employment at Hottie Latte.
If there are no parking spaces, it’s a sign I’m not meant to have this job, I told myself, cruising along North Water Street.
A van shot out into traffic just ahead of me, leaving a large, juicy parking spot only inches from Hottie Latte’s doorstep. I waited for another car to swerve around me and snag the spot, but none did. Reluctantly, I pulled in to the slot.
If the Doyennes of Decency capture me and try to exorcise Satan out of me, it’s a sign that God doesn’t want me to work there, I told myself, getting out of the car.
The Doyennes were nowhere in sight.
I waited for some other human or divine agency to stop me, but no one tried to abduct me into a cult, lure me into a back alley, or set me on fire, so I pushed through the front door, found Juju, and fumbled through my inquiry.
“One of my waitresses just quit—you can start right away,” Juju squealed, before I could even finish, managing to talk, count out the cash register drawer, and nibble on a raspberry doughnut at the same time. “Fill out the paperwork later.”
Hand me a paper bag, I thought, because I was one breath away fromhyperventilating. She wanted me to start now , before I had a chance to psyche myself up? But there wasn’t time for me to have a panic attack, because Juju, the human equivalent of a five-hour energy drink, was flinging outfits at me from the lingerie bazaar she kept in a backroom closet. Bustiers, baby dolls, bikinis, tankinis, and cheekinis rained on me, a shower of scanties.
I snatched up the outfit that seemed to have the most fabric per square inch—black satin shorts that would have been a tight squeeze for Slut Barbie, a scoop-necked top over a black push-up bra that lifted my devil’s dumplings heavenward, and heels that felt like stepladders. I changed in the employees bathroom. Ten minutes later, I cracked open the bathroom door and tiptoed out, wishing I could drape something less revealing over my exposed skin—like a sofa cover. Arms crossed protectively across my chest, I reported for duty.
“You look great,” Juju said, swiftly scanning me. She thrust a tray at me. “Now get out there and serve this mocha latte to the guy in the suit.”
“I thought maybe I could hang around behind the counter, slicing bagels or something.”
“Go.” She shoved me toward a table. Reluctantly, I moved out from behind the counter, blushing so painfully I could feel the blood thrumming in my ears. What if someone I knew came in and saw me? What if—God forbid—my parents flew up from Florida as a surprise and happened to stop here for coffee? What if—the thought stopped me cold—Labeck and Aspen returned for more on-site reporting?
I forced myself to move. My first customer was a balding guy with a spare tire around his middle that forced him to sit a foot away from the table. I set down his order, offering a quivery smile.
“I want something to go with this,” he said. “How fresh are your pastries?”
“They’re from this morning.”
“I don’t like ’em if they’re not fresh.” He eyed my bosom. “ Your doughnuts look fresh, honey. Round and soft and—”
Juju, clearing the next table, swooped in to my rescue. She swatted the guy on the top of his bald spot with a Wall Street Journal . “What kind of question is that to ask a lady? You apologize.”
“Sorry,” he said, his grin indicating that he would probably enjoy being spanked with the market report.
Humiliated, I hurried back behind the counter.
“I cannot do this,” I hissed at Juju. “This is not me.”
“Yes, it is you,” Juju insisted. “It’s your inner you.”
“My inner self doesn’t like its outer cheeks pooching out.”
“Get over it! Look what that guy left you.” Juju waved a twenty-dollar bill at me, and when I didn’t take it, she stuffed it into a coffee can beneath the counter. There were six coffee cans lined up, each with a waitress’s name on it. She’d already
If there are no parking spaces, it’s a sign I’m not meant to have this job, I told myself, cruising along North Water Street.
A van shot out into traffic just ahead of me, leaving a large, juicy parking spot only inches from Hottie Latte’s doorstep. I waited for another car to swerve around me and snag the spot, but none did. Reluctantly, I pulled in to the slot.
If the Doyennes of Decency capture me and try to exorcise Satan out of me, it’s a sign that God doesn’t want me to work there, I told myself, getting out of the car.
The Doyennes were nowhere in sight.
I waited for some other human or divine agency to stop me, but no one tried to abduct me into a cult, lure me into a back alley, or set me on fire, so I pushed through the front door, found Juju, and fumbled through my inquiry.
“One of my waitresses just quit—you can start right away,” Juju squealed, before I could even finish, managing to talk, count out the cash register drawer, and nibble on a raspberry doughnut at the same time. “Fill out the paperwork later.”
Hand me a paper bag, I thought, because I was one breath away fromhyperventilating. She wanted me to start now , before I had a chance to psyche myself up? But there wasn’t time for me to have a panic attack, because Juju, the human equivalent of a five-hour energy drink, was flinging outfits at me from the lingerie bazaar she kept in a backroom closet. Bustiers, baby dolls, bikinis, tankinis, and cheekinis rained on me, a shower of scanties.
I snatched up the outfit that seemed to have the most fabric per square inch—black satin shorts that would have been a tight squeeze for Slut Barbie, a scoop-necked top over a black push-up bra that lifted my devil’s dumplings heavenward, and heels that felt like stepladders. I changed in the employees bathroom. Ten minutes later, I cracked open the bathroom door and tiptoed out, wishing I could drape something less revealing over my exposed skin—like a sofa cover. Arms crossed protectively across my chest, I reported for duty.
“You look great,” Juju said, swiftly scanning me. She thrust a tray at me. “Now get out there and serve this mocha latte to the guy in the suit.”
“I thought maybe I could hang around behind the counter, slicing bagels or something.”
“Go.” She shoved me toward a table. Reluctantly, I moved out from behind the counter, blushing so painfully I could feel the blood thrumming in my ears. What if someone I knew came in and saw me? What if—God forbid—my parents flew up from Florida as a surprise and happened to stop here for coffee? What if—the thought stopped me cold—Labeck and Aspen returned for more on-site reporting?
I forced myself to move. My first customer was a balding guy with a spare tire around his middle that forced him to sit a foot away from the table. I set down his order, offering a quivery smile.
“I want something to go with this,” he said. “How fresh are your pastries?”
“They’re from this morning.”
“I don’t like ’em if they’re not fresh.” He eyed my bosom. “ Your doughnuts look fresh, honey. Round and soft and—”
Juju, clearing the next table, swooped in to my rescue. She swatted the guy on the top of his bald spot with a Wall Street Journal . “What kind of question is that to ask a lady? You apologize.”
“Sorry,” he said, his grin indicating that he would probably enjoy being spanked with the market report.
Humiliated, I hurried back behind the counter.
“I cannot do this,” I hissed at Juju. “This is not me.”
“Yes, it is you,” Juju insisted. “It’s your inner you.”
“My inner self doesn’t like its outer cheeks pooching out.”
“Get over it! Look what that guy left you.” Juju waved a twenty-dollar bill at me, and when I didn’t take it, she stuffed it into a coffee can beneath the counter. There were six coffee cans lined up, each with a waitress’s name on it. She’d already
Similar Books
