1
The microwave chirps at me irritably, reminding me once again that it diligently heated something for me and I’m rudely ignoring it. My gray eyes don’t even glance up from where I’m scrolling through my Instagram feed. I’m too busy soaking in my daily dose of inspiration and jealousy. It goes well with caffeine.
An email notification drops down from the top of my phone’s screen, and the words new job listing have me perking up and clicking on it with lightning-fast speed. I tamp down the desperation that courses through me as I wait for the email to open and try to activate my chill. It’s not easy, because the days are counting down until the bar that I’ve been working at for the last seven years closes its doors and hangs the Out of Business sign outside.
I don’t make eye contact with the stack of unpaid bills that are piled up on the counter to the left of where I’m leaning in my out-of-date kitchen. Far too many of them say evil things like final notice, and I can practically feel them breathing down the back of my neck. I scoot further away from the pile of depression, and my phone suddenly starts ringing as I’m waiting for the email to open.
I release a scared squeal-gurgle and struggle to keep my crappy phone from crashing to the cracked tile floor as I jump in alarm from the unexpected call. My heart takes off like it’s Usain Bolt, and I click buttons until my ringer is muted, and whichever collection agency is calling me gets sent to my full voicemail box.
With that crisis averted, I click on my email again. My heart comes to the conclusion that there was no need to panic just as the latest email from the job posting site I’ve been stalking for the past month finally opens. I almost back out of it when I see the words “Security Officer” stated at the top. But then my reality gets all up in my face and keeps me from closing the emailed job listing almost as fast as I opened it.
The memory of my boss, Sean the Shithole, sitting me down and telling me the whole we’re broke and going under news rings like an echo in my mind. He had perfect fucking timing, because I had asked to talk to him so that I could beg for more hours to try to keep from drowning in the puddle of shit that my last one-night stand left me in. Instead of more hours, I got told I needed to find a new job. Just some fucked-over frosting to go on top of my shit show sugar cookie
I was barely scraping by before, but then my last hookup not only gave me a mediocre orgasm, but apparently, he got my bank account info too. He completely cleaned me out. The bank refused to treat it like fraud and give me my money back, saying they couldn’t prove who withdrew the money, so I was accountable. The cops told me I could report it, but there wasn’t anything I could do beyond that. I’ve lived paycheck to paycheck my whole adult life, and there was just no way I could bounce back from the financial hit. I’ve been fucked and behind on everything ever since, and now, things have become desperate.
I stare at the job email again and sigh. I have no clue how the hell a security job snuck through my filters. I could have sworn I specifically requested notifications for bartending or waitressing listings only. I decide to scroll down anyway and see if it mentions the pay. I’m getting dangerously close to the beggars can’t be choosers cut-off date, and moonlighting as security is bound to be a better alternative to moonlighting as homeless and bankrupt.
I mean, I could pull off hot security guard if they’re into average height chicks with electric violet hair, who only exercise when...well, never. Not unless laundry and shoddy house renovations count as exercise. I used to be able to count the occasional hookup as cardio, but since the last fucker stole every penny I had, I’ve been steering clear of that tandem activity.
I skim past the job description quickly and then balk when I get to the pay. No way that’s right. I reload the email and scroll back down to the pay section just to be sure my phone hasn’t glitched out and started fucking with me. Nope. Eighty dollars an hour is still typed in black and flashing up at me like a fucking beacon of salvation.
But...eighty dollars a damn hour? It’s got to be a typo, right? Oh, fuck me, they’re offering full benefits. A job with benefits! There isn’t even a probationary period. This is like the holy grail of job opportunities.
I scroll up so I can read the job description and make sure this is legit when I spot that they’re holding interviews downtown...today. Fuck!
I look at my microwave for the time, but all it tells me is that the water for my tea is ready and that I probably need to reheat it. I panic and back out of the email and check the time on my phone. Doublefuck! Interviews are only being held for another hour and a half, and it might just take me that long to get downtown on my grumpy moped.
I scramble to my room and throw open my closet doors. I grab my black fitted fake-slacks and the button-down white shirt hanging next to them. I pull my pants on with hip wiggle in order to fasten them, then do a baby lunge to stretch them out a bit. God bless stretchy skinny pants that are made to look like the bottoms of a high-end suit.
When I slide my arms through the shirt, I notice a very prominent yellow stain on the left breast. What the fuck? Where the hell did that come from? I rip the shirt off and frantically eye my mostly empty closet. My gaze trails over to the overflowing clothes hamper that’s tucked nicely into the corner and trapped by more piles of laundry all around it. I want to punch my procrastinating ass right in the boob. I should’ve done that weeks ago, but I don’t have the money to call someone out to fix my ancient washer, and having to lug it to the laundromat is such a pain in my ass.
I grab a black tank top and black moto jacket and pull them on. It’s probably not the best outfit choice for an interview, but it has a slight special ops appeal, and the job is for a security position, so maybe they’ll appreciate that instead of side-eyeing it. Dress for the job you want, right? Hell, if it really is eighty dollars an hour, I’d show up wearing nipple pasties if that would get me this job.
Quickly combing through my purple hair with my fingers, I pull it back and twist it into a bun. I secure it with a hair tie and a couple of bobby pins and hope my helmet doesn’t fuck it up too badly. I grab the hairspray and try to apply a helmet-proof layer as I run to the kitchen and grab my bag, keys, and helmet.
“Wish me luck, Fern,” I shout at the plant by the door. Against all odds, it hasn’t died yet, so we’re officially family now. I hurry outside and book it to the only ride I could afford after my car was repossessed two months ago. I grumble as the moped takes a little too long to start. It’s been doing that more and more lately, and I add it to the list of shit I can’t afford to fix. I back out of my driveway and slap a smile on my face. Here’s to hoping life finally wants to work with me instead of against me. I could seriously use a break, and after the last several years of my shitty life...I’m due.
Fuck Sandpiper traffic!
And fuck big trucks too!
I swear those truck-driving assholes have an official game in play, and the only rules are to try and force my ass off the road at all costs. What do they have against mopeds? Can’t they see that my life is hard enough already? I’m driving a fucking scooter, for fuck’s sake.
I rush toward the address of an all-brick office building in Sandpiper’s industrial part of town. I thought there was nothing but factories and warehouses in this part of the city, but after taking one look at the posh-looking building in front of me, and then the metal and mortar monstrosities surrounding it, I can see why they’d want security here.