She flipped her hand. “Whatever. More school.”
“Why does that sound so condescending, Helen?” Drew asked. “Something wrong with schooling?”
“Y’all just need to get a real job and get in the real world.”
“And what’s a real job, H?” I snapped. “Mopping floors? Slinging beers? Sitting in a call center answering idiotic questions from people who can’t figure out how to turn on their coffee pot?”
“Like you’ve done any of that,” she mumbled.
Stalking toward the bar, I stared at her. “I’ve done all of that, and more. I’ve slung burgers and beers. I’ve cleaned toilets. I’ve changed bedding in by-the-hour hotels. I’ve waitered, I’ve done call centers, and I’ve done things you can’t possibly want to hear about to eat and find a roof over my head. But you know what? You’re right. I should go get a real job—one that doesn’t allow me to use the goddamn brain I have, the brain that saved my own ass from homelessness and whoring and managed to earn a bachelor’s and master’s degree at the same time from Cornell University. Absolutely should pass up a perfect job…no afantasyjob and possible post-grad work because I should go sling burgers like every good little Millennial.”
Slowly, I raised my middle finger at her. She stared at me, and then finally turned and walked away, out from behind the bar, and down the hall.
The bar, all ten people seated there, started clapping. Alexei slung his arm around me. “Well done, grasshopper. Well done!” He marched around the bar to take up his station again.
“That was impressive,” Drew said.
One of the guys at the bar tossed down a question. “What’s the fantasy job, man?”
“Drummer, for a rock band,” I answered.
“Have we heard of them?”
“Oh yeah.” I couldn’t contain the smile. “Robot Servant.”
“They ditched Petrovsky?” someone called over.
“In a most spectacular firing, from what I’ve been told,” I answered. “He stabbed his drumstick through the drum and told them to fuck off.”
There was a murmur of appreciation, and a woman at the far end stood and walked over to me. She clapped me on the shoulder. “I wish I had my album. I’d love to have it autographed.”
I squeaked, “But me? I’m not on those recordings.”
“I can pretend that Grig Petrovsky didn’t exist with ease.” She laughed. “You’re much cuter and easier on the eyes.”
I flamed red. That was going to be something I needed to get used to. I didn’t think I was anything to look at, but I knew I wasn’t ugly.
“Come on, drummer boy,” Alexei said, slapping me on the back. “Have a drink on the house.”
“Can I do something? I’ve always wanted to…”
“What’s that?”
I turned to the bar. “Next round’s on me!”
Maddox
Ilooked at the throngs of people around us, and pushed my sun glasses up. I saw Rand and Ora tuck their hats down a little more and glance around.
Holland, on the other hand, was sitting up straight, hat on backward. He craned his neck and glanced around, curious and obvious.
“Dude,” Rand snapped. “Will you chill, please.”
“No one is paying attention to us.” Holland grinned. “We’re in fucking Ithaca, New York and you think that someone is going to notice us? I feel like Dennis Nedry right now. ‘It’s Dodgson! Hey! Look. It’s Dodgson here!’” He actually scoffed. “Whatever. Chill. You draw more attention to yourselves.”
Ora stared out at the field. “Did you guys go to college?”
“Yup.” Holland nodded. “Graduated with a liberal arts degree and no direction.”
