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Kevin’s mom and my mom went through residency together and went on to open their own practice. We grew up together, and he’s only a few years younger than me. Since I was an only child, he’s like a little brother. I don’t see him much anymore—we have a lot less in common now than we did when we were playing with toy dinosaurs and monster trucks.
The last time I was at his place, it was to make sure he didn’t get drunk untilafter—or at least halfway through—our mothers’ office Christmas party. I know he’s home since I can hear the video games from outside, but it still takes three times ringing the bell until he opens the door.
“Hi Kev,” I say, pushing past the shirtless white man and entering into his weed-scented studio apartment.
“Uh—Harlow? What are you doing here?” He pulls his flannel pajama pants up his skinny hips and grabs a t-shirt off the couch, slipping it over his head.
“I need a favor.”
“Okay, how much you want? A dime bag?” He turns the volume down on the TV, and I look around his space. It’s exactly what you’d expect from a twenty-something stoner who dropped out of college to pursue his dream of being a “club promoter.” Though I’m in no position to judge given my apartment had twice as many old take-out containers just a few days ago. And I’ve put all my freelance clients on hold to waitress again.
“It’s not that. I need a fake ID, you know how I can get one?” His head rears back, and his blood-shot eyes open as wide as they can.
“The fuck you need that for, Low? You’re supposed to be the good one.”
“It doesn’t matter. Can you help me?” My palms start sweating. This was a terrible idea. Not just being here asking for a fake, but all of this. Who am I to go undercover as a waitress at a mob-boss-slash-serial-killer’s restaurant?
“Alright, alright, don’t tell me. God knows you’ve covered my ass plenty of times before.” He reaches for his phone and sends off a quick message. It’s only a few seconds later he gets a call.
Kevin puts it on speaker. “Put the photo on a thumb drive. Put that in an envelope along with three hundred cash and a note with whatever bio you want on the card. Drop it in your mailbox. I’ll pick it up tonight.”
The caller hangs up immediately, and Kevin just looks at me and shrugs. “You photo-ready right now?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say with a deep breath. I have officially lost my mind.
They do say grief makes people do crazy things.
Hi, I’m Amanda. Hey, I’m Amanda. Hi, my name is Amanda.
I practice my fake name like a fucking parrot in my head as I walk into The Fox’s Den. The hairs on the back of my neck instantly rise, expecting Cash to be hiding behind every table.
“Hi, welcome to the Den. How many in your party?” the hostess from before greets.
“Um, I’m actually here to apply for the open position.” I pick at my cuticles and then immediately try to stop, worried it will make me look nervous and suspicious.
“Okay, no problem, I’ll be right back.” She turns to leave, but almost runs into a young, Black woman with crochet locs that are dyed blonde at the tips. “Oh Stella, I was just coming to get you. This woman is interested in applying.”
Stella smiles at me, her dark-amber eyes are friendly and warm. “Nice to meet you, I’m Stella. I’m the manager here.” She offers her hand, and I shake it, hoping she doesn’t notice my sweaty palms.
“Amanda. Nice to meet you too.”
She leads us over to the bar, and I take a seat while she goes to fetch an application. She returns and hands me the paper. I'm about to hop off my stool when she says, “So, while you fill that out, I’ll just ask you some basic questions.”
Shit.I wasn’t mentally prepared for an interview today. I was just gonna grab the application and dash. “Yeah, sure. That sounds great.”Fuck, fuck.
“So, do you have any experience in hospitality?”
“Uh…” My eyes catch on the field for a social security number, and I panic. What am I supposed to write? I can’t use my real one, and I don’t have a fake one. “Sorry, what was the question?”
As she speaks, I jot down a random nine-digit number and hope for the best. “Do you have any experience in the restaurant industry?”
“Yes, I’ve been a server at lots of different types of places—diners, sports bars, fine dining, even a philly cheesesteak place.” Which is all true, making this the first sentence I have been able to breathe properly throughout.
“Great, anywhere I might know?”
“Probably not, they're all on the West Coast.”Which is not true.
“Okay, well if I can just see your ID and application, I’ll go run this through our system.” She stands up. I hand over the application, but I drop my ID as I pull it out and sputter like an idiot. Both of us dive down to pick it up and nearly whack heads.
