But then I see it.
A small piece of lined paper pinned near the bottom.
The handwriting is thick, with a slight swirl.
Kitchen hand and bartender needed.
Apply in person with your resume.
Ask for Beth.
Washing dishes. I could do that.
All I need is two hundred and thirty dollars.
If I play my cards right, I could buy a ticket to the city within a week.
I write the address carefully in my notebook.
Same street as the bus stop.
I take that as a sign from the universe.
And it’s not far to walk, just around the corner.
???
The restaurant sits nestled across the road from the park.
I must have missed it earlier while standing behind the bus.
I’ve never been to a restaurant.
The pub back home doesn’t count.
They serve hot food sometimes, but not in a cloth napkin kind of way.
I stand outside for a moment, smoothing my hair in the reflection of the glass.
I’d better stash my backpack in the bushes.
Don’t want to show up begging for a job with a bulky bag in tow.
Pushing the door open, I notice that almost every table is full.
Maybe I should have waited until they weren’t so busy.
I don’t want to be annoying.
But I’m desperate.
Desperate enough to ignore the people who are staring.
Conversations halt as the scruffy bruised smelly kid walks toward the bar.
No doubt I fail to blend in with my frayed clothing and banged up face.
Behind the counter, a woman stands with her back turned.
