flunky. You don’t look the part of our front-end personnel.” He smirked.
“Fine. I’m having dinner with Andre tonight. I can start anytime after that. When do you need me?”
Like I had time for flunky. I’d hoped for a waitress job so I could earn enough tips to work this off quickly, but Ernesto had a point. I didn’t have big hooters. And as the evening progressed, I would start limping like a three-legged dog—not what the customers wanted.
“Tomorrow,” Ernesto responded, “starting when I say, until Cook says to go home. If you quit after the first night, you don’t get paid.”
Beggars couldn’t be choosers. I walked out, closing the door after me. Andre had already left with the deposit bag.
I tasted the sourness of defeat but didn’t show it when Sarah sent me a look of sympathy. My brains and efficiency were pretty much wasted in a kitchen. It was my choice not to look elsewhere. I glanced at my watch. The five o’clock bus had gone. I might as well hang around to see what Andre had to say.
My stomach twisted uneasily, and I wasn’t in the least hungry. I’d almost rather have gone home and berated imaginary Max some more.
I rummaged in my bag to see if I’d left the compact there from the other night. Dinner was dinner, and I was female enough to powder my nose and put on lipstick before a date. It was nice not having to mess with the hair.
I flipped open the compact, glanced in the mirror, and nearly tossed it before I recovered my senses.
Max stared back at me, almost as startled as I was.
“ Lookin’ good, babe. Didn’t think I could pull this one off. Your mirror connection is way stronger here, ” he murmured inside my head before fading away.
I sat down on a stool and snapped the compact shut. What was I? increasingly seemed a more and more valid question under the circumstances—one I couldn’t answer.
Customers began filing in just before six. Sarah had disappeared into the kitchen before the first customer entered. Ernesto’s current mistress, Maria, in black miniskirt and plunging neckline, took her station at the door. The model-tall bartender with flowing blond hair began polishing glasses. I’d take Bill’s bar any day, but then, I didn’t possess the requisite equipment to appreciate this place.
I took a booth in a dark back corner, switched off the little table lantern that provided the only light, and, succumbing to my new obsession, watched everyone entering. The blue-jeaned kid sauntered in, trying to look cool. Maria zeroed in on him, and he forgot being cool or a reporter or whatever he was. With his gaze firmly on her nearly bare assets, he couldn’t see me.
Fortunately, the wall nudes had stopped moving, but I could see Andre’s point about keeping the lookyloos out of the Zone.
A few industrial workers marched in, obviously regular customers who didn’t even notice the newlygreen tables. A scantily clad waitress sidled up to take their orders.
A big bloke already looking half loaded staggered up to the bar. He pinched the rear of one of the dancers on her way back to the dressing rooms. She hauled off and whacked him one, but he just laughed, as if they’d been flirting. I grimaced at the byplay.
I didn’t have issues with sexual exploitation—it worked both ways, the way I saw it. But years of being tyrannized by thugs bigger than me had instilled an active dislike of bullies, and a childhood spent watching Clint Eastwood westerns had given me an over-inflated sense of justice. I took an instant dislike to the blowhard and wanted him gone. I wanted to be a bouncer, but the crippled leg had diminished my martial arts skills, and I didn’t own a gun.
I wasn’t sure what Andre meant for me to learn by hanging out down here, but once I got past the bully, I will admit I was amused when a couple of business suits entered, looking wary. I expected them to tug on their white shirt collars in discomfort. We didn’t get suits in the Zone. The
“Fine. I’m having dinner with Andre tonight. I can start anytime after that. When do you need me?”
Like I had time for flunky. I’d hoped for a waitress job so I could earn enough tips to work this off quickly, but Ernesto had a point. I didn’t have big hooters. And as the evening progressed, I would start limping like a three-legged dog—not what the customers wanted.
“Tomorrow,” Ernesto responded, “starting when I say, until Cook says to go home. If you quit after the first night, you don’t get paid.”
Beggars couldn’t be choosers. I walked out, closing the door after me. Andre had already left with the deposit bag.
I tasted the sourness of defeat but didn’t show it when Sarah sent me a look of sympathy. My brains and efficiency were pretty much wasted in a kitchen. It was my choice not to look elsewhere. I glanced at my watch. The five o’clock bus had gone. I might as well hang around to see what Andre had to say.
My stomach twisted uneasily, and I wasn’t in the least hungry. I’d almost rather have gone home and berated imaginary Max some more.
I rummaged in my bag to see if I’d left the compact there from the other night. Dinner was dinner, and I was female enough to powder my nose and put on lipstick before a date. It was nice not having to mess with the hair.
I flipped open the compact, glanced in the mirror, and nearly tossed it before I recovered my senses.
Max stared back at me, almost as startled as I was.
“ Lookin’ good, babe. Didn’t think I could pull this one off. Your mirror connection is way stronger here, ” he murmured inside my head before fading away.
I sat down on a stool and snapped the compact shut. What was I? increasingly seemed a more and more valid question under the circumstances—one I couldn’t answer.
Customers began filing in just before six. Sarah had disappeared into the kitchen before the first customer entered. Ernesto’s current mistress, Maria, in black miniskirt and plunging neckline, took her station at the door. The model-tall bartender with flowing blond hair began polishing glasses. I’d take Bill’s bar any day, but then, I didn’t possess the requisite equipment to appreciate this place.
I took a booth in a dark back corner, switched off the little table lantern that provided the only light, and, succumbing to my new obsession, watched everyone entering. The blue-jeaned kid sauntered in, trying to look cool. Maria zeroed in on him, and he forgot being cool or a reporter or whatever he was. With his gaze firmly on her nearly bare assets, he couldn’t see me.
Fortunately, the wall nudes had stopped moving, but I could see Andre’s point about keeping the lookyloos out of the Zone.
A few industrial workers marched in, obviously regular customers who didn’t even notice the newlygreen tables. A scantily clad waitress sidled up to take their orders.
A big bloke already looking half loaded staggered up to the bar. He pinched the rear of one of the dancers on her way back to the dressing rooms. She hauled off and whacked him one, but he just laughed, as if they’d been flirting. I grimaced at the byplay.
I didn’t have issues with sexual exploitation—it worked both ways, the way I saw it. But years of being tyrannized by thugs bigger than me had instilled an active dislike of bullies, and a childhood spent watching Clint Eastwood westerns had given me an over-inflated sense of justice. I took an instant dislike to the blowhard and wanted him gone. I wanted to be a bouncer, but the crippled leg had diminished my martial arts skills, and I didn’t own a gun.
I wasn’t sure what Andre meant for me to learn by hanging out down here, but once I got past the bully, I will admit I was amused when a couple of business suits entered, looking wary. I expected them to tug on their white shirt collars in discomfort. We didn’t get suits in the Zone. The
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