Biscotti pieces and crumbs secure in my fist, I order a large Americano and place seventy-five cents in the tip jar since that’s what I’d bid during the auction. My cheeks feel warm and I avoid Evelynn’s gaze when she hands me my order. Dramatic Sex Hair McGee got to scurry off with his ill-gotten bounty after yelling at me, while I had to stay there and accept the annoyance pouring off Evelynn like a heat wave. I mumble a “thank you” and pivot away. I can feel her eyes on me as I walk to my large, lovely window table, and I don’t blame her. I set my coffee down and—
Are you freaking kidding me? There’s a bag on the opposite seat, the nice long bench against the window. My window.
It’s a messenger bag with a front Velcro flap, one of those bright, one-of-a-kind upcycled jobs from Switzerland or something, made up of rubber tarps and an old seat belt that goes across the shoulder and clasps at the collarbone. It’s morally superior to every other bag, which is the only reason to buy it, and now it gets my table, too. Whoever owns it is elsewhere, so I could technically … push the bag off the bench and pretend it fell and I never saw it. Possession is nine-tenths of the law. I look left and right and lean over with my combat boot to tip it when …
“That seat’s taken,” says a male voice.
I freeze, caught.
And of course, of course, it’s the asshole again. To prove his point, he moves around the other side of the table and makes a show of lifting the messenger bag off the bench and plopping it in the middle of the table.
I pick up my coffee. “All right, geez. I’m going.”
Evelynn squints at us and I refuse to make another scene, so, with as much dignity as I can muster, I slink off to another table. He’d better not stay there long. He probably doesn’t even need it—he’s just one of those people who has to have the “best” of whatever’s available. It’s clearly the king table of Crudité, the rest of them surrounding it like peasant-subjects. The others are so tiny they don’t have room for my laptop and purse.
I wouldn’t be this angry if I hadn’t been in the middle of another shit morning in this shit city, or if my script were going well, or if I weren’t so hungry for both food and clients, and, okay, if he were average-looking. With his scruff cranked up to eleven, his deep brown eyes, his slim frame, and his thick hair, he’s ridiculously attractive, which means he’s never had to work on his personality, so he probably goes through life showing up anywhere he wants and people just give him stuff. Well, not this girl. I come from the land of models-slash-actors, so his exterior means nothing to me.
It’s the first time someone’s snatched the big table from me, but I’ll just have to wait him out. There’s no way I can work from my rathole; and there are no other cafés within my self-defined comfort radius.
It’s been forty minutes and he’s still there, lollygagging, his long legs stretched out within tripping distance of anyone who comes near. My coffee’s gone and I need to pee.
Leave, I order him telepathically. Leave! I get up to use the restroom, willing him and his stupid hair to be gone by the time I get back.
He’s not, though. When I return, he’s typing madly on his laptop. He’s got the look of somebody who’s settled in for, like, the duration. I open my laptop (perched on my actual lap for the first time in its existence, probably giving me thigh cancer) and log in to Best Foot Forward’s—I mean, Sweet Nothings’—portal and get the dreaded message: There are currently no ghostwriting jobs. We are working to attract more clients. Your patience is appreciated. While you’re waiting, why not add a line to the Drop-Down Database? Smell you later!
Beneath the message is the familiar logo of a sexy woman’s foot in a high heel. Guess they haven’t finished “scrubbing” the portal of all references to the prior name yet.
While I was hate-waiting for the Table Thief to leave, all the new clients must have been snatched up. This happens a lot; Clifford has so many independent contractors working for him that the ratio of ghostwriters to clients is lopsided. He says we’re expanding every day, and I believe him (I think), but it’s tough to earn regular paychecks this way. There are bonuses—so he claims—for getting clients across the finish line, but that hasn’t happened for me yet. I sigh and click over to the Drop-Down Database. One of Clifford’s ideas is a DIY package, wherein clients pay the company to access a list of timely, provocative subject lines and messages—categories include Flirty, Sassy, Sexy, Casual—and create their own buffet of communications to use on unsuspecting would-be matches. Every time I add to it, I get five dollars per line and the sinking suspicion I’m hastening my own demise by making my job obsolete.
I’ve sent out at least thirty résumés since I arrived in the worm-infested Big Apple, but for now, Sweet Nothings provides my sole income. I’ve got to make this work, even if it means logging in to the portal fifty thousand times a day.
Ping.
A new message pops up on my phone.
Why’d you ghost me?!!!
Oh no—did I mess up? Leave a job hanging when it was my turn to chime in? That’s a serious taboo in this business. We respond right away unless we’re under orders for strategic delays. My client Tess never signed up for that, so I gotta fix this immediately.
Oh gosh, I type, I’m so sorry, things have been crazy busy but I really—
Then I see who sent the message. Nick, not a client. Nick, the guy I was sort of seeing in LA. (Emphasis on “sort of.” He was Mary’s weed delivery guy, so our hours were … irregular.)
I didn’t ghost you, I correct him. I told you I was moving.
You didn’t respond to any of my messages! THAT’S GHOSTING.
No, that’s saying goodbye. Ghosting is a mystery that’s never solved.
Have a nice life, I GUESS. Your boss owes me 2k in back weed.
I’m sure that’s true, but what am I supposed to do about it?
You’ll have to take that up with Mary.
Block, move on.
For the next two hours I alternate between working on my spec script and logging in to the Sweet Nothings portal. On my sixteenth try, three clients have become available, so I frantically move my cursor to click on one of the boxes but I’m not fast enough because the screen refreshes into the usual wahwah: There are currently no ghostwriting jobs. The graphic has changed, at least, from the sexy foot to a person whispering something into another person’s ear. (Sweet nothings, one must presume.) At least the tech guys are keeping busy. It’s a much nicer look for the site. Now if only I could get a piece of the action.
I shoot another glare in Table Thief’s direction. I would’ve been quicker on the uptake if he hadn’t stolen my breakfast and workstation.
Two p.m. rolls around and he’s still there.
I mosey over to the counter—mercifully, Evelynn’s shift has ended, so I have an opportunity to seem normal to the current barista—and get a refill on my coffee. I stare longingly at a black bean and quinoa bowl. It’s the cheapest thing on the menu, but it’s still too rich for my one-client blood.
Back at my child-size table, an e-mail has arrived from Clifford. Probably another NDA to sign, or an updated protocol handbook (rumor has it he stole it from his prior company). I click the Dropbox link in the body of the text and music suddenly bursts out of my laptop speakers: The Weeknd, crooning loudly that, due to the way I work it, I’ve er-er-er-er-er-earned it.