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Lies, all lies. She owns the building, and has for decades. Her shop does good business and she doesn’t pay rent. Pension, my butt. But I just wait. I won’t smile and let her off the hook.
“You know all the other apartments on this block are two hundred dollars more than this one,” she continues, not mentioning that they’ve also been rehabbed and don’t have a leak in the ceiling and have central air instead of box fans. “I’ve held off as long as I can because I’d hate to lose you, sweetie. But, you know, times are what they are.” She paused and added, as if imparting wisdom, “It is what it is.”
“How much?” I ask, keeping my voice level.
“One fifty. I really need to raise it two hundred, but I just can’t bring myself to be a greedy capitalist, you know.”
“Right. Well. Thanks for letting me know. Now I have to get to work.” I lock the door behind me and walk past her and down the stairs, trying to get outside before the tears start.
One hundred and fifty dollars. The irony would be funny if it wasn’t so depressing. The school where I teach is a charter school, set up by well meaning but business-foolish do-gooders who wanted to help the children of the sizable migrant worker population. Most of these kids have Spanish-only homes and they struggle in traditional public schools. The Excellence Academy was set up to teach bi-lingually and to meet the needs of this population that doesn’t always stay the whole school year. It’s a great idea, and the staff is fantastic, if I do say so myself, but mismanagement is making it hard to keep the school open. I was part of a small group that convinced the whole staff to take a pay cut for the coming year to help give the charter board a chance to find grant money, federal hand-outs, whatever to keep the school afloat. Of course that pay cut was one hundred and fifty dollars a month.
How in the heck am I going to find that extra money?
My walk to the bar is in a haze. I already eat for practically nothing, picking up meals of whatever the cafe and bar don’t charge for, rice and beans on days I don’t work. I don’t drive my beat-up old Ford Focus because it needs gas and repairs. I never buy new clothes, not even at Goodwill. My phone is my only real expense, I don’t even have internet service in my apartment, I go to a coffee shop to do my school work.
But oh, apparently Carol needs to fund a retreat to Santa Fe to get her aura re-purpled or some shit. Dammit.
I take a deep breath, get back my composure. Wipe my eyes. I’ll figure it out. I always do. I’ll just have to keep on tending bar during the school year. I’ll have to cut back on after school help for the kids, of course, but, as Carol so helpfully put it, it is what it is.
When I get behind the bar, I see that there’s a bachelorette party, already in progress.
“They got here, already hammered, about an hour ago. Good luck,” says Mitch as he gets ready to clock out.
“I’ll be sure to split their excellent tip with you,” I say not even trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice. Bachelorette parties are the worst. And I am not in the mood.
I tie on my apron, wondering if the off season will even bring enough money to make up the shortfall in my rent. I need a lot more rich guys to come in and hand me their babies if my tip money is going to keep me afloat.
I’m kept pretty busy, at least, making appletinis and cosmos, assuring the ladies that we still do not have any white wine.
“I just thought that was the name. To be funny,” one tells me as she hangs across the bar.
“Nope, it’s for real. No Wine. ‘No Wine-ers.’ Can I get you another cosmo?”
“Can I have it in a to-go cup? The limo is here!”
“Nope. No booze leaves the bar. Who gets the tab?” Seriously, they get drunk and will just leave forgetting that somebody has to pay up.
"Christie! You have to pay!"
After the party staggers out–ten whole dollars, gosh thanks!–the bar is a lot quieter. I suspect we lost a lot of business to people opening the door, seeing that group, and moving right along. So even more money I don’t get.
There are a couple of regulars at the bar. Dave isn’t our usual clientele, he’s more of a beer than a cocktail guy, but he lives upstairs, so he’s pretty loyal. Eric and Dan are both winemakers at boutique wineries, so they have these super-sophisticated palates but are tired of wine. So they like to offer cocktail suggestions and help me improve my technique. I’m usually pretty good natured about it–heck, they have good ideas sometimes–but I’m not feeling it tonight.
“Did you hear about those pickle juice cocktails that are hot now?” Dan asks.
“What is it with damned pickles all of the sudden”" I ask. “I get enough pickle talk at the cafe.”
“Sounds like it could make a good martini,” says Eric, “You should bring in some juice next time.”
“I have enough to remember, Eric, but thanks.” I turn to Dave. “Another whiskey?” He nods and they start chattering about which local gin to pair with what sort of pickle juice.
Bartender is a tough job when you’re in a bad mood. Well, not breaking-rocks-on-the-chain-gang tough. Annoying. You can work up a head of righteous indignation.
I’ve managed to get a good seethe going when I see Corbin walk up to the bar.
“Hi,” he says, smiling.
“Hi,” I say, “did you ditch the baby with a cocktail waitress?” That sounded meaner than was strictly warranted. But I’m feeling grouchy.
“No, I left her with…a friend. Do you have a second?”
There it is again, that sadness behind what looks like a normal, friendly smile. It melts my icy heart a bit. I look around the bar, everyone is set. “Sure,” I say, wiping my hands on a towel, “What can I do for you?”
“Well, I have a somewhat unusual proposal.” Briefly, I wonder if it’s going to be one of those paid mistress gigs. My heart beats a little faster. “I find myself in need of a nanny and I was really impressed with how well you handled Maeve this afternoon. I’d like to offer you a full-time position.”
His speech is so formal and stilted, I know he must be nervous, but what a weird thing to ask. Mistress would have seemed less strange.
“Mr. Pierce, you know nothing about me. You just know I can hold a baby right-way-up.”
He smiles a little. “Corbin, please, and give me a little credit. I did a background
check.”
I feel a flash of anger. “What? What do you mean, what gives you the right?”
The calming motion he makes with his hands isn’t particularly effective. “You told me your name, I Googled you. That’s all. I didn’t involve the Federal Government.” He pauses, cocks his head and smiles again. Really, he’s too charming to stay mad at for long. “Should I have?”
“Seems like you’d want to hire someone with some actual experience to take care of your baby. Not a waitress/bartender you’ve only just met. Even one with really delicious braids.”
He chuckles. “I know that you are actually a third grade teacher. I know that you’re well educated. I know that you are involved with the migrant population, which suggests compassion. No convictions.”
I nod. All true.
“And I know that you took a pay cut to help your school stay afloat and that you aren’t independently wealthy and could probably, therefore, use the money. Unless you’re a really good waitress.”
“I’m a terrible waitress. Your tip was more than the rest of my week’s earnings, combined. But, as you know, I have a real job. A job I love.”
“Right. I need you to care for Maeve while I find a full-time replacement. She had a nanny back in Boston, but I never cared for her. She’s one of those strict, by the books types and I…I just don’t want that for Maeve. She’s a baby, for godsakes, how many rules can she need?”
He looks wounded as he says this. Uncertain. It’s like he doesn’t actually know what babies need, but he’s just got a feeling. I’m dying to ask about the mother, but instinct tells me not to. This is a ridiculous offer. I have never even been a babysitter. Third graders are not infants, it’s well outside my area of expertise. But he seems so sincere.
“So, this isn’t a live-in job, is it? It’s not 24-7?”
“No, just day time, a normal job, say 8-4? Well, realistically, more like 8-6, given my schedule, but you’d be well compensated.” He notices that Eric and Dan are watching our conversation intently. Nosy bastards. Corbin pulls a pen from the tray on the bar and writes a number on a cocktail napkin. Ho-ly Crap.
