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Fucking hell, I’m an idiot.
Way to go, Leo.
Some people ragged on Brooklyn, but I loved it.
It was a melting pot of eccentric characters, families, newlywed couples, single folks like myself, and everything else you could imagine. The commute was easy, and pretty much everything was in walking distance. Bakeries, bars, restaurants, grocery stores—if I needed it, it was there.
Plus, my rent money went a hell of a lot further than it did in Manhattan.
And early fall Sunday mornings in Brooklyn were a bit of a dream.
The air was just brisk enough to get away with a sweater, but not too cold that you needed a scarf or jacket.
The sidewalks were already bustling, but I liked the liveliness of all the calm morning activity.
Ten minutes into my walk back from the grocery store and my phone started ringing inside my purse.
I stopped on the sidewalk, set the bags in my hands on the ground, and fumbled around through my purse.
It took me a minute to find my damn phone because, well, my purse was like a minefield with bombs of random candy wrappers, old receipts, and emergency tampons, but eventually, I had it within my grasp and pulled it out to find Incoming Call: Star Temps flashing on the screen.
Mable.
I silently offered up a prayer to the heavens that she’d found me a new gig.
It had been several weeks since the urine debacle, and I’d been through a bevy of exciting jobs since then.
Customer service for an online company, filer for a law office, a warehouse associate—which was just a fancy name for someone who packs boxes—and most recently, a maintenance specialist in a public restroom. That’s right, glory be thy temporary career, I was the woman who kept the countertops dry, the toilets clean, and the paper towels flowing in the Nordstrom’s bathroom for a week or so.
Awful restroom jobs be damned, I’d stuck true to my word about taking everything she offered, and as a result, my pretty new guitar baby had pride of place in my apartment. But also, I was once again feeling the pinch of low cash flow.
It was highly unlikely I’d say no to anything she had to offer at that point, or anytime in the near, career-uncertain future for that matter. I just hoped the next assignment would come with more money and a little more insight into what I should really be doing with my life.
“Hey, Mable.”
“I’ve got a job for you, doll,” she said by way of greeting. “Pays well.”
I fist-pumped the air and silently offered up a prayer to the heavens that “pays well” didn’t include tasks that involve collecting bodily fluids or public places where said bodily fluids were disposed of.
“Pays well?” I asked. “How well, exactly?”
“Not as well as the Mavericks thing you screwed up, but that shouldn’t be a shock.”
She never hesitated to throw that one in my face, no matter the time that had passed.
I sighed and resigned myself to my fate. “What is it?”
“Well…” She took a deep inhale, and I could just picture a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. “It’s a seasonal assistant job helping with packing and shipping at a small storefront not too far from your place.”
“What kind of store is it?”
“I think they sell stationery…or maybe it’s craft supplies? Hell if I know, but they need someone there by tomorrow morning at eight a.m. And they’re offering thirty hours a week.”
Stationery or craft supplies? It sounded boring as shit. But it was probably better than mopping up bathroom floors and spritzing air freshener to cover the scent of public restroom poop.
“How much does it pay?”
“Thirty bucks an hour, doll.”
Okay. Okay. I could definitely deal with packing fucking ribbons and glue guns for thirty bucks an hour.
“How long do they need me?”
“Looks like they want someone to hang around through December.”
This could be a steady paycheck for the next three-plus months. I’d have to be brain dead to say no to this thing. And for as much as my parents maybe thought I was a little lacking in brain function thanks to the longevity of my side step from their idea of a picture-perfect future and career, I wasn’t mentally deceased.
“Count me in.”
“All right, doll, I’ll text you the address. Be there by eight tomorrow. And for the love of John Stamos, try to leave the buttah fingers at home.”
Buttah fingers. As in butt-er fingers. As in the same fingers that managed to spill a hot football stud’s piss.
“Got it.”
With a swift end to the call, I headed back to my apartment, and once inside, set my grocery bags on the kitchen counter. I had the milk, eggs, and bread unpacked when I heard the hallway toilet flush.
“You’re out of toilet paper!” Abby shouted from the bathroom, the sounds of running water from the sink faucet only slightly muffling her voice.
