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I exit the hotel and take a left, strolling the two blocks to the coffeehouse last night’s desk clerk told me I’d find. Roasters Coffee House isn’t busy when I arrive. I appreciate the quiet. I can enjoy my coffee and bagel and begin planning what to do next. As I sip my coffee, my eye catches sight of a community board at the back of the sitting area.
When I finish breakfast, I rise and head back to the board to see what I find. It’s filled with various flyers for events, live music, tutors, and a few for-rent apartments. I rip a live music flyer off, and my eyes continue roaming. I go back to the apartment rentals, tear off the phone numbers for them, and then return to my table to grab my jacket. On my way out, I stop and ask the young woman at the register if she knows where I can buy a mobile phone.
I walk the six blocks to the cell phone store, thankful for the sunshine because it’s chilly outside. Once I have a new phone and number, I hurry back to the hotel because I want to make a few calls—to the apartments listed on the community board, my mom, and Luci. They must’ve heard from Massimo by now, and I want them to know I’m okay.
Before dialing my mom, I punch in *67 to block my number and press the green phone button to send the call. She answers on the third ring. “Hola.”
“Hola,Mami,” I say. “I’m—”
“Marialena,estas bien?Dónde estás?”
“Mami, I’m okay. I arrived in the city where I’ll be living for a while and wanted to let you know.” We chat for several minutes about my drive and that I’m looking for an apartment and will start looking for a job tomorrow. Finally, I ask, “Has Massimo gone to your house yet?”
“Sí, me llamóearly this morning. Then he come to the house an hour ago. I tell him the truth,yo sabíayou were leaving, but you no give me any informationporqueyou knew he’d ask me for it,” she tells me.
“Nena,” her voice softens as she calls me by the name she’s called me since I was a little girl, “he no look good.No sé lo que está pasando, but why you no talk with him? I never see him look this way.Tienered eyes, dark circles under them, messy hair,” she proclaims, her voice laced with motherly concern.
My heart hurts listening to my mother describe Massimo. It’s exactly how I imagined he’d react, except it doesn’t lessen the torrent of emotions her words cause.
“Mami, por favor. I know it’s hard for everyone, for you. Please just trust that what I am doing is the right thing.”
“Bueno, Nena.No entiendo, but I do what you want, even if I no agree,” she concedes, sighing in resignation.
“Mami, I’ll call you again. For now, I won’t give you my phone number,por si acasoMassimo calls you again, or goes back to your house. If you don’t know how to reach me, it’ll be easier for you when you speak to him. This way, you don’t have to lie.”
“Bueno, Nena.Te amo,” she says.
“I love you too,Mami.” I press End.
The next call I have to make is to Luci. This one will not be as easy as my mother’s because Luci will give me an earful. I dial her number, and when I get her voicemail, relief rushes through me. I hang up without leaving a message. I’ll call her again later. My fingers hover over the keypad, itching to dial Massimo’s number. Should I call him? What will I say? I start punching his number in but flip the phone closed before finishing. I can’t. Hearing his voice will decimate me.
Instead, I fight the urge and grab my bag off the bed, looking for the several slips of paper I removed from the community board. I call each of them, someone answering each time, and I schedule a time to look at the apartments the next morning.
The event flyer from the community board advertised live music at a bar named The Last Drop starting at 9:30 p.m., just a few blocks from the hotel. At 7:00 p.m. I leave for the venue. I hope there are a few decent items on the menu—I’m hungry.
I notice there are a few bars along the way. This will be a good place for me to look for a bartending job. I’m hopeful that I’ll find a job quickly. I have enough money to get me by for a few months, but would rather not have to use it all.
As I am walking, a gust of wind blows and chills me. I stuff my hands in my pockets and pick up the pace to The Last Drop. When I arrive, I catch a glimpse of a “Help Wanted” sign in the window. I make a mental note to ask someone about that later tonight.
The inside of The Last Drop is beautiful. It’s all wood throughout, nestled in a renovated old building, yet the owner kept many of its original features—high ceilings and wood beams. The bar is long and made of dark wood.
I find a stool, two stools down from a guy wearing a White Sox hat, take off my jacket, and hang it on the back before sitting. A woman with braided blonde hair resting on her shoulders says “Hello,” a slight twang when she does.
“Grey Goose and soda with two limes and a food menu as well, please,” I say.
She pulls a menu out from under the bar and drops it in front of me before leaving to make my drink.
While waiting for the bartender to return, I look around. There are several TVs in various spots around the place, all playing one sporting event or another. The stage is medium-sized, and the restaurant has about thirty tables. Right now, the place is a little over half full, which means it probably gets busy in here. Most of the people in this place are wearing jeans and baseball hats or team jerseys. It’s a laid-back atmosphere and family-friendly, as is evident from the few tables with kids using crayons to color their kid menus. Three Doors Down’s “When I’m Gone” is playing over the speakers. It’s loud, but patrons are still conversing. Local memorabilia adorn the walls—old street signs, license plates, and framed pictures and newspaper clippings. It’s a very local place, and I like the vibe of it.
“Are you ready to order food?” the bartender asks, placing my drink onto a cocktail napkin.
“I’ll have the wings and fries basket, with mild sauce, please.”
“Sure thing, sweetie,” she says, taking the menu from me and spinning away to input the order into her computer.
When the bartender returns, I introduce myself and ask her name. “Stevie,” she tells me.
“Stevie, I saw the ‘Help Wanted’ sign in the window. Do you know what position they’re hiring for?” I ask.
