a woman with an active mind, believe it or not,” she responded, sitting up straighter, as if good posture naturally corresponded with curiosity. “Anyway, a lot of very good-looking men go there—professional types, high class stuff. You’ll love it,” she assured Priscilla, who groaned and took another sip of her rum.
“If that’s an invitation to join you guys, I think I’ll pass. I had a lousy day and I don’t feel like doing anything tonight.”
“No wonder you had a lousy day. You still work at Frank’s—how could you not?” Darlene growled. “When you gonna quit that dump and come work with me? I could get you on days right away. I think that cow Erica’s gonna leave soon. She keeps talkin’ about this ‘in’ she says she’s got over at The Astoria, working banquets or some bull. Anyhow, I think her days are numbered. She keeps mouthing off to the cooks—burning her bridges, if you ask me. Why don’t you stop by on Monday after your shift and talk to Pascal? He’s kind of a lech, but he ain’t too bad to work for.”
It was hardly a ringing endorsement, and Priscilla didn’t exactly relish the idea of working alongside Darlene again. Working at Frank’s was a drag, for obvious reasons, but at least she didn’t end up spending half her tips on after-work cocktails. Besides, the years were slogging by, and Priscilla found it disheartening that the passing of time had done little to alter their lives. Prowling around bars and pubs with these two when they were all in their mid-twenties was one thing; doing it at their current ages bordered on pathetic.
“No. Pascal’s a perv. You should apply at Pinkerton Station. That place is so huge, they’re always hiring. I’ve trained three new girls this month already. The tips ain’t the greatest ’cause the average check is so low, but you make it up in volume. Still, the money’s got to be better than what you make at Frank’s,” Rochelle said.
“Yeah, maybe,” Priscilla said noncommittally, as she thought about her sudden drop in income. Just as she had predicted, Phil had failed to make his usual appearance. His illustrated invitation to accompany him to various “harmless” venues had been the kiss of death as far as her financial picture was concerned. The slumming rock star hadn’t shown up, either. She supposed whatever weird mood had deposited him at Frank’s had passed. The tidy stash of hers, courtesy of love-struck Phil, was going to have to last her a long time.
“Look, you have to come out with us. There’s no way we’re going to let you sit around moping all by yourself on a Friday night,” Darlene said decisively.
“I don’t mind being alone. In fact, I enjoy it,” Priscilla said, picking up a pillow and hugging it to her chest, trying to give the impression she was happily entrenched for the evening.
“It’s not natural to spend so much time by yourself. It’s not healthy, if you ask me,” Darlene said.
“Oh, and you think sitting around bars polluting your lungs and liver is?” Priscilla challenged her.
“Hanging around other people, laughing and having a good time is a hell of a lot healthier than holing up in this crummy apartment, acting all depressed,” she countered.
“I’m not depressed,” Priscilla said flatly. Darlene gave her one of those looks that said there was no fooling her. “Just because I prefer to spend a little time by myself rather than getting all tarted up and hanging out in some noisy bar with a bunch of weekend warriors, doesn’t mean I’m depressed.”
“Yeah, but when was the last time you were with a guy?” Rochelle asked. Priscilla grunted but refused to answer her. “See what I mean? Being without a guy for too long can mess up your hormones, and that can change the chemistry of your brain, which makes you get depressed,” Rochelle informed her. Pleased at having delivered this intelligence, Rochelle squirmed off the sofa and went to replenish her
“If that’s an invitation to join you guys, I think I’ll pass. I had a lousy day and I don’t feel like doing anything tonight.”
“No wonder you had a lousy day. You still work at Frank’s—how could you not?” Darlene growled. “When you gonna quit that dump and come work with me? I could get you on days right away. I think that cow Erica’s gonna leave soon. She keeps talkin’ about this ‘in’ she says she’s got over at The Astoria, working banquets or some bull. Anyhow, I think her days are numbered. She keeps mouthing off to the cooks—burning her bridges, if you ask me. Why don’t you stop by on Monday after your shift and talk to Pascal? He’s kind of a lech, but he ain’t too bad to work for.”
It was hardly a ringing endorsement, and Priscilla didn’t exactly relish the idea of working alongside Darlene again. Working at Frank’s was a drag, for obvious reasons, but at least she didn’t end up spending half her tips on after-work cocktails. Besides, the years were slogging by, and Priscilla found it disheartening that the passing of time had done little to alter their lives. Prowling around bars and pubs with these two when they were all in their mid-twenties was one thing; doing it at their current ages bordered on pathetic.
“No. Pascal’s a perv. You should apply at Pinkerton Station. That place is so huge, they’re always hiring. I’ve trained three new girls this month already. The tips ain’t the greatest ’cause the average check is so low, but you make it up in volume. Still, the money’s got to be better than what you make at Frank’s,” Rochelle said.
“Yeah, maybe,” Priscilla said noncommittally, as she thought about her sudden drop in income. Just as she had predicted, Phil had failed to make his usual appearance. His illustrated invitation to accompany him to various “harmless” venues had been the kiss of death as far as her financial picture was concerned. The slumming rock star hadn’t shown up, either. She supposed whatever weird mood had deposited him at Frank’s had passed. The tidy stash of hers, courtesy of love-struck Phil, was going to have to last her a long time.
“Look, you have to come out with us. There’s no way we’re going to let you sit around moping all by yourself on a Friday night,” Darlene said decisively.
“I don’t mind being alone. In fact, I enjoy it,” Priscilla said, picking up a pillow and hugging it to her chest, trying to give the impression she was happily entrenched for the evening.
“It’s not natural to spend so much time by yourself. It’s not healthy, if you ask me,” Darlene said.
“Oh, and you think sitting around bars polluting your lungs and liver is?” Priscilla challenged her.
“Hanging around other people, laughing and having a good time is a hell of a lot healthier than holing up in this crummy apartment, acting all depressed,” she countered.
“I’m not depressed,” Priscilla said flatly. Darlene gave her one of those looks that said there was no fooling her. “Just because I prefer to spend a little time by myself rather than getting all tarted up and hanging out in some noisy bar with a bunch of weekend warriors, doesn’t mean I’m depressed.”
“Yeah, but when was the last time you were with a guy?” Rochelle asked. Priscilla grunted but refused to answer her. “See what I mean? Being without a guy for too long can mess up your hormones, and that can change the chemistry of your brain, which makes you get depressed,” Rochelle informed her. Pleased at having delivered this intelligence, Rochelle squirmed off the sofa and went to replenish her
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