Right then. I take a few breaths, watching the fog of each exhale dissipate, and decide to go to Maggie’s Diner next. Surely Maggie won’t yell at me—Maggie is sweet. And she does give me a lovely smile when I pass her my résumé and ask my question about employment.
But then she says, with a less lovely smile, “I was on Town Council with your father.”
“Ah . . .” I say in a one-size-fits-all tone that I hope can be interpreted as anything from “Ah, yes, my dad spoke so well of you” if by some chance she’s a fan of my dad to “Ah, well, that’s unfortunate but look what a friendly, inoffensive person I am in comparison . . .” if she’s not. Because I don’t know what happened with my dad and the town council, only that his tenure was short.
The slight wince Maggie makes before saying, “Would you consider yourself to be a team player?” tells me she’s in the non-fan category.
“Yes, definitely. Like my mom! You know my mom, Andrea, don’t you? She’s concierge at the Inn? I worked in the gift shop there, and . . .” I trail off, feeling almost too pathetic to live.
Maggie gives me a pitying look and says she’ll get back to me in a couple of months.
Awesome.
At 50 Mile, which is connected to the Inn, and where they only use ingredients that come from within a fifty-mile radius, they tell me straight up that they have nothing against my dad (as though this needs to be clarified), and love my mom, but that they only hire servers with a minimum of two years’ experience.
At Crawler’s Pub, things start out more promising. Lyle, the string bean of a man who manages it, takes one look at the last name on my résumé, starts laughing uproariously, and says, “Rick Stowe’s kid? Your father is a first-rate shit disturber. What the hell’s he been up to?”
“He’s . . . uh . . .” Plotting my downfall via Airbnb. “Working on a few things.”
“The guy’s a legend. Knows how to stick it to the man, that’s for sure,” Lyle says, then points to a barstool. I sit, he pours me a soda, and then he starts regaling me with stories about my dad.
“You know that big moose statue in front of the library?” Lyle says.
I nod.
“Your dad tried to unseat the mayor with that moose.”
“What?”
“This was maybe before you were born,” Lyle says, clapping his hands together and rubbing them with remembered glee. “Mayor was up for reelection, no one running against her, and your dad thought that was wrong. ‘Everyone should be challenged,’ is what he said. ‘Helps them grow.’”
I roll my eyes—this sounds all too familiar.
“But he didn’t want the job himself and couldn’t convince anyone else to run,” Lyle continues. “So he registered the moose as a candidate and ran a campaign—with slogans and a real platform and everything. ‘Mr. Moose for Mayor.’”
“Oh my God.”
“It was a good campaign too—pointed and kinda funny. Mr. Moose even got some votes! I thought that was great but your dad—he got a little too caught up in it all, and he took it hard that the moose didn’t win. I dunno how he ever thought that’s what would happen, but I had him in here drowning his sorrows for weeks after that.”
“Wow,” I say, thinking that, as with everything about my dad, this story is a mixed bag—surprising, hilarious, but ultimately sad.
Lyle continues with the anecdotes—some I’ve heard, many I could do without. It’s not a typical job interview, but I feel like it’s going well until Lyle tells me he has no openings at the moment.
“Still, if anything happens, I’ll keep you in mind,” he says as I head for the door, trying not to let my shoulders slump in disappointment.
I thank him and trudge over to my final destination—the bistro next to the brokerage Dad used to work for and where he used to have lunch a couple of times a week. We went there as a family, too, after Jack’s football games back when we were normal-ish and did things together.
I’ve saved this one for last, thinking it might be my best chance. Because whatever else, Dad is always nice to servers, and a good tipper. In fact, he loves to say you can judge a person’s character by the way they treat dogs and waiters. I’m pretty sure this bit of “wisdom” is problematic for both dogs and waiters, but in this case he means well.
My hope rises when I see the HELP WANTED sign out front, and rises further when the manager—the same one who’s been there for years—gives me a big, welcoming smile.
But then I tell her why I’m here, and her smile wilts and suddenly she’s glancing nervously toward the wall the bistro shares with Dad’s old brokerage and saying, “I don’t want any trouble,” and then muttering something about politics.
My heart sinks as I realize she must be one of the people who received Dad’s infamous email—the one that ended his career. Agents get fired by clients sometimes, but it takes a lot to get fired from your brokerage—they’re usually happy to keep you even if you’re a deadbeat and all they’re collecting is your desk fee. But Dad used the brokerage’s newsletter list to send out a fiery partisan email during the last election, making it look like the brokerage was endorsing one party over another, infuriating everyone, and that was it. Neither of the other two real estate companies in town would take Dad on after that, and when he tried to go independent he couldn’t get any clients, because by then everyone—even those who agreed with his politics—considered him a loose cannon.
“We’re not hiring, hon,” the manager says.
“But . . . the sign . . .” I say, pointing to it.
“Oh it’s, uh, just stuck there,” she says, with the most unconvincing shrug ever. “Sorry.”
Right.
* * *
—
I’m about to give up on the serving idea and start applying for retail jobs, which won’t get me to college, but will hopefully help me pay rent, when Noah (of the stolen art on my wall) remembers the Goat.
The Goat isn’t in Pine Ridge. It’s out on the highway, between Pine Ridge and the next town. It’s part gritty roadside pub, part failed chain restaurant, and under new ownership since last spring. I make a call, the owner agrees to meet me, and it feels like a miracle.
It’s snowing on the day of the interview, and Noah offers to borrow one of his dad’s snowplow trucks to drive me there.
I tell myself that the extra makeup and the cute dress with black tights and impractical-for-snow heeled boots, not to mention the nerves, are for the interview. I can’t even bring myself to look at Noah as I climb in, so there’s no way to notice whether he notices, which he shouldn’t because he has a completely perfect, albeit long-distance, girlfriend.