hoped he wouldn't do anything to piss me off. That would be two jobs in one week and I think that's a Callie Cronin record.
I drove over to the Big Bang looking on the bright side and waved at all the passers-by and bums on the sidewalk. Nolan Kelly owned and operated the Big Bang and its neighboring bakery called Sprite's Delights. The bakery baked at three a.m. and was known to dole out biscuits to the less than sober closing time crowd. This earned it a second name, Drunkin Donuts. I pulled into the back lot of the two establishments promising my inner sugar tooth demons that I would buy them something tasty and my inner hormones that if they played their cards right, they'd get a treat too.
The Big Bang had a seedy frat house appeal on the inside and an outdoor space for bands and keg stands. By day it served as the tailgating headquarters for all sports, mostly football, UCI. By night, the Big Bang turned into a giant mosh-pit visible from space. At seven years old I knew what a football was and exactly how to aim one at the kickball/volleyball/Frisbee eating tree outside of our house. Charlie Brown was lucky his tree only ate kites. Football was the time when my brothers would leave me alone or put me on permanent monkey-in-the-middle status. I didn't tailgate, I didn't watch sports, I didn't care. Needless to say, I'd never been in the Big Bang.
Nolan greeted me with a big pearly white smile and I was not in Kansas anymore. I don't know what I had going on with Jeff, probably a figment of my imagination by now, and it was a very bad idea to screw my new boss.
"You'll be working the bar with Penny," he gestured to a small black girl with dreads. She looked like she could break a man's arm with the flutter of her eyelashes. My fluttering eyelashes only got me free drinks. I was going to need to step up my game. Maybe I'd buy some spiky heels with the next paycheck.
"The Bang closes at two, we clean up, and then I work the bakery from three to eight." This guy was a machine. Nolan continued the new employee orientation. We went over dress code, or lack thereof, and bouncer names. Turns out Abe moonlighted as a bouncer at the Bang. I was expected to learn their famous drinks by tomorrow. Penny didn't look too bad after a few blunders with the vodka bottle. I wouldn't want to grab her ass in a dark room though.
The office crowd was from six till ten, followed by the douchbag crowd from ten till close. I knew how to make three of the ten drink specials that no one ever asked for. The girls wanted something with an umbrella or sugar with an ounce of alcohol. The guys wanted beer. The cheaper the better. Nolan didn't carry Natty Light. So I spent most of my night breaking off all ten pink fingernails on PBR cans. By eleven o'clock I'd forgotten why on earth I'd talked myself into this and wanted nothing more than to cuddle up in the fetal position with my thumb in my mouth.
"Two red headed sluts!" D-bag number eighty-nine asked. Two bubbly Tri-Delts behind him were gazing around trying to find themselves another warm body to get free drinks from. Eighty-nine had on some glitzy Ed Hardy shirt with a tiger trying to claw its way out. If I were on his chest, I'd try to get out too. His hair had been gelled to statuesque perfection. Numbering them off was necessary to keep tabs. There are only so many variations of button-downs, relaxed fit jeans and Sketchers a man can come up with.
