Not Interested

The car pulls up to the pearl white gates, the gravel driveway growling softly under your Chevrolet’s black wheels. You roll your window down, the security guard sees your photo ID and when he slams his huge fist down onto something, the gates open. You flash your eyes to your watch.           

Great. 7:10 pm.

Wearing a smug look, you go to park amongst all the Hondas, Chevrolets, Camaros, Jeeps, Ford Mustangs and even slickly shiny limousines. Opening the door should be something a valet or chauffeur does for you, you grumble, as you get out and slam it. After locking your car, you head towards the mansion, thinking about how this party could help you reach your goal. Making enough money to pay the bills is as great as sleeping on a bale of hay. You need to provide for yourself: live luxuriously, treat others to parties more magnificent than this assumedly mediocre one. Just enough for you to, if you could, literally fork into your mouth like a meal.                    

Maybe I could get a job here. This thought pulls a smile of hope onto your face as you step onto the front porch. The front door is huge, so you wonder how you’re going to be able to pull that golden handle towards you. But you do it. You quietly celebrate your efforts and look around. Two elderly couples are moving at the rate of a snail. The first spouse, a wrinkled lady with a walker with tennis balls under all four legs, looks up at you and nods gratefully. You jerk a nod and watch a little impatiently as she picks up her walker only to slam it down onto the concrete right outside the door entrance. When the second woman hurries her up, she snaps, “I am! Just give me a minute!”             

When they finally all make it well past the doormat, you let the door close behind you. Spying one of the servers carrying tall Riedel Vinum champagne glasses on a silver platter, you immediately treat yourself to one. Scurrying over to some of your close friends, you hug and catch up. When you hurriedly move on to mention being at this party means receiving a future occupation, however, the girls all stare at you in shock and confusion, some furrowing their eyebrows and others squinting and tilting her head.           

“Well…” A self-conscious chuckle escapes, and you scratch the back of your neck. You avert your gaze and then feel your keys.

“Oh—over there.” One of them points nonchalantly. “Just make sure you know which one is yours.”   

Cheeks burning, you dart away. You remember your drink and slow down to a slow but stiff walk. After hanging them, you look for a minute at the pretty dark green wall decorated with navy blue diamond shapes. You sip your drink and remember your original plan. But you first return to your friends to ask why they aren’t interested in you anymore. On your way, you spy the bar. It’s over in front of you, and for some reason, no one’s using it. Then, as if someone or something is luring you, you pass these girls, your mind flooding with the excitement about possibly working here as a hostess one day. Striding past the adults’ shimmering dress sequins and ebony tuxedo coattails, you arrive in the hardly lit room, feeling the darkness completely engulf you. You look for the bartender, but he’s not around. Setting your glass down on a nearby table, you scan behind the counter and even peek through the circular kitchen door window. Suddenly, you whirl around.                

Someone is walking from way over at the closing Hershey Bar doors towards you.     

“Hey!” 

You respond back, and then ask for more light.  

“Sure, sure!” The woman brightens the lights, and the room illuminates. You notice you’re just gawking at the ugly maroon carpet until she disappears through the swing door slapping behind her. Embarrassed, you quickly concern yourself with your champagne. As the syrupy, almost sour drink flows through your mouth and down your throat, you see the hostess don her ugly black apron and stuff a pad of paper, a pen and a rag into one of its wide pockets. She emerges with a bottle of dust polish and starts wiping the counter and stools. You ask how you could help around here—even if you are setting tables and dusting furniture for the next set of customers. Or maybe doing the dishes and cleaning the kitchen.                     

“Why?” The woman scoffs lightheartedly as if she would have no idea why someone would want to work at such a lowbrow job. She runs the rag over the tables lined up against the walls.        

“Well…it’s better than that stupid pie business I’ve been doing for the last decade.” 

You scoff, and the woman’s dirty blond ponytail bobs up and down. You excuse yourself to the bathroom and lean against the ugly painted door. Closing your eyes, you wish you could step into the lives of your beloved grandmother and mother to tell them your desire to work at a bar. You relax and try to envision the beautiful sunny day at the park. But nothing comes to mind. So you huff and head out, informing the bartender you really want a job here. When the guests’ chatter rises and fills almost the entire half of the house, you both meet behind the counter in front of the wine bottles.  

At least she seems interested in asking her manager about putting a mop in your hand, a rag in your apron pocket and sharing the dust polish. But you grin, hope fluttering inside of you! One step closer towards that rich life!

As you talk and drink your champagne, the woman pours a bottle of similar looking liquid into a taller, wider cup.

“I’m lucky.” The woman shakes her head. “I thought I’d have to be doing this job all on my own forever.”

“What do you mean?”

When she instead puts the glass to her lips, you launch into how your best friends ditched you for some reason. She smiles and then tells you she’ll be right back. You swallow your champagne and then go to retrieve another one. First, you head towards another bathroom, slip inside and close the door.    

While washing and then drying your hands, you jump a couple of inches off the same linoleum floor. The banging continues. Angry, you twist the doorknob and whip the door open.

“What are you doing?” You hiss. 

“Me? You! You forgot me!” She jabs her finger at your prettily plaid shirt. “I was supposed to be picked up by you.” The girl continues to glower and then stomps off, her small Adidas sneakers dirtying the pristine tiled floor. She heightens the embarrassment by loudly exclaiming this problem to most of the guests. Seeing that the bartender is not yet back, you retreat into the bathroom. Exhaling a shaky breath, you lean against it, wishing the girl and her somewhat muffled yells would disappear.   

Bang! Bang! Bang! 

You grit your teeth to keep the volcanic flow of anger from sending acid rainfalls of nasty, raging words down onto her. But you know this reaction would only send her flying out the front door with tears streaming down her face. So you open the door with a tight, knuckle-white hand. Avoiding all eyes, you glare back at the fuming girl.  

“Yes?” This better be quick. “What do you want?”

“I just…” She almost whispers, and you lean down self-consciously. “I just want you to know that I was invited, but you never picked me up. So my mom dropped me off.”

You jerk back. “What do you mean?”  

But she shakes her tight, lopsided pigtails like you aren’t admitting it.

 “What do you mean, ‘what do you mean’?” She now screws up her face. When you don’t answer, she throws her dark-skinned hands on her hips and raises her eyebrows.    

You laugh. And when she starts going off about how you should’ve remembered her, you just place your hands on her navy blouse shoulders and make her look right at you. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, but please hear me out.”        

She stops spazzing and blinks at you with big brown, almond-shaped eyes. “You knew!” She crosses her arms and pouts. 

You sigh, sagging your shoulders. Weariness has claimed you. But you give in to your anger a little. “Look, I’m sorry. But I showed up here. It might’ve been a five minute interruption, but your stupid pounding completely embarrassed me!”

You look back after retrieving that champagne from a passing server. The girl had stormed away but still insists loudly to all of the mansion that she was forgotten. You pretend you don’t know her and return to the dim-lighted bar where the woman is now vacuuming the place. You tell her what had just happened. She turns the machine off, apologizes genuinely and sticks a hand into one of her pant pockets. “Here you go.”     

You slowly put down your champagne and smile wide as you take the business card.    

“Yeah,” the woman nods casually, “Just call. My number’s right there. You know—”

You really listen. After some negotiating on his part (he didn’t like hiring right on the spot but she talked him into it after seeing your desirous personality), she was able to walk away with the good news. Grinning from ear to ear, you thank the woman and return to your drink. She tells you that you should show up as soon as possible.        

“Trust me!”   

When she laughs, you go get two glasses to celebrate your new job. After handing one to the bartender, glasses clink, and she congratulates you. Your eyes shimmer with happiness as the woman tells you that although today is Saturday, she’s just ensuring that the place is kept up.

“You know,” she winks as she puts the glass to her lips, “if you do the same thing, you could rise easily.” 

You agree. The farther you get away from your current salary, the more of a chance there’ll be that second mansion. Something black and white catches your attention, and you peer outside. It obviously had been growing very dark while you’ve been here.  

Then you widen your eyes—that girl is looking for you! You hurriedly throw your glass down and crash through an unfamiliar grey door. Landing on your arm, you cry out a little and then immediately scramble up so you don’t pull a muscle or break any bones. You return to the barroom, but the bartender commands you to clean up your spill.  

You apologize profusely for the huge puddle of yellow champagne and reemerge with a can of Floor Cleaner and a scrub brush. You throw yourself on your knees after soaking one rag with the drink and spray and scrub with another one. You continue apologizing as you wipe the same spot on the counter. When the bartender says she cleaned that area already, you tell her you’re removing the stickiness. Annoyed as she sounds, she points out your hard work.

You disagree.

She snorts, and the ponytail bounces. “Obviously, you’re better than I!”

You want to thank her for the compliment, but you suddenly feel the complete urge to bolt out of this barroom into the darkness of the night, never to appear at this place again. You’ve just embarrassed yourself in front of the bartender. What happens if that girl—who’s still looking for you in another room, probably—gets you fired before your first day? 

But you squeeze a grin. She only tells you she’s done for the night. You nod automatically and return the supplies, trying to keep your spirits high by reminding yourself you’re going to work here—even if you have to repeat the job you’ve just done for the next two years. Or maybe five.

“Thank you for helping me see that I should not just be doing my job but that I should be caring about my work.” The bartender startles you with her big smile and sparkling eyes. “You know, for the longest time, I just served. I just went through the motions—wiping, mopping, cleaning. But you came into my life and said, ‘I’ll help you out.’ Even someone I didn’t know!”

You smile reservedly and wonder whether this situation is simply coincidence or something else. As she goes into the kitchen, you wearily ask why the barroom is slowly oozing black and swirling around you before you drift off to sleep…

“Huh?”

You scramble up and whip your head around. Before you jerk the door handle sideways, though, you stare out the minivan’s gaping window. “How long was I sleeping?”

“For a full two hours!” Your mother calls through the glass. “Come on. Grandma’s waiting to hear all about those blueberry pies you sold at the fair!” She jogs back towards a red and white starch picnic basket, rejoining your sitting grandmother. Her slightly wrinkled hands are busy with two crochet needles.

“Yes, my pies…” You reluctantly open the minivan’s door, wanting that dream to be real. You can’t stop thinking about that mansion and, more importantly, getting that bar job. But you notice Grandma looking up at you with cheery blue eyes and raised eyebrows, so you join the picnic.  

“Tell me!” Grandma begs you. You sigh inwardly. 

“So I baked these scrumptious pies.” The words slide out woodenly. “Some people said they were mouth-watering.” 

“Oh my!” Grandma chuckles.

You grab the basket and take out the Cheetos Puffs. But you stop before putting one hand on those bright orange curls and go for the meaty sandwich instead. As you peel back the tinfoil, you wish you could devour the hearty lunch alone.      

Wolfing down the wheat sandwich, you decide how to get her business card. With a smile across your face, you look up to tell your mother and grandmother your plan to work as an assistant bartender. But the idea is cut short when Mom and Grandma start erupting into laughter.

Scrambling up off the linoleum tiled floor, you frantically ask the girl how long you’ve been asleep.  

“Oh—” she shrugs. “For about an hour.”

You storm out of the mansion, completely humiliated at the fact that the hostess probably carried you from the barroom to the main courtroom. The girl’s shoes pound the floor. You mentally order her to stay where she is, then whip around and grind out the words before everyone. You glare back at the shocked guests. When the girl shakes her head, you apologize quickly. Then she balls her fists and starts screaming about you forgetting her!

“Okay—I’m really sorry!” You yell, but she runs past you and shoves one of the Hershey Bar doors open. You catch it right before it bangs shut and yell out that you’ll try to be better at accepting others unlike you. A second passes, but only the pouring rain answers. The host appears as you turn your head to go back inside and asks how he can help.

“No—she’s gone.” Dejected, you stand there in teeth-clenching frustration. The host roars at the staring guests to leave you alone. But the foul stench of embarrassment still lingers in the air. You shove the door closer to the wall behind it.  

“Girl!” You call as the rain soaks your skin and clothes. You pound through the grass, the mansion’s grand lights illuminating some of the cars and gravel driveway. After looking around the gate and under some Hondas and Jeeps, you see something. But it’s only a deer. A hand caresses it. You jump, and then see the girl’s black hair matted to her face. You splash over and take the girl’s hand, bringing her inside. Shutting the door, you tell the girl to be careful next time and then sputter out that you’ll be more careful when going somewhere.    

The girl starts shaking and her teeth chatter. The host disappears and returns with fresh clothes. You tell him you’re fine after he offers to retrieve another dry set, and the girl goes to get dressed. When she wraps her white sleeved arms around you, you give her a dry smirk. She smiles, showing off her huge, gapped front teeth.                              

You nod and then remember your business card.

“Oh!” The host hands it to you and then tells a server now to carry red wine. When the young man nods and walks away, he directs you and the girl to his wife. She offers you two a night’s sleep here. You decline, but the hostess insists.      

“You’re all wet! Come and change.”

“Okay!” You follow the majestically curly haired brunette through a hallway and towards a bedroom. When you reemerge in starch white pajamas, guests are leaving, and the host and hostess are waving everyone goodnight. Then the host heads on upstairs.  

“Good night, honey!” The hostess blows her a kiss before joining her husband.

“Wake up! Wake up!” A voice yells many hours later. 

“Huh?”

She blinks her big brown eyes twice.

“It’s the wee hours!” You whisper harshly.

She points backwards. “I’m hungry.”

When the girl runs off, you bolt after her, stopping her before she stomps down to the last step.   

“Go back to bed!” Hisses a voice, and you jerk back to see the hostess’ fiery eyes in the dim light, glaring directly at the girl.      

But you gently pull the girl to your room. She returns to bed, and you fall asleep, knowing you’ll wake up in bed this time. You sigh at her loud snores, but you’re too tired to be the one to start a fight.