Trash Daddy

6. My First Day at a Real Job. I think

”First things first,” Luke says, stopping at the gray and blue horseshoe-shaped desk. ”You got to cover your tits, but not too much. You can”t sell furniture looking like a slut. You need to be sexy, but not too sexy.”

My jaw drops at his words. ”Excuse me, I don”t look like a slut! It”s Florida, in the middle of the summer, and it”s freakin” hot out. I’m wearing a tank top, not running around naked.”

He raises his eyebrows at my last statement, and I roll my eyes. “I’m not running around naked right now,” I huff out.

“Caramel drop, it might be hot outside, but it’s cold in here, and I can see you nipping.” His eyes dip, and I follow his gaze, seeing little bumps from my nipples jut out from my flimsy shirt. Slapping my arms across my chest, I can’t help but feel a bit of déjà vu as, once again, I’m hiding my tits from Luke. I swear I will never know a moment of peace with this man. A piece of fabric smacks my face and wraps itself around my head like a python.

“Put it on, Carmella,” Luke says, amusement in his voice.

Snarling, I yank the cloth off my face and look at the standard black polo. Roughly pulling it over my head, I shove it down into my jeans and tuck it in. An embroidered yellow logo that reads Luke’s sits on the right, above my breast.

“Mmm, you look good with my name on you,” Luke notes. I can feel his eyes wander over my body.

I might actually stab this guy.“Do you always have something to say?”

He drops the grin that”s always attached to his face, and his gaze narrows on me. “It”s not my words you have to watch out for. It”s my silence.”

Turning, he strolls toward the front of the store.

Well, that was fucking ominous. I hurry to catch up.

He walks us between the used couches, headed toward the appliances, gesturing at the displays. ”So, if a customer comes in and wants something new, but I don”t have it on the floor or in the back, then we can order it. But I don”t like messing with orders. It”s a pain in the ass. Sometimes, the customer changes their mind and wants a refund, or we have to exchange the item,” he explains. ”Orders for new products keep me involved with the customers for too long, and the money stays in the air until they get their shit figured out. I prefer we hook them, get them to open their wallets, make that money rain, and get them out. Fuck all the other nonsense.”

”So, customer satisfaction isn”t really your thing,” I observe dryly as we approach the front of the store decorated with rows of gleaming appliances. “Why even have newer products if you don’t want to sell them?”

We reach the front of the store and he pauses, resting his hand on a pristine white dishwasher. ”With any good con, you need a flashy hook to reel them in. That”s why the nice-looking shit’s upfront.” He gestures to the clean, shiny appliances and fake kitchens.”Brings in people with money to spend.”

”So, this is how it works.” He clasps his hands with a little clap. Gone are his mischievous looks, replaced by something more complex and severe. ”A customer comes in and you greet them happily. Make small talk and compliment their clothes, purse, or haircut. I don”t give a shit what you say, just make them think you give a damn. If you can get them to laugh, even better. A shared laugh establishes a sense of trust among idiots.”

I nod, following along. None of this seems complicated. Just be nice and say the right things at the right time. I can do that.

”Listen to me. You’re not just selling furniture. You’re selling yourself as someone customers want to buy from. This is true no matter where you are in life. Selling yourself as someone or even multiple someones to different people will get you through so many doors in life. Repeat to me what I just told you.”

I do, verbatim.

He nods. “Good. Once they are comfortable, you’ll want to find out what they are looking for and their budget. Remind them you are here to help save them money. Everyone likes a bargain, especially if they think working with you is in their interest. You want them to believe that you are the only person who can resolve their problems.”

Luke continues down the list of dos, don’ts, and tips. Sweat dampens my lower back as anxiety grows in my stomach. My lip aches as I bite into it and try to remember everything he says. I want to be good at this, my first real job, which is ridiculous. It’s just a job, but my head is divided. Working here means something to me, and I’m excited to tell Tommy about it later, if I can get him to answer the phone. Tommy is great, but inconsistent, but this experience would mean even more if I had someone to share the news with, like a friend, a roommate, or even a parent. Someone to tell me congrats and how proud they are. That I earned this, even though I didn’t. I hate myself for wanting things like that, makes me hate the people around me who have that type of support. And hating is exhausting.

I”m reaching another significant milestone in my life and I still feel alone.Congrats, girl.

My would-have-been happy occasion is marred by my own desperate situation and Luke’s pervy kindness. A sorrowful cloud of depression brews and darkens my mood. I remind myself that this arrangement won’t last and I won’t always have a source of income. And since I’m not sticking around, it doesn’t matter what Luke thinks of my selling skills. None of this really matters. Even though I wish it could.

I’m always torn between the wish and reality.

I sigh. At the very least, I want to sleep in a bed again, have some money, and go grocery shopping with Luke. It would be nice to take a drive in his cool car, too. It”s the closest thing to real living I”ve had in a long time. So, for that, I”ll try.

For a second, I imagine a different ending for myself, one with a handsome guy with a cool car and we’re cruising along the coast. We’d play music really loud, eat at all the restaurants I’ve never been to, and at night, we would stay in and watch movies. No cops, no Gloria, no courts, and no shitty judges. I could get into my college classes again. My guy would hang out on campus with me. I’d have lots of friends, and when he and I graduated together, he’d propose.

We would move into a beach house, and he’d only ever have eyes for me. At night, he’d hold me, and we would talk about our day, and he’d care. He’d do anything for me. He’d never leave or turn cold, and he would move mountains if needed to be with me. He’d just love me.

Fingers snap twice an inch away from my face and bring me back to the present. “Hey, fucking pay attention. I already know this information. You don’t,” Luke barks, ruining the fantasy.

”Sorry,” I mutter. Embarrassment flames my face, and I avoid Luke”s gaze. If my mystery man just so happened to look slightly like the well-dressed asshole in front of me, it”s because Luke is handsome when he isn”t talking. That”s all. He”s a shady skeeze, not a beach house hero.

It”s weak, wanting to pretend that we are other than we are. Pretending never did anything but disappoint me.

Luke gives me an annoyed glance before continuing, ”The goal is to steer the customer clear of the newer products and guide them to the used ones. If they are looking for a matching dining set, I have six of them. Get them to buy used.”

”Why?” I ask, definitely not staring at his mouth as he licks his lips and smooths down his mustache.

”Because the used stuff is all profit. I pay next to nothing for those pieces. Any used item sold comes with an as-is, no-return policy, and that makes my life easier.”

Outside, a car pulls into the drive and rolls to a stop at the front of the store. A couple sits in the front of the red four-door.

Luke notices my attention on the incoming customers. ”If you do get a sale for a new product instead of used, wave me down. I will teach you how to mark up prices and include hidden fees. That way, we at least get something out of it.”

See, girl, shady Luke, very shady Luke.”So, we are scamming people?” I ask. The couple gets out of the car and heads to the door.

He grins. ”Consider it a challenge, not a scam. You”re learning to be smarter than everyone else, stacking the deck in your favor, hustling before you get hustled.” He boops me on the nose. My head pulls back in horror. Dude did not just boop me like I’m a child. He gives me an ornery smirk before continuing, ”Be leaner, meaner, and wiser. Watch and learn, caramel drop.” My brows pull down as I snarl at him and rub the spot where he touched me.

Plastering on a big, welcoming smile, he heads for the couple and holds the door open for them before they reach it. I roll my eyes at his back but follow his lead, trailing behind him.

After shaking their hands and casually commenting on the brand of the man”s boots with approval, Luke dives into what brings them to his store. He seems genuinely intrigued by the couple”s search for a used dishwasher that would fit the dimensions of their older model, which has fallen apart beyond repair.

He nods along with their explanation and “hmmms” in sympathy when they lament how many other places they have checked and their lack of funds to pay for the fancy imported ones small enough to fit into the designated space in their apartment.

”Well, I”m not going to have anything that fits those dimensions out on the floor, but I might have one in the shop. Please feel free to browse around while I check. C”mon, Carmella,” Luke says.

My head snaps up at the mention of my name, and I give the couple a polite smile as I step around them. As we head to the back door, I ask in a hushed tone, ”Is it cool to just leave them in there?”

He shrugs. ”They”re on camera. And, anyway, what are they going to do? Shove a toaster down their pants? Pry my safe out of the wall… steal my empty cash register?”

”To be fair, that was kind of my plan,” I remind him.

Luke”s face scrunches up as he snorts. ”Yeah, and if I remember correctly, it”s been pointed out how terrible of a burglar you are.”

Humid heat hits me in the face as the back door swings open, and the familiar background noise of seagulls and traffic swirl around me. Sweat immediately slicks my body. The smell of hot blacktop and fishy salt water reaches my nose. We walk across the cracked and crumbling pale asphalt of the back lot and approach a long, narrow, white building that runs the length of Luke”s store. “Wait, this is yours, too?” I ask him.

“It”s extra storage and my workshop.” Keys clink together as he retrieves them from a pocket.

Green shrubbery grows up the sides of the walls, ivy creeps along the corners, nestling into every crevice it can find, and the grass hasn”t been cut in some time. An air of abandonment clings to the place as paint flakes off in patches, revealing wooden side paneling. The only thing that doesn”t look like it”s about to fall off this place are the wrought-iron security bars that fit snugly against windows painted so that not even the casual passerby can see what”s inside. Hmmmm. Definitely crack-shack vibes.

Glancing over my shoulder, I notice some of the outside cameras aren’t just pointed at the store lot. Nine of them are nestled up high on the store and storage building like perched birds.The cameras don’t just take in the store parking lots; they cover the streets, the alleyway, this side building, and probably a good portion of the other storefronts across the street as well. That”s not alarming at all. How did I miss all of those last night? I really am a bad burglar.

Another question pops into my mind. Why so many cameras both inside and out? Alarm creeps through my body as we stop in front of a weathered door. A thick industrial-looking lock dangles from a latch clasp. Below that sits two deadbolts and a door handle that requires a key. A two-car garage entrance that doesn”t look like it”s been opened for years is rusted next to the door and also padlocked from the outside. Okay. What the fuck?

Luke systematically unlocks the door, going down the line of security measures, and pushes it open, waving me to step ahead of him. “Ladies first.”

“You’re not going to lock it behind me, are you?”

“If I were planning on it, I wouldn’t tell you.” His pearly white teeth shine at me, as that stupid grin he always wears spreads across his face. Muttering about how much bullshit this is, I step inside the dark building.

I can make out a free-standing shelf littered with dusty grime-covered mechanical parts in various stages of rust. The smell of old motor oil, citrusy oranges, and wet concrete hangs heavy in the air. “I don”t hear any screams from chained-up women, so that”s good,” I call out.

Luke barks a laugh from right behind me. “I keep them drugged and gagged. That”s why it”s quiet.” He flips on a switch.

I blink as light suddenly fills the space. Huh, it really is a workshop.

Spare parts to an assortment of mechanical equipment lay strewn everywhere. Empty refrigerators, washers, and dryers are disassembled or tipped on their sides. Some are gutted, and others look brand new and are still in their cardboard boxes. Tools line shelves and are hung up along the wall. Snaking cables run under my feet and off into the maze of items. Bedroom furniture, microwaves, tables, and large mirrors are stacked along one wall. The shop is strangely cool, and the sound of a running air conditioner comes from deep within the building. Mismatched lawn furniture and a gray back seat of an SUV sit in front of the garage door in a half circle like some long-forgotten hang-out pad.

I nod toward the front part of the shop, where I can just barely see the outline of pallets, spare tires, and a big dolly for moving them. “What”s back there?”

Luke is crouched next to a compact dishwasher, tape measure stretched out. Eyebrows raised, he glances in the direction of the front of the shop and shrugs. The tape makes a metallic wobbling rustle sound as it rushes back into itself with a click. “More product for the show floor.”

“Where do you get all this stuff?”

“Some is delivered. Some I find. Some I buy.”

“Find. Like, you actually find some of the furniture you sell? Like, set out next to the curb type of find? Is it the new stuff that gets delivered?”

Luke runs a hand across his face and sighs. “Someone is curious. You know what they say about curiosity. I’m sure the ladies tied up in the other room can answer all your questions about what I keep over there. Now, grab that two-wheeler dolly behind you.”

“Har har, you”re not funny.” It”s my turn to sigh as I grab the green dolly and wheel it over to Luke. “Will this one fit in their space?”

“Yeah, let”s load it up.”

“That”s good, then.” Luke tips the dishwater up slightly so I can slide the dolly under it.

“Good for us, not so much for them. It mostly works. I wasn’t willing to pay for the replacement part.”

I scrunch up my nose. ”So what now?”

He looks up at me from his squatted position. ”Better a half-working dishwasher that only needs one part than no dishwasher at all.”

”Are you going to discount it for them?”

He frowns at me. ”It”s like you haven”t been listening at all today.”

We get the dishwasher rolled back into the main showroom, and Luke places it in front of the couple. Reassuring them that it does work, he plugs it in and all the lights come on. It makes the right engaging noises, which satisfies the couple, and they ask for the price. “Well, I like you two, and I know you’ve had a rough time, but this isn’t an easy-to-find piece. I’ll let it go for two hundred.”

The couple and Luke haggle good-naturedly for a minute. I shake my head as he sells it to them for one-fifty, half broken and only sometimes working. He does give them the website where they can buy repair parts just in case they need it. I’m half impressed by how fast he made a sale and half guilty knowing they are going to need that website sooner rather than later.

And so the day goes—an endless stream of people looking for all kinds of household items, furniture, and appliances. I”m so busy welcoming people and practicing selling my personality that the hours fly by. It”s impressive that Luke manages all this by himself, especially since it isn’t the most honest work.

I quickly notice that Luke doesn’t put the price on anything, forcing me to go look everything up. They are priced ridiculously high and I question him about it, and he whispers that this is on purpose so we can artificially slash them to sweeten the sales. Which makes sense.

We win some customers, and we lose some. Three of those wins come directly from me, and I”m proud of myself. Luke”s a good teacher and is surprisingly honest about his “techniques,” allowing me to duplicate them.

Luke”s hustle is more like a performance than a job, and everyone shows up for the show. He thrives under the attention and thrill of winning over customers. The ladies love his flirting, and the men laugh at most of his jokes. I bet he was super popular in high school.

It”s five pm before I know it, and my first official day is done. I feel a little guilty about the price markups, but that diminishes when Luke tells me that for every sale I finalize, he”ll give me a ten percent commission on top of my pay. I”m going to sell broken furniture all day.

The bolts slide in place as Luke locks the front door and turns the neon closed sign on. The sun is beginning its leisurely descent, and all I want to do is lie down. I lean back in the black spinning chair behind the front-counter desk.

Luke steps around the counter. ”Hey, doll, why don”t you run the vacuum and tidy this place up while I do this paperwork? We will get food and groceries after.”

“Do you mind if I make a call real quick?” I ask.

He pauses before taking his seat and gives me a look. “Who’re you calling?”

Telling him about my sort-of-boyfriend is on the tip of my tongue when I bite it back. It’s shitty, but Luke likes me and is giving me things I’m in need of. I’d love a shower and a chance to replace some of the essentials I’m running low on. The last thing I want to do is provide him with a reason to not give me my money.

I shrug, casual like. “Just a friend I check in with regularly, so they know I’m not dead.”

His face scrunches up like somehow my answer put a bad taste in his mouth. He spins around to his computer, brows still furrowed. “A friend, huh? Sure, okay.”

Pushing the rolly chair over to the corded phone, I snag it out of the cradle and punch in the numbers I know by heart. A bubble of nerves rises in my chest. I hope Tommy answers this time. Loud ringing trills in my ear once, twice, three times. My lip stings as I bite and tear at the dried skin, and after the sixth ring, I’ve resigned myself to this being the third missed call in as many weeks when Tommy picks up the phone.

“Who’s this?” he demands.

“It’s me. Carmella. Hey, how are you?” I cringe, my voice is a little too happy and high-pitched.

“Oh, hey, baby. Now isn’t a great time.”

I can hear masculine chatter in the background and a round of laughter, probably several of Tommy’s buddies hanging out at his place. Imagining them all sitting around, making plans on where to best sell their newest batch of street drugs, which girl they are going to fuck, or what house would be the easiest to rob, makes me roll my eyes. Those are the typical topics, and their conversations tend to eat up evenings and early mornings as they sit around getting higher, drunker, and spewing more bullshit. But according to Tommy, this is his business. Personally, I think his friends are all dumb as fuck and he could do better.

“It’s been a minute since I’ve heard from you and I have some news,” I say, trying to brush off the sting of his dismissal.

“Yeah? That’s cool, babe. Hey, Judo, is Bax still coming through tonight?” Tommy asks his buddy.

I don’t think I’ve ever met a Judo. “I found some work. First real...” A round of laughter detonates in my ear as a bunch of men all start talking over each other.

“Hey, babe, call me later, yeah?”

Before I can say, “Sure, no problem,” he’s hung up, leaving me still holding the phone. Love you too, dickhead.

Sighing, I rise from the chair. I”m exhausted, my feet hurt, I”m hungry, and my conversation with Tommy has left me wanting. No, not just wanting, rather craving connection. There is no joy in cleaning, especially not now. At this point, I don”t even want to go for a ride. All I want is a shower and to sleep for a hundred years. I fight back the looming cloud of depression that is never too far off.

A dusty chemical smell greets me from the closet when I pull out the vacuum and dust spray to wipe down some of the dirtier tables I noticed. I don’t know if it’s my conversation with Tommy or the smell that teases a memory to the surface of my mind, one I haven”t thought about in a long time.

”Go on, it”s through there,” my new foster mother tells me. She seems nice, but bored, like I”m taking up her time. Wishing she would look at me, I open the door to my new temporary bedroom; the bottles of cleaning solution rattle in the mop bucket I hold. The room is wooden and brown. A twin bed and a lamp on a small bedside table sit off to one side. The only other furniture is a dresser set and chair, also brown and wooden. It”s not the ugliest room I”ve ever seen, and it”s all mine. I don”t have to share. I smile at my new temporary mom, hoping she will know that I”m not disappointed.

But she isn”t looking at me. She stares at her phone, and realizing that the door is open, walks past me, dropping the trash bags of my clothes and other items on the floor just inside the room. ”I didn”t get the chance to clean in here, so you”ll have to. Dinner won”t be for a couple more hours, so you have time. I”ll get you some blankets. Just stay up here until I come to get you. We have mice and roaches, so don”t leave any food in your room.” With that, she walks out, firmly shutting the door behind her. She didn’t look at me once.

Staring into the supply closet, I try to shake off the coldness of the memory. That room was miserable, and I was miserable in it, sweltering in the summer and frozen in the winter. It wasn”t the temperature that haunted me, though.

It was the loneliness of the place. I cried for my real mom and dad in that room until dinner was ready. I would”ve loved it if someone had held me, pushed back my hair, and promised me it’d all be okay. But the image of that wooden door shutting on me so resolutely after my parents died taught me things about life and my own importance that I wasn”t ready to know at eight years old. I just wanted my new mom to like me.

That house wasn”t the worst place I”ve ever stayed, but the isolation nearly killed me. No matter how much I cleaned that room, the smell of dust and chemicals lingered. I couldn”t go to any of the family events or play with her other kids’ toys. The siblings I could”ve had barely spoke to me, forcing school and that room to become my entire life. That was the second time I considered suicide as a reasonable option, even at eight years old.

Every damn day, that woman and her kids made me feel invisible.

Bile turns in my stomach, and I quickly grab anything else I need and slam the door. More memories start to flicker in my mind from that year: coming home with a broken arm and no one caring for days until it was purple, getting into my first fight and being expelled. Faster, the unwanted thoughts are slammed to the forefront of my mind—the first time I cut because I couldn”t stand the feelings in my body and having to explain to my elementary teacher that my new cat scratched me. Her unbelieving eyes followed me all that year.

I feel hot and shaky. The need to panic and run thrashes through me. To do anything other than stand there while the memories flood me. My mouth begins to salivate from the nausea gripping me. Invisible pressure squeezes my chest, and I try to breathe through the mounting panic attack. Anxiety ripples through my body, making my legs shake.

My panicked breaths are loud, and I”m terrified of Luke finding me like this. The store is so open, he could see how broken I am. Vulnerability washes over me. ”Hey, Luke,” I shout, forcing a laugh into my voice, hoping it hides the strain. ”Can we listen to some music?”

”Sure thing, buttercup, give me a second.” His voice floats to me from the desk.

Hurrying, I begin spraying down any surface I can find and wiping them in long, slow strokes, up and down, ensuring I get every inch. I throw myself into the work with a desperation only the broken know. The knot in my stomach starts to loosen with the cleaning rhythm and my controlled breathing.

“Neon Signs” by Suki Waterhouse begins to play overhead, and I”m more than a little surprised by the choice. The sultry, moody melody is soothing, easing the tension in me little by little as I commit the lyrics to memory.

I expected Luke to listen to old-school rock, rap, or even aggressive modern rock, but this alternative sound is a pleasant surprise. My breathing slowly returns to normal as I bop along with his playlist and let the music carry away all those horrible memories.