by Lexi Whitlow
“A job application,” I say, offering my best, all-business smile. “I’m Maddie James, and I’m the hardest working girl in South Carolina.”
The man grins slyly, then laughs. “Is that a fact?” he asks, eyebrows raised. “What kinda work you used to doin’?”
“I wait tables,” I chirp. “Tend bar. Bar back. I can even work the fry line in a pinch, but it’s hard on my skin. I do better out front.”
He leans forward, resting his forearms on the bar, checking me out thoroughly. “Darlin’, I would never hide you on the fry line. You’ve got too many positive attributes to waste in the kitchen.”
Darlin’? Did he really just call me ‘darlin’?
“Darlin’,” I say, leaning into the word for emphasis. “You don’t have imagination enough to number my best attributes. Do I have the job or not?”
“You’re a firecracker,” he laughs, rolling his eyes. “You want the job before you even know what it is? Where the hell are you from, girl? You just get out of some Yankee prison?”
I shift my glance to the side windows and the stunning view of the marshes beyond, stretching as far as the eye can see. “I’m from Indiana,” I admit. “And where I come from, there’s nowhere to work with a view like that. I heard this place was popular, and I know I can earn my keep if I’m waiting tables or tending bar. I need a job. You have a help wanted sign posted, and I don’t see a line of pretty girls standing here ready to fight me for it.”
He licks his lips, stepping back. “In three weeks, when school lets out and every college girl from New Jersey to Tallahassee descends on this place, they will be lined up, and they will fight you for it,” he says. He picks up a bar rag, polishing the glossy wood. “Three dinner shifts a week, plus three lunch shifts. $4.50 an hour and you keep your tips. There’s opening and closing side work with each shift, so get in early and don’t plan to go home before two a.m. If you get along and don’t fuck up, if management likes you, you’ll pick up more dinner shifts when the season starts in May. Most new hires get cut in September when the season ends. No promises after that.” He levels me in his gaze. “Can you start tomorrow?”
I put out my hand. “What time?”
“Eleven,” he says, gripping to shake. He’s got a firm grip. “You’ll shadow for one shift, then you’re in it. The menu’s easy. Nothing complicated to learn. The hardest part is when the tourists come and start ordering weird drinks. You’re a Yankee, so you probably got that down already.
Probably.
“We’ll do paperwork when you get here tomorrow,” he says. “I’m Ronny. I own the place.” He reaches to the side, procuring a menu from a stand at the end of the bar. “Try to memorize this tonight, and don’t be late tomorrow.”
I take the menu, ebullient that I got a job so soon. Things are looking up. I could kiss Ronny, but that would be inappropriate.
“I won’t be late,” I promise. “And you won’t be disappointed.”
“Better not be,” he replies, half-grinning. “You’ll do alright. Keep that firecracker personality front and center for the customers, and you’ll have a fan club by middle of the season. Treat our regulars well, and you’ll make better money than you’ve probably ever made waiting tables. Flo’s ain’t a bad place to work, but it is work.”
I don’t mind work. I’ve been working since I was thirteen years-old.
I’ve got this.
Chapter 2
Jeb
Manuel’s crew beat us in, but I’m pretty sure my crew pulled a bigger haul. We’ve got about seven tons of the prettiest, sweetest, Maiden Island oysters stacked head high across five skiffs dipping so deep in the water we’re dragging bottom. Manuel’s crew brought in almost as much, and the third crew brought in five tons. Todays the last day we can legally harvest our stock, so I called up every able-bodied soul I could hire. Once everything is processed and packed, it’ll be the best payday we’ve seen since we started this venture, seven years ago last August.
I’ve been on the salt since before dawn. It’s been a long damn day and I could use a cold beer and a hot shower. Instead I’ve got another two hours to off-load the haul, clean them, and get them on ice. We’ll ship everything out tomorrow and then take a few days off before we start re-seeding the beds with green shell and baby oysters. This business never stops, but it does slow down after the season closes.
Gliding my catamaran around the last bend in the river, pointing her toward home, I spot Stu’s truck parked by the landing. He’s leaning on the grill, arms crossed, waiting. He’ll have to wait a while longer. I still have work to do.
Stu and I have been best friends since we were little kids. He leases a hundred acres of farmland from me growing organic vegetables, fruit trees, and berries. He and I are in a similar business; we work our asses off producing top-quality, sustainably produced, local food for a high-dollar tourist market that’s willing to pay for something they really don’t understand the first thing about.
“That’s a big haul,” Stu calls out, grabbing my line, pulling me in, tying my boat off.
“It is,” I call back. “That guy in Miami said he’d take anything I don’t have a buyer for. He’s offered a blank check, so we cleaned up the whole stock. The water’s cool and clean. They taste good. Best crop so far.”
I’m not just bragging. It’s true. Every year our Sweet Maiden oysters get better and better. They taste like briny, nutty, butter, finished with an orgasm of pure seafood perfection. The best sex in the world can’t hold a candle to my oysters.
“Pack this shit in and let’s got to Flo’s,” Stu says, securing a heavy cage filled with mature oysters to the hydraulic lift on the dock. “Ronny was at the market this morning buying produce, and he said he hired a couple new girls, real firecrackers. He said we should check ‘em out.”
I shake him off. “Son, I have miles to go before I’m done. We’ve got to get these girls on ice before the sun sets.”
Stu grins. “All work and no play makes Jeb a dull boy. Show me what you want me to do. I ain’t going to the bar alone.”
He’s my best friend and the only man I know willing to work uncompensated for a chance to get to the bar with his buddy an hour earlier than is otherwise possible. Stu and I are cut from the same cloth; both of us expecting to work before we play. The thing is, I don’t think much about play at all. Stu’s the only reason I even get out anymore.
“Boss, go!” Manuel says, stepping off the dock onto my catamaran, hefting a small cage over his shoulder. “We’ve got plenty people to finish everything. You and Mr. Stuart go!”
It’s tempting. I know I can trust Manuel to run the whole operation blindfolded, but that’s just not how I roll. I don’t walk away when there’s work to be done. I don’t ask anyone to do anything I’m not prepared to do first. I shake my head, slapping him on the back. “Not a chance, compañero. I ain’t that easy to get rid of.”
When the work is finished the shop floor is stacked with columns of coolers packed so tight we can hardly walk between them. I’m damn near overcome with a sense of personal accomplishment that feels a lot like bursting pride. The boys and I all take a step back to have a final look. The floor is scrubbed clean. The walls are hosed down. There are a half million oysters on ice, counted, packed, and labeled, ready to put on trucks, ship overnight via UPS, or deliver to the airport in the morning. This is the payday that proves my “wild scheme” worked. Seven years ago, everyone in town thought I was crazy, mortgaging Blanc-Bleu to finance an oyster hatchery. They said I would lose everything. They were wrong, and this last haul of the season proves it. Next week I’ll be able to pay off the mortgage and buy a new boat to add to our ramshackle fleet of oyster haulers. I’m not so crazy after all.
“Let’s go get cleaned up and get a cold one at Flo’s,” Stu says as I send the crew off with cash pay and a handshake. “Since you’re the new king of the ACE Basin, you’re buying.”
I roll my eyes. Some Charleston food writer called
me that a few months ago and now no one will let me live it down. The good press we’ve gotten from foodies in Charleston, Savannah, Beaufort, and even Atlanta, has been great, but I could have gone my whole life without being called ‘king’ of anything. I don’t live like a king, and I don’t want any of my neighbors thinking I’m getting a big head.
Flo’s is busy, but nothing like as busy as it’ll be when the season opens, and the tourists pour into town. Tonight it’s an even mix of locals and visitors. It’s easy to tell the difference. The locals are calloused and tanned dark, dressed in jeans, faded t-shirts, and shoes made for working. The tourists – men and women – dress in pressed, pastel colors with shiny shoes that advertise “more money than sense.” They’ve got soft hands, lots of credit cards, and two week’s vacation they’re compelled to pack with as much relaxation and entertainment as their credit limits will tolerate.
Stu points out our regular stools near the end of the bar. Before we can take our seats, Ronny has already served up two cold beers in glasses in front of us.
“This a new IPA from Salt Marsh Brewing down in Bluffton,” he says. “We’re trying it out on friends first, before we put it on the menu. I don’t think it sucks, but I’m not much of a beer dude.”
I’ve been waiting for this all day. He could lay down a Miller Lite and I’d think it was alright. I down half the glass in one good swallow, not tasting anything special. My taste buds are sunburned from being out on the salt since oh-dark-thirty.
“That’s nice,” Stu says, sipping like a gentleman, sniffing lightly. “It’s hoppy. A little sweet. It’ll pair well with shellfish and anything fried or salty. The finish is a touch light for my taste, but I’m not a huge fan of IPA’s. They’re all a light at the end.”
Ronny and I both shake our heads at Stu, rolling our eyes in unison. Stu spends half his days working the farmer’s market tent, hanging out with chefs and pretentious foodies. He’s picking up their habits.
“What?” Stu asks. “Ronny asked for an opinion.”
I stifle a laugh. “And you gave him a review that sounded like it came straight out of Low Country Weekly.”
“Says the man who discusses the distinctions between bivalves like he’s talking about Single-Malt Scotch or French wine.”
Ronny grins. “He’s got a point, Jeb.”
“He does,” I admit. That’s because oysters are as distinct as good Scotch or fine wine, and mine are the finest of the fine.
Just then a pretty Latina girl with dark, almond set eyes and smooth, olive colored skin steps up to the bar beside Stu, laying down an order slip, sliding it over to Ronny. She’s tall and leggy, with long, straight black hair bound in a ponytail tied with purple ribbon. She’s wearing cut-off jean shorts and a tight Flo’s t-shirt. Her long, manicured nails match her hair ribbon. Her name tag says “Ally,” and she’s new.
“Four-top at seventeen. They want all manner of frou-frou,” she says, indicating that the patrons are tourists who prefer their drinks sweet, colorful, and expensive. I’m surprised by her accent. She sounds like a Beaufort belle instead of a recent arrival from south of the border.
“On it,” Ronny says, then dips his head toward Stu and me. “This is Ally. She started last week. Ally; Stu and Jeb. Pretty regular here. Take care of ‘em.”
She nods, glancing at us briefly, then returns her gaze to the bar. “I already know who they are. Everybody knows who they are.”
Ronny laughs, shooing her off. Then he calls out after her, “Send Maddie over here when you pass her. I need to go get some ice.”
Stu turns, following her with a shameless leer as she sashays away, head held high. When she’s finally out of sight he turns back to Ronny with a pained expression. “Everybody knows who we are? What the fuck does that mean?”
Ronny grins. “She’s a local. Raised here. Graduated Beaufort High School and went to USC. I think her brother works on one of Jeb’s crews.”
He does? “Who’s her brother?” I ask.
“Manny Guzman,” Ronny says. “I think that’s right.”
“Manuel?” I ask, then I realize who she is. “Alejandra. Manuel’s little sister. The one who went to law school.”
Ronny nods. “The very one,” he says.
“But she went to law school,” I repeat. “What’s she doing waiting tables?”
He shakes his head. “No papers,” he says. “She can’t even take the bar exam, much less practice. Things were different when she started school. The Dreamers were expecting to get naturalized. The rug got pulled out from under her when she was almost done. Maybe in a few years it’ll improve. Until then, she’s not really working here.” He mixes a fancy drink, stirring it, popping an umbrella on the rim. “It’s fucked up. I’ve known the family a long time. She grew up just down the street from me.”
That is fucked up. Manuel brags on her constantly; his brilliant little sister who graduated first in her high school class, got scholarships to college, earned her JD in just two years. She’s the family’s pride and joy. A smart girl like that shouldn’t be stuck waiting tables. Then again, a hard-working, clever guy like Manuel shouldn’t be stuck running a crew of sunburned ne’er do well’s out on the salt in all kinds of weather. If Manuel had his green card, he’d be running his own business, making way better money than me.
The ways of this world are random and wretchedly unfair.
“Ally said you needed me?”
I look to my left. Another new girl; this one ash-blond and fair skinned with pale blue eyes, a half-dozen, thin wire earrings trailing up the helix of her ear, and a tiny gold nose ring piercing a nostril, stands to my left, leaning forward on the bar. She’s got a small, script tattoo on her hand, nestled just between her thumb and forefinger. It reads “Justin.” Even with all the wires, hoops, and little bit of ink, she may be the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Her jawline, where it turns to meet the nape of her long, graceful neck looks as downy soft as a lamb’s ear.
“I need to go to the back and get some ice before we get busy,” Ronny says. “Can you finish these drinks and cover the bar ‘til I get back?”
She nods, coming around behind us, ducking under the counter break to take Ronny’s place at the mix station. She picks up where Ronny left off, expertly mixing three more colorful concoctions with umbrellas and sweet swizzle sticks, popping the finished product on a tray for delivery. I watch her walk the order to the table, carrying the tray gracefully as she glides along in tight, calf-clinging jeans, wearing black-and-white checked Converse Chucks that have seen better days. She’s curvy in all the right places and none of the wrong ones, with a flat belly and firm, round ass that…
“Oh, my lord,” Stu croons near my ear. “I do believe that’s the first time I’ve ever seen you slack-jawed, gawking at a girl, speechless.”
I am speechless. I’m also painfully aware that this girl looks so far out of my league I wouldn’t even attempt a base hit. She’s Big City. She’s probably a college girl, here for the summer. Her daddy’s probably a judge or a CEO. Justin is probably her fiancée, and probably drives a fancy sports car. She didn’t even glance my way. Why would she?
A guy at the table where she’s laying down drinks leans back behind her, checking out her ass. She stops what she’s doing, takes a step back, smiles coolly and says (without missing a beat), “Hey Jack, my tits are up here. Try to keep up. You can check out my ass when I’m walking away. That’s the smooth way to do it.”
Jack laughs nervously, blushing crimson. His wife blanches the color of bleached beach sand. The other two at the table laugh at ‘Jack,’ while the girl flips her tray into her other hand and skips back toward us. She looks my way, watching me watch her, and all at once I feel my own face flush.
“You need a fresh beer?” she asks, passing by on her way around, behind the bar. “You look like you’re looking for something, so I figure it must be a beer.”
Her accent is northern. It’s vague, unremarkable. She sounds
almost like some talking head on T.V.
“Another IPA for me,” I say. “And whatever he wants.”
She pulls my beer while waiting for Stu to make up his mind. He’s studying the menu board like it’s got winning lottery numbers hidden in it.
“I’m growing old here, friend,” she says to Stu, pushing my beer forward. “Any slower on the decision end and we’ll be moving backwards in time.”
She’s prickly. I like it.
“Where are you from?” I ask, finding my courage. “You’re not from the East Coast. From the Midwest somewhere?”
“I’ll take a Guinness,” Stu says, lacking anything more original to request. He’s as flummoxed as I am.
The girl – her name tag says “Maddie” – levels a judgy glare at me over the Guinness tap while she pulls Stu’s beer.
“Where am I from?” she repeats. “Is that the best line you could come up with? For sure, a slick guy like you can do better than that?”
She’s really prickly.
“It’s… It’s not a line,” I mumble lamely. Of course it was a line; and it sucked. “I’m genuinely curious. I like to know where people are from… why they come here.”
She rolls her eyes ever-so-slightly, sighing patiently. “Genuinely curious,” she says, repeating again, almost mocking me. “Right. So… I’m from Indy, as if that has any bearing whatsoever on whether I can get your order right or pull a beer with a perfect head. I live here now, so get used to seeing my face. I’m not ‘summer people.’ The palmetto trees and yokel accents are growing on me. The relentless, unimaginative pick-up lines, not so much.”
She’s not prickly. She’s a human porcupine masquerading as the most beautiful, sharpest tongued girl I’ve ever met in my life.
Ally comes up again, dropping off two more drink orders. Maddie gets to work ignoring us. A few minutes later, Ronny reappears hauling two, twenty-gallon bins of ice on his shoulders. He pours the cubed contents into the freezer chest with a deafening crash, sending Maddie back out onto the floor to check her tables and count her tips.
