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Authors: Juliet Rosetti
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labeled a can with my name. Juju swatted my black satin rear with a towel. “Now get out there and hustle. And tomorrow wear a thong.”
Taking a deep, steadying breath, I clopped out from behind the counter, order pad in hand, toward the two young guys sitting at a window table. They wore jackets with the logos of Chicago sports teams, so I assumed they were Flatlanders—Wisconsinites’ derisive term for Illinois residents—here for the Bucks-Bulls game tonight.
“Hi,” I said, coming up to them, attempting a perky smile. “And what are you gentlemen in the mood for?”
Big smirks appeared on the guys’ faces. I felt like slapping myself. What are you gentlemen in the mood for? It sounded like a crude come-on. I might as well have had Horny as a Hoot Owl stenciled across my chest.
“I want an espresso, a cinnamon doughnut, and a side of you,” said the guy in the Cubs jacket, snaking an arm around my waist.
If he didn’t let go, I was going to jab my pencil through his eardrum.
“Hey, Miss Delicious, you got a boyfriend?” the other comedian asked, studying my cleavage as though it were going to be on tonight’s pop quiz.
“Yeah,” I said. “Sixto Sanchez—maybe you’ve heard of him?” Sixto was a loose cannon who pitched for the Brewers, a guy known for his volatile pitches and even more volatile temper. “He comes in here a lot. Checking up on things, you know?”
The first guy yanked his arm back. He probably didn’t believe the Sixto stuff, but just in case, he decided to mind his manners. Once they got it through their heads that this wasn’t a titty bar, the guys turned out to be perfectly nice. They both left a generous tip.
A spate of customers arrived between seven and eight o’clock, as people on their way to sporting events or the theater stopped in for a jolt of joe to keep them awake. I got really tired of hearing:
Are your boobs real?
No, I ordered them from a silicone novelties catalog .
Why aren’t you a model?
Actually, I am. I’m just between Vogue covers .
Do you do lap dances?
Nope. I don’t do pole dances either .
Can I have your number?
No. But I’ve got yours, buster, and if you try anything, you’re toast .
Will you sell me your pantyhose?
No. But pat my ass again and I’ll wrap them around your neck until you turn blue .
My calves throbbed from walking in heels. My toes smarted from being cramped into the tiny toe box of the shoes. My arms ached from carrying trays. My boobs were spattered with tiny burn blisters. But my coffee can was filling up and I couldn’t wait to get home to see how much I’d made.
With only a half hour of my shift left, I served a complicated order of drinks and cheesecakes to a table of women—yes, women were now coming into the shop; take that , Doyennes of Decency—and turned around to serve the customer who’d just taken the table near the newspaper rack.
“Hey,” the man said, looking up at me. “Mazie, right?”
“Hel-hi-lo,” I stammered. It was the movie star from Rhonda’s party.
“You certainly get around, don’t you?” he said, smiling.
“Uh-huh.” Here it came, the red tide from hell, the uberflush. I tried picturing icebergs, glaciers, snowmen—anything to ice down my treacherous capillaries.
“Nice to see you again,” he said.
Seeing a little too much of me, I thought, tugging down my shorts.
I took his order, half-listening. Jared Kennison looked even better than I remembered. He was wearing a light-gray suit and a navy tie that brought out the blue in his eyes. Juju prepared his double espresso because I was still learning how to work themachines.
“I’ll give you fifty bucks to let me wait on that guy,” Juju whispered, fanning imaginary heat waves from her chest.
I smirked. “No deal.”
I brought Jared’s order to him, dipping a bit lower than was strictly necessary as I set his coffee on the table.
“Would you care to join me?” he asked, standing and pulling out a
Taking a deep, steadying breath, I clopped out from behind the counter, order pad in hand, toward the two young guys sitting at a window table. They wore jackets with the logos of Chicago sports teams, so I assumed they were Flatlanders—Wisconsinites’ derisive term for Illinois residents—here for the Bucks-Bulls game tonight.
“Hi,” I said, coming up to them, attempting a perky smile. “And what are you gentlemen in the mood for?”
Big smirks appeared on the guys’ faces. I felt like slapping myself. What are you gentlemen in the mood for? It sounded like a crude come-on. I might as well have had Horny as a Hoot Owl stenciled across my chest.
“I want an espresso, a cinnamon doughnut, and a side of you,” said the guy in the Cubs jacket, snaking an arm around my waist.
If he didn’t let go, I was going to jab my pencil through his eardrum.
“Hey, Miss Delicious, you got a boyfriend?” the other comedian asked, studying my cleavage as though it were going to be on tonight’s pop quiz.
“Yeah,” I said. “Sixto Sanchez—maybe you’ve heard of him?” Sixto was a loose cannon who pitched for the Brewers, a guy known for his volatile pitches and even more volatile temper. “He comes in here a lot. Checking up on things, you know?”
The first guy yanked his arm back. He probably didn’t believe the Sixto stuff, but just in case, he decided to mind his manners. Once they got it through their heads that this wasn’t a titty bar, the guys turned out to be perfectly nice. They both left a generous tip.
A spate of customers arrived between seven and eight o’clock, as people on their way to sporting events or the theater stopped in for a jolt of joe to keep them awake. I got really tired of hearing:
Are your boobs real?
No, I ordered them from a silicone novelties catalog .
Why aren’t you a model?
Actually, I am. I’m just between Vogue covers .
Do you do lap dances?
Nope. I don’t do pole dances either .
Can I have your number?
No. But I’ve got yours, buster, and if you try anything, you’re toast .
Will you sell me your pantyhose?
No. But pat my ass again and I’ll wrap them around your neck until you turn blue .
My calves throbbed from walking in heels. My toes smarted from being cramped into the tiny toe box of the shoes. My arms ached from carrying trays. My boobs were spattered with tiny burn blisters. But my coffee can was filling up and I couldn’t wait to get home to see how much I’d made.
With only a half hour of my shift left, I served a complicated order of drinks and cheesecakes to a table of women—yes, women were now coming into the shop; take that , Doyennes of Decency—and turned around to serve the customer who’d just taken the table near the newspaper rack.
“Hey,” the man said, looking up at me. “Mazie, right?”
“Hel-hi-lo,” I stammered. It was the movie star from Rhonda’s party.
“You certainly get around, don’t you?” he said, smiling.
“Uh-huh.” Here it came, the red tide from hell, the uberflush. I tried picturing icebergs, glaciers, snowmen—anything to ice down my treacherous capillaries.
“Nice to see you again,” he said.
Seeing a little too much of me, I thought, tugging down my shorts.
I took his order, half-listening. Jared Kennison looked even better than I remembered. He was wearing a light-gray suit and a navy tie that brought out the blue in his eyes. Juju prepared his double espresso because I was still learning how to work themachines.
“I’ll give you fifty bucks to let me wait on that guy,” Juju whispered, fanning imaginary heat waves from her chest.
I smirked. “No deal.”
I brought Jared’s order to him, dipping a bit lower than was strictly necessary as I set his coffee on the table.
“Would you care to join me?” he asked, standing and pulling out a
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