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REASON THREE
You promised you’d make time for me.
“Ah,hell,”awomanwearing far too much blue eyeshadow and an outdated, vintage ginger beehive said. “You’re a little old for a stocker job, ain’t ya?” She held a clipboard with my resume fixed under the metal clip. Lifting her arm, she tapped the end of her pencil against her ruby-red lips. “I don’t know what the heck any of these job titles even mean, doll.” She looked to be in her mid-fifties and sounded like she smoked three packs a day. The stench of stale nicotine swirled in concert with the seven-hundred gallons of Britney Spears’Curiousshe’d bathed in that morning.
I smiled at her. “Another me from another life.”
“I need someone dependable.”
“There might be a lot of job titles on that resume, but there’s only one company name. I started as a hotel housekeeper and worked my way up. It took me twenty years. I’m nothing if not dependable.” I glanced down at her nametag. “Matthew.”
The woman looked down at her nametag and chuckled. “Must’ve grabbed the wrong one when I clocked in. I already told you my name, though.”
I nibbled on my lip, racking my brain. She looked like a Tanya. Or maybe a Shelly. Perhaps a Patty or Sheila. “You sure did, hon.”
“Then what is it?” She paused, narrowing her eyes. “Hon.”
As a master of flirtation, I knew I had only one hope to save the sinking ship of an interview. I tilted my head to the side and ran my fingers through my hair. “It’s a beautiful name,” I said, winking at her. “One might go as far as saying it’s ravishing.”
“It’s Rhonda,” she deadpanned. “And I don’t know what the hell this is,” she pointed her gnawed pencil at me, lifting it up the length of my body, “but you sure are easy on the eyes.” She set the clipboard beside the cash register and eyed me up and down. “We don’t pay much.”
“I don’t need much.”
“There ain’t a lot of hours.”
“I’ll take whatever hours you can throw at me. I just really, really need this. Work is hard to find in this city.”
“Is it? Last I checked, there were help wanted signs in every window down Main Street.”
“I kind of have a history here.” She opened her mouth like she wanted to say something, but she closed it just as quickly. “You’re not from West Clark, are you?”
“Moved here from Amarillo, five years back,” she said.
“I don’t fit in here,” I said, shoving my hands into my pockets. “I never really did. Too much sparkle.”
“Wait,” she said, her eyes widening. “Are you Caterina’s boy? The gay one from the picture?”
The picture? I had no idea what the hell she was talking about, and I was too busy marinating in my own shame to ask for clarification.
I closed my eyes and nodded. “Kent Fox.” I almost expected her to rip my resume up in front of me. “Listen, I appreciate you taking the time to hear me out. Probably should have led with that. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.” I stepped back, my eyes still drawn to the impossible ginger beehive on her head. “Love the look, though. Retro-chic. It’s adorable.” I turned and walked toward the door, only making it three steps before she called out to me.
“Did I say I wasn’t hiring you?”
I turned around. “Well, no. I just thought ”
“This might not be the most accepting of places, but we’re not all like that. Tell you what, trial run. Tomorrow. Three to eight. What do you say?”
“Wait, seriously? Just like that?”
“Just like that,” she said, snapping her fingers for emphasis. “I don’t know what it is. I just have a feeling about you. Three o’clock. If you’re one minute late, you’re out. Understood?”
“Thank you, Rhoda—”
“My name isn’t Rhoda.”
“Whatever. Thank you. Three o’clock. I’ll be here.”
***
