“How did you get so lucky that you make your living—a wildly prosperous living, I might add—painting naked, beautiful women all day? I chose the wrong profession.”
“I’m sure you could spend more time with beautiful naked women if the world knew you were W. Parker.” He winked.
I grunted.
“Or you can continue living as a hermit. Suit yourself. You hungry? I could go for a bite and a drink.”
I checked the time. It was twenty after five. “I could eat.”
Chapter 5
Briar
I woke up long before my alarm on Tuesday morning.
My first morning in New York City.
It was six fifteen when my eyes snapped open. I gazed up at the motel-room ceiling with a downright goofy grin on my face, stretched my arms over my head, and rolled out of bed. I showered, brushed my teeth, and got dressed in one of the better outfits I owned, a pair of black pants, black boots with silver buckles, and my wrap jacket with the wide hood. I also put on a knit scarf and a bit of makeup. Normally, I wouldn’t have bothered with the makeup, but today was an important day.
I had to find a job.
Admittedly, I would rather have spent my first day in the city exploring. I’d debated all last night if I should job hunt or wander the city today. I concluded that if I wanted to start on the right foot, I should get serious right away about finding work. Being in a big city like this meant there was more opportunity, but it also meant there was more competition.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have a long resume. Living in Waynesville hadn’t afforded me many chances to try new jobs. I’d worked as a hostess at a local restaurant, as a cashier at a small grocer, and at the coffee shop.
I knew it wasn’t much to go on but I had to get my foot in the door somewhere. All I needed was someone to take a chance on me. I could prove my worth over time. It was just that initial yes I needed.
My motel provided a continental breakfast. In the name of saving money, I decided to go check it out and see if it was something I could eat every morning until I found a place to live.
The continental breakfast was in the one conference room the motel had. The carpets were old and mustard colored, the baseboards dark brown, and the walls an off-beige. It smelled like dish soap, dust, and coffee.
There were eight round tables set up in the room for guests to sit and eat at. Not one of the plastic tablecloths covering said tables matched. The patterns were all different, and I spied a Christmas one in the far corner of the room. This business was clearly struggling financially and just making ends meet.
There were only three people there eating breakfast. One was a businessman reading the paper, another was an older gentleman doing crosswords, and the third was a mousy-looking middle-aged woman in baggy clothes. Her eyes flicked constantly around the room and I could feel her watching me as I approached the tables on the back wall of the room to scope out the food options.
Unsurprisingly, there was a conveyor belt toaster alongside loaves of white bread. Farther down the line were cups of yogurt sitting in bowls of ice, two kinds of granola, some cut-up cantaloupe and honeydew, scrambled eggs that looked runny and lukewarm, and some bacon.
“Not too shabby,” I muttered to myself as I pulled a piece of bread out of the bag and set it through the toaster. While it ran through the belt, I filled my plate with some other goodies. When the toast came out, I buttered it, grabbed a small package of raspberry jam, and found a place to sit with my back to the woman who was still watching me.
I suspected she was on the run from something or someone. A bad husband perhaps. I didn’t blame her for her need to watch everyone but I didn’t want to have to make eye contact while I ate.
The food was as mediocre as I expected but more filling than anything I’d be able to buy. When I finished, I put my dishes in the gray bucket labeled “Dirty Dishes” and made my way out of the motel feeling ready to take on whatever the day threw at me.
“It’s time to start your new life,” I breathed when I pushed out of the motel doors into the cool morning air. I breathed in deeply and closed my eyes. It smelled cold and crisp. Cars rushed by on the road and I made my way to the corner so I could cross. Within seconds of hitting the pedestrian-crossing button, about thirty more people showed up on my street corner. We crossed together like a herd of gazelles, and everyone went their own ways once they reached the other side.
I clutched my phone in one hand and used it as a map as I wandered the unfamiliar streets of the city. The motel I’d booked for the first week of my stay was more central than I’d expected, just pretty rundown. It was the perfect location for me to go about on foot looking for work. About a fifteen-minute walk down the street was a busy and thriving district of shopping and restaurants.
As I passed shop windows, it became infinitely more difficult to stay focused on my task. The clothes were glamorous and chic, where in Waynesville they were common. Strut had some unique stuff but nothing like the items I spied in the windows of New York’s boutiques. I spied winter coats to die for with faux-fur trims and glistening gold buttons. I saw over-the-knee boots in rich black suede and six-thousand-dollar earrings nestled on blue velvet displays under brilliant lights.
Each and every shop held something new and special and I found myself drawn inside. I dropped off resumes and made small talk with sales associates who were all pleasantly friendly enough but definitely more sophisticated than me. I felt out of place in those shops, like a rose on a stem that wasn’t quite as big or full as the other roses. My petals weren’t as well cared for, either.
I started to feel self-conscious after the fourth store and decided to avoid fashion shops after that. I doubted I’d be taken seriously in any of them and the ladies were just being nice. I had to find something else.
Using my experience, I started popping into restaurants instead. That immediately felt like more of my element, even though the overall level of busy was infinitely more extreme than what I was used to in Waynesville.
The tips must be incredible, I thought as I waited for a manager to come take my resume and ask me a couple questions at a casual soup and sandwich place with exposed white brick walls and black grout and plants hanging from the ceiling.
The manager, a lean bean pole of a man with a combover and a black waiter’s apron on, plucked my resume from my hand as soon as he walked over. His eyes flicked to my name. “Briar Sommerfield…” He trailed off and read my qualifications. “Your only work experience is in North Carolina?”
I nodded. “Yes, but—”
“What is this place?” He pointed at the restaurant I worked at in Waynesville.
“Julie’s? It’s a lunch and dinner restaurant. I worked as a hostess there for two and a half years. It’s a very popular local restaurant.”
“How many tables?”
“Um, I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure?” he asked sharply, looking up at me. He passed my resume back. “You’re applying for a server position here and you have no concept of how many tables you had at your old job? No thank you, Ms. Sommerfield. Best of luck to you.”
I stared at my resume and never managed to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth as he walked away.