Chapter 8 #2
“Okay. I . . . I need to go to the bank just up the road and . . .” I sighed. “I’ll be back later.”
I walked two blocks to the bank and set up an account.
I deposited the check from the dealership, then purchased a cashier’s check to send to Cy for what I owed him in lawyer fees and the fine he paid to get my car out of impound, plus the new phone.
That left me very little in the account.
Especially after making a withdrawal for the car repair.
On the way back to the parts store, I stopped in at two clothing boutiques to see if they were hiring. They were not. Then I tried at a deli, who also said no. At least it killed some time and I only ended up waiting in the store for about an hour.
With the day still fairly young and me still fairly broke, I riffled through my bag for the list I’d made last night of places hiring and started with the closest. Waiting tables was not my dream job, but beggars can’t be choosers.
The Caddy fired right up this time, and I was able to get on with my task at hand without any more vehicle incidents.
Straightening my long skirt, I made my way into a bistro on the water near Shem Creek.
The interior was dim and cool, blocking out the humid day just outside, and the air hung heavy with the savory scent of smoked brisket.
Workers were busy setting up for lunch but in no time I was sitting in a back booth, filling out a pretty straightforward application.
Name and address, level of education completed, but then it got tricky with wanting employment history.
I hadn’t worked since before Fern was born.
Finally, I wrote down my brief job history: convenience store cashier and tattoo parlor receptionist. Both jobs were in the customer service industry, so maybe that would work in my favor.
I flipped the paper over and my eyes landed on the dreaded question.
Do you have any felony convictions? The answer to that question would definitely not work in my favor.
Smoothing my thumb along the top of each fingernail, I glanced around at the mostly-twenty-somethings who made up the waitstaff. On paper, I fit the aesthetic. Except for that one question.
The rehab center had a workshop where professionals came in to educate us on how to live productive lives after being released back into the world.
Job applications were covered and one volunteer advised us to put “will discuss during the interview,” but in my mind that only drew out the inevitable.
Tapping the pen on the paper, I debated until simply writing yes.
In less than twenty minutes, I was back in the Caddy after the manager gave me a simple no.
I placed my head against the steering wheel and groaned. “I just want to go back to bed.”
After a few minutes of going back and forth about whether to go home or to keep searching, I straightened in the seat and checked my list for the name of the next restaurant.
The afternoon turned into a repeated pattern of no as I zigzagged up and down Coleman Boulevard to no avail, but who could blame them for not wanting to hire a felon?
With very little gumption, I pulled into the parking lot of the last restaurant on my list. I tried smoothing the wrinkles from my skirt, but it was no use. It was as if all that fresh optimism from this morning had gotten lost in those wrinkles.
A woman wrapping silverware greeted me. “Sorry, but we don’t open for another hour.”
“I’m actually here to apply for a job.”
“Oh. Okay. Let me get the manager.” She dropped the bundle of silverware and crossed to the back. She returned moments later with another woman around the same age.
“Hi. Dee said you’re looking for a job?”
“Yes.”
“We have a few openings with the waitstaff.” She handed me an application and led me to the bar to fill it out. “I’ll be back by shortly.” She hurried off without even telling me her name, but it didn’t matter. I already knew this was a bad idea.
Instead of starting on the application right away, I read over the frozen cocktail specials written on a blackboard.
Drink of the Day. Lowcountry Lemonade: vodka, triple sec, lemon juice, strawberry puree, and simple syrup. Served over crushed ice.
Suddenly parched, I tore my eyes away from the sign only to latch onto the whirl of vibrantly colored slushies as the machines churned them. Blue Lagoon. Pineapple Paradise. Margarita. Planter’s Punch.
“Hey, beautiful. Can I get you a glass?” The bartender came into view and motioned toward the row of slushies.
“Oh, uh.” Frazzled and closer to saying yes than I should be, I smiled half-heartedly. “No thanks.”
“Let me know if you change your mind. Name’s Chance.”
Goodness gracious. Today, I’d set out looking for a chance, just not one in the form of a handsome bartender. Shaking my head, I refocused on the job application.
Or I tried, because that frozen cocktail machine had consumed me. I could all but taste the icy sweet beverage slipping down my throat, the slight bite of alcohol warming behind the cool.
Painfully tempted, to the point my jaw ached from clenching it, I silently prayed, Please, God, take away my taste for unhealthy things.
I started each day with this prayer and at the moment I needed a second helping of it.
Overwhelmed and with a headache pounding behind my eyeballs, I left the form incomplete on the bar and snuck out when the bartender turned his back to me.
Overwhelmed and beyond frustrated, I eased into traffic and came to a stop at a red light. Staring at the blue-and-white South Carolina license plate in front of me, I read my state’s motto.
While I breathe, I hope.
Some days, I felt like I could barely breathe, much less hope.
White-knuckling the steering wheel, I glared at the license plate and yelled, “Is a job too much to hope for?”
Apparently so.
With all my cares to give gone, I returned to Sullivan’s Island.
In a last-ditch effort, I decided to stop by the community message board to see if anyone was looking for a housekeeper or something, anything.
The large board didn’t have a blank space on it, filled with flyers for festivals and such.
I perused them until my eyes landed on one with the cutest puppy on it.
Figuring it was for a lost dog, I moved the paper beside it out of the way and read over the details.
Seeking dog walker. I liked dogs okay and had always wanted one as a child but my parents were never in one place long enough to get me one.
Rereading the details on the flyer, an idea came to me. A humbling one, but an idea, nevertheless.