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“Nothing worth mentioning,” I said.
“That’s depressing. Why don’t you come out with us?” she asked, taking her apron off, too, as we both walked to the back to clock out.
“What time are you going?” I asked, knowing the answer.
She shrugged. “It’s going to be an early night. We’ll probably head out at nine.”
“And that, my friend, is when thirty-year-olds like me are in their pajamas sipping chamomile tea.”
She rolled her eyes, smiling at me. “You’re not a grandma. You could come.”
“I feel like a grandma,” I admitted. Truer words had never been spoken.
“Well, spend time with me. We’ll change that.”
“Maybe I will sometime,” I said. “I’ve got to get going, though. It’s peak hours.”
Grace nodded. “Good luck! Smile big!” she said as she nudged me with her shoulder.
Grace was one of the few people who knew about my side hustle, mostly because I trusted she wouldn’t judge me. As a working college student, she’d had her share of side hustles, as she’d confessed, to make rent and tuition payments. Still, heading out to the boardwalk carrying my bulky bag, I sighed. How had it come to this?
I went out and sat on the cement wall by the boardwalk for a moment, letting the busy day at Tino’s fade away as I watched the waves crash. Despite the reasons for being back, I could appreciate the beauty in Ocean City, Maryland, in ways I hadn’t when I was younger. Growing up, I took it all for granted a little bit—the ocean view, the excitement of the tourist town. I inhaled the salty air as the wind whipped my long brown locks. There was something magical there.
But the magic faded as I realized I needed to get to work. If I ever wanted to get back on my feet again and get out of my parents’ house, I needed to save more money than I earned waitressing at Tino’s.
I headed to the public bathroom to get into character. There was no way I was letting Tino see me leave his restaurant like that. I always made sure I picked a spot down at the first few blocks of the boardwalk, far away from Tino and his Margarita Hour mayhem.
Once the princess costume was on and my hair was braided, I headed out to my spot. I waved to the banjo man who set up a half block from my place and then gave a nod to the magician who was to my left a distance. We never talked, but there was a friendly camaraderie between those of us working the boards. I put up my sign, tip jar, and permit. And then my work began.
I spent the next two hours smiling and waving as children begged their parents for a picture with the recognizable character I was playing. The tip jar slowly filled up as my pride died a mortifying, odorous death. Still, it wasn’t terrible work, I realized, seeing the smiles on the children’s faces. It could be worse.
I doubted my father would think that if he ever got word. I was surprised I’d made it this long without one of his friends telling him they saw me on the boardwalk hustling the crowd for photo op money. I’d have to face that when it happened. But for now, the money was good, the job was easy, and my bank account was expanding. That was all I could ask for.
After a few hours, my feet ached. I decided to call it a night and head out. I shoved the costume into the tote bag in the public restroom, unbraided my hair, and dragged myself to the bus stop.
***
WHEN I ARRIVED AT THE building my parents lived in, I paused at the front door. Closing my eyes, I braced myself for another family dinner.
It wasn’t that I was trying to be ungrateful. I was blessed to have parents swoop in and save the day for me when I literally had nowhere to go after the business failed. And my parents did mean well, I supposed. However, for the past five months, it felt like every dinner conversation went the same way.
Mom pitied me for working at Tino’s and begged me to get a job with her in the hotel she worked at down the street. She then peppered in comments about friends who had single, eligible bachelors for sons who would be a great match. Dad made gruff remarks about law school and the degree I should have earned. Both then heatedly discussed my future, one they didn’t bother asking my opinion about. I pushed the pork chops or meatloaf or spaghetti around on my plate, wanting to disappear into the ground, shame and grief cloaking any hope of rising from the ashes.
I decided I was already late for dinner, so at least I could fortify myself for my parents’ inevitable disappointment with a quick stop first at Dorothy’s.
Dorothy was an older widow who lived on the first floor of the building. I’d met her in my late teens when I was sitting on the bench outside of the building. She’d been getting some sunshine, too; her kitten, Marvin, was in his cat harness meowing at a bird that day. We’d become instant friends, our love for cats and coffee bringing us together. Visiting her was the one good thing about being back in Ocean City.
I knocked on door 113, and Dorothy answered the door so quickly, I thought she’d been standing there waiting for someone.
“Tillie, get in here. You know you don’t have to knock,” she said, wrapping her arms around me as soon as I was in. I realized how much I needed to see a friendly face after the long, exhausting day.
“Sorry, Dorothy, I’m probably sweaty and smell like the restaurant,” I apologized.
“Nothing wrong with a little sweat and hard work,” she said, ushering me to the table. I smiled. Dorothy never made condescending comments about my failed business or asked hard, pointed questions about what was next. Perhaps that was why I liked visiting her so much.
Marvin meowed, now much, much older than the first day I met him but still energetic. He made his way out of the living room to rub my legs. His sparkly blue collar shimmered as I reached down to stroke the overly pampered cat. Dorothy’s husband, Harry, died twenty years earlier. They didn’t have kids, and she’d never remarried. Marvin was, thus, the most spoiled cat I knew. He lived a life of luxury and of being Dorothy’s entire world.
“What’s new today?” I asked as Dorothy slid a glass over to me. She got out the mimosa ingredients. I tried to cover my glass when she got out the champagne, but she batted my hand away. I gave in with an embarrassingly weak fight.
