by Ada Scott
“N-no,” she breathes, eyes fluttering. “I’m good. Thanks. Goddamn, I owe you one. Didn’t think the fucker would have a knife on him.”
“Next time, might be better to use the back exit. Come find me and I’ll let your bartender friend meet you in the break room for a drink.” I say calmly while the squat man writhes on the ground, groaning curses at me.
He manages the words “stupid slut,” and the girl walks over to him and gives him a sharp kick between the legs that shuts him up.
“I’ll keep it in mind,” she says with a smile, winking a grateful eye at me. “See you ‘round, hun.” She hurries off toward her car, and I watch her go for a moment to make sure she gets in and starts her engine before I turn to leave the man on the ground, striding back to the club.
Just another Saturday night.
And then it’ll be back to my hotel suite.
As I make my way back into the club, though, I can feel that hollow feeling tugging at the back of my mind once again. I came to Vegas for a distraction. A distraction from much bigger things.
But how much longer is grunt work like this going to keep that hollow feeling at bay?
Jane
I stand at the front door of my grandparents’ house, anxiously rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet. It’s a beautiful day, sunny and bright, without a single cloud in the sky. I can hear the faint sounds of children playing in a front yard down the street, their peals of laughter as they jump through a sprinkler. They sound happy. My heart twinges. I can still remember when I was happy like that, when things were simple and I had no reason to think the world was anything but sunshine and rainbows.
But kids grow up, and things change.
I take a deep breath, hoist the duffel bag higher up on my shoulder, and knock at the door. There’s a pause, and then I hear the tell-tale shuffle of my grandmother’s house shoes on the tile, along with the click of her cane. It takes her a minute or so to make it to the door. She doesn’t move all that quickly these days, but she’s still got her health for the most part, thankfully. Even before she opens it I can see the look of mingled surprise and delight on her face through the glass pane in the center of the door. My lips split into a big grin and I drop my bag to put my arms around her instantly.
“Jane!” Granny gasps, her cane dangling over my shoulder as she stands on tiptoe to hug me back. I’m not particularly tall, myself, but my grandmother is a tiny woman, barely over five feet. And the years have not been easy on her. She walks with a bit of a stoop, but I still think she’s beautiful despite her age. Those bright blue eyes and rosy cheeks have stood the test of time and struggle.
“I’m so happy to see you,” I tell her honestly. She beams up at me fondly but I see a hint of confusion in her eyes. I know exactly what question is coming.
“It’s wonderful to see you, too, dear. But we weren’t expecting you back from college until next week. Is everything okay, Janie?” she asks, reaching up to pat my cheek.
“Yeah, yeah. Everything is perfectly fine, Granny,” I assure her, waving my hand. “I just decided to take the last week of the semester off from classes, that’s all. I can catch up on the lecture notes online and I thought I would come home and surprise my favorite people in the whole world.”
Relief washes over her face and she takes my hand, tugging me into the house. I grab my duffel bag and close the door behind us as she leads me into the kitchen, already chattering away. As usual, the house smells like smoky cinnamon and vanilla—the same potpourri my grandmother has been using since before I was even born. She’s a creature of habit. Just like my grandfather.
“I bet you’re just starving from your long drive,” she says, opening the refrigerator. She gestures to a bar stool at the kitchen island counter. “Sit, sit! Get comfy. I’ll make you something to eat. I just made lemonade yesterday afternoon, and I’ve got some pasta salad wrapped up.”
I’m not very hungry at all, but I know there’s no point in protesting. My grandmother is a powerfully generous person, and it gives her genuine joy to feed people. It’s something that kind of runs in my family—we often show love by cooking and baking delicious food for each other. Freshman year, my college roommates loved that about me: I was constantly in the communal kitchen baking cookies for everyone, handing out muffins during exam week when everyone was exhausted and stressed out. It’s just a thing we Appletons do. Of course, I haven’t had much time to be generous with anyone lately.
“I was going to bake a pie today for the new neighbors down the street, if you’d like to help me,” Granny says brightly. She walks over and pushes a small plate of pasta salad and a glass of lemonade toward me. I reluctantly start eating, giving her a nod.
“Sure. Sounds fun,” I tell her, hoping my tone doesn’t betray how down I really feel. “So, where’s Grandpa?”
Granny’s smile falters for just a split second. She sighs. “This morning we had another appointment with the heart doctor and your grandfather got a little short with him. He got some bad news and it upset him. And well, you know how he is. Doesn’t like to talk about things when he gets upset. He’s been in the garage all day tinkering with that old clunker. The doctor said he’s got to take it easy, but that man just can’t bear to sit still, you know.”
“Yeah. I get that,” I say, nodding. And I really do. I’m the exact same way. Whenever something is wrong, I just can’t stand to wait around for it to work itself out, I’ve got to get moving right away. Like my grandpa, I’m a fixer. But there are some problems you can’t just snap your fingers and make disappear.
“You can run down and say hello if you want. I’m sure it’ll make him feel better to know his beautiful granddaughter is back for a visit,” Granny says, already taking down the flour and sugar and other ingredients for a pie.
“Hopefully he won’t mind getting interrupted. I know how he gets when he’s in the middle of something,” I remark. Granny laughs.
“Would take an incoming train to break his focus,” she sighs, shaking her head.
“Be back in a minute,” I tell her. I hop down from the stool, take a swig of the lemonade, and head off for the garage.
As I approach the door I can hear the clinking sounds of my grandfather’s tools. He’s been working on restoring that old car for what feels like forever. I don’t know if he even wants to finish it—he just likes having a project to occupy his hands. I understand why he spends so much time in the garage. In times like these, he needs the distraction.
I open the door and my grandpa glances up, doing a double take at the sight of me. He grins and sets down his tools, wiping his hands on his jeans as he walks over to pull me into a tight bear hug. “Janie sweetheart! What a wonderful surprise!” he exclaims. He smells like peppermint and auto grease, just like he always does.
“Hey Grandpa,” I greet him warmly. “How are you doing?”
He shrugs and says, “Can’t complain. Doctor says the old ticker might be gettin’ a little rusty, but I feel just fine. To what do I owe the pleasure of seein’ my favorite granddaughter out of the blue like this?”
There it is: his famous ability to change subjects in a flash. I decide not to push him on the issue just yet. There will be time for that. Right now, I can see he needs to forget his troubles for a little while. It’s only one in the afternoon and out of the corner of my eye I see a beer bottle on the work table. I can’t begrudge him that, though.
“Just an impromptu visit. I arranged a week off from school and figured I might as well come home early,” I explain, hoping he doesn’t ask any further questions. There are some things I don’t want to explain just yet. Not now.
“Well, it’s mighty good to see you, Janie. Your granny’s about to make a pie, I believe. You should run and give her a hand in the kitchen,” he says, gently hinting that he needs to be alone with his old car and his tools for a little while longer. I give him a smile and a kiss on the cheek.
“You got it,” I answer, winking at h
im as I leave the garage and go back to join my grandmother.
They’ve always been like this, each with their own interests and hobbies. My grandparents are soulmates, endlessly devoted to each other, but they don’t need to spend every second together to feel secure. My own parents died when I was thirteen, and that was the hardest thing to ever happen to me, but I’m so lucky that my grandparents were eager to take me in and raise me. They stabilized my world right when everything seemed totally topsy-turvy and terrifying. Sweet, steady, and dependable. I can only hope to be half the kind of people they are someday.
I spend the afternoon chatting with Granny as we work side-by-side to bake a blueberry pie. I fill her in on the hot gossip on campus, embellishing just a little as I go. And Granny tells me all about the new neighbors moving in down the street, the plots of her favorite soap operas, the fancy French restaurant opening downtown she’s been hinting for Grandpa to take her to on a date. My heart swells with warmth and I can feel some of the stresses melting off me the longer I’m at home. This is my happy place. This is where I feel safe.
That evening, we have dinner together at the same handmade dining table they’ve had my whole life. My grandparents head off to bed early as usual, and I settle back into my old bedroom. Once the house is quiet, I climb into bed with my laptop to search for jobs.
I hate lying to my grandparents, but I couldn’t tell them the real reason I’m here. I’m not simply taking a break from school. I’ve taken a leave of absence so I could come home and try to figure out what to do about Grandpa’s medical bills.
After a lifetime of near-perfect health, this past autumn, he suddenly suffered a heart attack that put him in the hospital. My grandmother frantically called me from the waiting room and I rushed home in the middle of the night, breaking about twenty traffic laws to get there as fast as possible. Luckily, his condition stabilized and after a few days of close monitoring, we took him home to rest. Since then, our lives have become a flurry of doctor’s visits, referrals to specialists, blood work, treatment plans, and endless worry. All of that ends up being very, very expensive, even with my grandparents’ rudimentary insurance plan.
My grandpa is in his sixties and he still works at the same construction company office he’s been with for nearly forty years now. My grandmother was a stay-at-home mother and homemaker. She’s a delicate, sweet woman but she’s never worked outside the house a day in her life except for volunteering around the community. Lately, she’s been hinting that she’s considering looking for work.
I won’t let that happen. Any job that my granny could find nowadays probably wouldn’t pay anywhere near enough to really help. Besides, with Grandpa’s health issues, the last thing I need is for Granny to accidentally hurt or overexert herself at work.
No. I’m going to make this happen on my own, no matter what that means for my future. If I have to drop out and work full-time, I will. It’s the least I can do in return for my grandparents taking care of me since I was thirteen.
The problem is, most jobs I come across wouldn’t get me the cash I need fast enough. It could take years to pay off those gargantuan medical bills, and I just don’t have that kind of time. I keep scrolling down the page of help wanted listings, feeling very discouraged.
Finally, in bold print I see a listing for a job as a waitress at an “adult” club. I sigh, having a pretty good idea of what that might entail. But I know it’s one of the few jobs that might pay better right off the bat. It could be my best shot at raising a lot of money in very little time. I click the posting and fire off my resume, along with a few photos of myself poached from my social media accounts. It’s a long shot, I’m sure. I don’t have any experience in that kind of place. I was a barista at the campus cafe for a couple semesters, but that’s probably not enough.
“Oh well. Worth a try,” I murmur to myself. I change into pajamas and turn off the light.
Just as I’m sliding down under the covers to go to sleep, my phone screen lights up to inform me I have a new email. I slide it open and to my complete shock there’s already a response from the listing authority informing me that I’ve got the job and to report to the club tomorrow evening at 10 PM for my first shift. My stomach twists with anxiety.
It seems too real. Too fast!
I scoff at the addendum at the bottom: wear something black and slutty. Guess I should get used to that.
This is the worst job ever.
An hour ago, I showed up at the club wearing a tight black mini skirt, black crop top, and black kitten heels, with my hair pulled back into a flouncy ponytail. Hell, I even put extra effort into my makeup, giving myself perfectly winged eyeliner and fire-engine-red lips. I got here fifteen minutes early and was hastily greeted by my new boss: a short, potbellied man with greasy hair and a gigantic mole on one cheek. He introduced himself simply as “Mack” and pawned me off on an older waitress with a nametag that said “Sugar.” She did not seem at all enthused to be my trainer for the evening, and within the first half-hour she abandoned me to fend for myself against the crowds of sloppy, handsy middle-aged men.
It’s only eleven o’clock and I’m already on the verge of tears. Over and over again I’ve been shouted at, grabbed at, shoved, and called all kinds of lewd names. Every time it happens, it takes all my inner strength not to turn around and march right out the door.
I mean, I knew this was going to be less than pleasant, but I could never have predicted just how awful it would be. I’m not even one of the dancers, I’m just a waitress. My only job is to shuffle back and forth between the bar and the sweaty black couches where the patrons are seated, carrying beers and paper trays of grease-soaked french fries. The girls twirling and swaying on the stages are mostly out of reach of the patrons, safe under the watchful eye of the bouncers stationed in the dark shadows near the entrance and exit. But as for me? I’m fair game.
“Hey you!” bellows another guy with a stack of one-dollar bills in his meaty fist. I freeze and spin around, forcing myself to smile. He’s got that glassy-eyed look I recognize from frat parties on campus—the very few I’ve attended. He’s drunk. Very drunk.
“Yes, sir?” I ask dutifully, walking over to him. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise and he cracks a toothy grin.
“Sir? Oh, now that’s what I like to hear! Mikey,” he says, elbowing his equally-trashed buddy. “This here pretty thing likes to call me ‘sir.’ Whaddaya think about that?”
“Must be brand new to still have manners like that,” Mikey laughs, his beady eyes raking up and down my body. I feel super exposed in my scant outfit, wishing I had some gigantic blanket to pull around myself. I’ve never thought too much about my body, but suddenly I feel very insecure.
“I love a girl who knows how to treat a man. How to address her superiors,” the first guy says, slurring his words as his beer spills down his arm.
Getting impatient now, I interject, “Can I help you? More beer?”
“How about you come sit on my lap and tell me all about yourself,” Mikey drawls, all but licking his lips at me. I suppress the urge to shudder.
“Sorry, sir, y-you’re not allowed to touch the girls here,” I tell him quietly.
“Oh, don’t worry. We won’t hurt ya,” the other guy promises with a nasty wink.
“No, no, I’m sorry. I gotta go,” I answer quickly, turning and walking away. The men hurl insults after me that I do my best to shut out. They’ll be over it in a minute, I’m sure. They’re too drunk to even remember me.
Just then, there’s an ear-splitting scream from across the club and I swivel around toward the source of the noise. Through the dim lighting I can make out a skinny guy with a lot of tattoos grabbing one of the other girls by the hair, pulling her toward him as she struggles to break away. I clap a hand over my mouth in terror, unable to move.
Almost too quickly to see, a second man, this one dressed all in black, jumps in and throws a hard, resounding punch to the skinny guy’s face, sending him cr
umpling to the floor. The guy in black is one of the bouncers. He puts an arm around the frightened woman and leads her away while the skinny guy stays down. He looks like he’s out cold.
Still frozen in place, I watch as the bouncer escorts the woman toward the back exit of the club, passing me as they go. It’s not until the bouncer looks up and locks eyes with me that I even realize I’ve been staring. And as soon as I see his face, I can’t look away.
To my surprise, he seems to have the same problem. Even as they walk out the back door, he glances back over his shoulder at me, those ocean-blue eyes striking into my soul. I just watched him knock some scumbag out cold and rescue a woman from something horrible, and yet I can’t stop thinking of how gorgeous he is.
The rest of my shift I spend in a daze, and, after the altercation with the bouncer, all the patrons are thankfully subdued. They keep their hands to themselves, and one of them even says “please” to me when asking for another shot of Jack.
When at last three in the morning rolls around and my shift ends, I look around to see if that bouncer is still here, but he’s nowhere to be seen. He must have slipped out at some point. I don’t quite know if I can handle staying on at this job, but for some reason I can’t explain, it almost feels worth it to come back for another shift just on the off chance that I might see him again.
Jane
I wake up to the sound of a knock on my bedroom door and turn over in bed, pushing the sheets back to blink groggily into the morning light. The clock on the wall reads 7:00 AM. In other words, way too early considering I didn’t go to sleep until nearly half past four.
“Yeah?” I manage to croak out, sitting up in bed.
“Good morning! There’s a stack of pancakes waiting for you at the table,” comes my Granny’s sweet voice through the door.
I sigh, rubbing at my eyes. She’s always been an early riser, up at the crack of dawn to get started on her action-packed day of baking, gardening, cleaning, and volunteering at various community outreach programs. I suppose I should just feel lucky that my grandmother is still so active and healthy at her age. Hell, on Saturdays she even swims laps at the public indoor pool.
