2. CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER ONE
GRETCHEN
“ S o, what exactly happened? Just run me through it so I can jot down some notes.”
I sigh. “Well, I suppose it started with the tray of appetizers I dropped in David Krumholtz’s lap.”
The note-taker – Brenda Dinghy, Employment Specialist, according to the nameplate on the desk – chokes on her cherry Fanta.
Coughing into her elbow, she grabs the bottle of fluorescent red soda and I can’t help but notice the way it matches my current hair color as she takes a sip.
She clears her throat. “I’m sorry, Gretchen.
Did you say David Krumholtz? As in the actor? ”
I nod. “Yep. He was in private dining.”
“You won’t believe this. I met him once,” Brenda whispers. She wipes her brow with the back of her bare wrist, as if the coughing has suddenly catapulted her into a hot flash. “I had a massive crush on him when I was a kid.”
“Oh?” The question escapes my lips unintentionally. This is not the reaction I was expecting.
“ Yes ,” she seethes. “Did you ever see The Santa Clause ? With Tim Allen? David Krumholtz played Bernard and it was the hottest reimagining of an elf I had ever seen to that point. ”
To that point? I struggle not to laugh. “So, how’d you meet him?” I ask, indulging her.
“Well.” She straightens up in her chair.
“It wasn’t until later. I was in college at UCLA, and when I found out The Santa Clause 2 was coming out, I stood outside the El Capitan Theatre in Hollywood on the day of the premiere.
I nearly died when I saw him. Of course, he was more of a man by then and less of an elf. ”
“Right.” I nod, choking back a giggle. “Of course.”
“Anyway. I screamed his name, and he was kind enough to come over and say hi.”
“That’s nice.”
“I was wearing a Santa hat, and he signed it for me.” She sighs, awash in a new-to-me brand of teenage elfin-heartthrob memories. “So? How did he look? Was he with his wife? I’ve seen pictures of her online. She’s gorgeous. ”
“No,” I say. “He was with some execs from Apple TV. They looked Hollywood-fancy, but I don’t know who they were.”
She leans in and lowers her voice. “I read they were filming at the Diamond Excelsior. There was a whole thing about it in the Cape Cod Times . I can’t believe you got to see him.”
“Yeah. I mean, I guess it would have been cooler if it hadn’t ended with me losing my job.”
“Yes. Of course.” She nods. Her fingernails tap away at the keyboard. “Gretch-en An-drews,” she dictates. “Okay, tell me exactly what happened.”
“Well, if you’re working in private dining, you have to wear heels.
And I can’t walk in heels. I told the manager, Brady, but he said, ‘Rules are rules.’ I wasn’t supposed to work in that section of the hotel.
I’m usually down in the pub, but they put me there because the top server was out sick.
” I take a breath, exhaling hard, like you do when the doctor puts a stethoscope to your chest. “You can wear normal shoes at the pub. I don’t even have heels; Brady gave me a loaner pair.
Anyway, long story short, David Krumholtz ordered a plate of steamers, and one of the other guys ordered the lobster mac and cheese.
I was bringing the tray out from the kitchen and I turned my ankle. Everything spilled all over his lap.”
Brenda stifles a laugh. At this point, I’m used to it. Everyone thinks it’s just so funny. “And, so, now…” Her voice trails off.
“So, I’ve tried to find work but you know how it is on the Cape.
Tragic news travels fast. They’re calling me the blazing lobjob.
The celebrity scrotum scorcher. The hot clam splasher.
The list goes on.” I look at my feet, scraping my sensible sneaker against the industrial grey carpet.
“Brady belittled me. In front of everyone. I was on the floor covered in sizzling fish juice and instead of helping me up, he just humiliated me.” I fight back the urge to cry, remembering how his highness called me Stumbelina in front of David Fucking Krumholtz.
Brady’s father, Chef Braxton Hawthorne, manages the culinary team for the country club and is a grade-A douchebaguette.
His minions can only speak to him in subordinate phrases: “Yes, Chef! Heard that, Chef!” as if this was the military and the troop was about to go into full-fledged combat over the best way to flambè the fondue.
I’ve heard horror stories of him verbally assaulting Brady on many occasions, leaving me to imagine that the kumquat didn’t fall far from the tree.
It’s a shame, too, because Brady would otherwise be considered quite the snack, what with his sculpted jawline and latte-colored eyes.
I swallow what feels like a golf ball and run my fingers through my pomegranate-streaked hair. “It’s crazy,” I say to Brenda. “For a place with an economy that thrives on tourism, you’d think I’d have no trouble finding a job during the busy season.”
She nods. “Have you considered looking outside of the service industry?”
I shake my head. “I have school loans to pay off. And a mortgage. Not to mention, I owe my parents five grand. I can’t move to a desk job.”
Brenda raises an eyebrow.
“No offense,” I continue. “The tips are just too good to pass up.”
As she taps her fingers on her computer keyboard, whispering “ser-vice in-dus-try on-ly” to herself, I take in my surroundings.
The Hyannis Career Center is so drab. Located in a strip mall off Main Street, it’s nestled between a vape shop and a now-defunct furniture rental center.
The inside matches the outside: neutral cinderblock walls, old metal desks, one other employee stationed by a communal microwave, a single patron using the copy machine (which has metal bars over it like a jail cell and costs 25 cents per page).
By the door, the world’s noisiest oscillating fan fails to cool down the claustrophobic space.
And in the center of it all sits Brenda, the hyper-sexed elf aficionado, tippity-tapping away in her database of dream jobs for a klutzerfuck like myself .
Not exactly an advertisement for a family getaway in paradise.
“How far from Brewster are you willing to travel?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’d like to stay in the lower Cape, ideally.”
“Hm.” She scrolls the wheel on her extinct mouse with an excited pointer finger. “I’m not seeing much,” Brenda says. “If you had come to me three weeks ago, I would’ve had a whole lot more to offer.”
“I know,” I reply. “Peak season’s already here.” My shoulders slump. I feel the weight of what she’s not saying. Take what you can get, Gretchen.
“Exactly. The good-paying jobs have all been scooped up.” She takes another sip of the Fanta. “Even the not-so-great jobs are mostly gone. You don’t want to work at the bowling alley, right?”
“No, thanks,” I say, a knee-jerk reaction. Tears begin to build in my eyes. I look up at the drop ceiling, focusing on the water stains, refusing to allow myself to get upset.
Brenda offers me a sympathetic smile. “I’ll put your resume into our system,” she says, handing me a business card. “And you can check our website for updates whenever you’d like. Sometimes new opportunities come up during the season. J-1s leave, you know. People get canned.”
“You’re sure there’s no way I can file for unemployment?” I ask. I can hear the desperation in my shaky voice. “It’s almost June 1 st , and I’ve got a slew of bills due. ”
“Sorry, honey,” she says. To her credit, she genuinely does look apologetic. “When you’re fired for cause, there’s really not much you can do.”
I nod.
“What are you studying?” she asks, perusing my resume.
“Teaching,” I say.
“Elementary?”
“Early childhood. I’d like to teach kindergarten.”
“What about tutoring?”
I shake my head. “Not in the summer. There’s no market for it here.”
She nods. “I can see that. Well, at least you know you’ll get a job once you finish your Master’s degree.”
“I hope. I’ve only got one class left, assuming I can pay for it.”
“Listen, Gretchen. You seem like a smart girl. I’m sure you’ll find something. You sure you don’t want me to add summer camps into your search criteria?”
“I’m sure. The pay is so bad, I could make more babysitting,” I say. If I had any clients who didn’t have full-time nannies booked for the season.
“Okay, suit yourself.” She types a bit more, and looks up at me, satisfied, once she’s done. “Chin up. It’ll all work out. I have a good feeling.”
I try not to consider how many poor souls she’s said those exact words to.
“Can I ask you one more thing?” Brenda says, smirking now.
“Sure.”
“What did he do? ”
“Huh?”
“David Krumholtz? When you clammed him?”
I shake my head. “Yelled out some expletives. Jumped up and shook off his pants.”
“Did he ask if you were okay?”
“Uh huh. He was as nice as someone could be in that kind of circumstance. I’m sure it hurt. The dish was hot.”
Brenda swoons. “I’m not surprised. Class act, that guy.”
“I guess,” I shrug, pulling my hair back and twisting it into a messy bun with a claw clip. “We didn’t really interact once he took his pants off.”
Her eyes threaten to launch out of her skull. “He did what ?”
“It was private dining. There were only a few of us in the room.”
“Well played, Gretchen. I’ve got to say, if you have to lose a job, that’s the way to do it.
Was he…” She points to her crotch, which I’m guessing means she’s asking me about the size of his candy cane and jingle bells, but I’ve about had it.
Thoughts of the bank foreclosing on my condo swirl around in my overcrowded brain.
I pause to consider life as a full-time resident of my 15-year-old Ford Fiesta.
It is not a pleasant thought.
“Thanks for your help, Brenda,” I say, turning toward the exit.
“Keep in touch. New stuff pops up every day,” she calls after me.
I reach my hand up to offer a limp wave goodbye.
As I push my way out into the warm, midday air, my phone buzzes.
I check; it’s an e-mail from UMass reminding me about my past-due student loan payment.
Armed with the knowledge that I have $443 in my checking account and a credit card bill of well over $2,000, along with exactly zero receivables pending, I ignore the hunger pangs in my belly and head back home where a box of store-brand Toasty O’s and almond milk await me.
Once in my car, the phone buzzes again. This time, it’s a text from Jenna.
How goes the job search?
Spectacular, I reply. I just got a bottle service gig at the Chatham Bars Inn.
Is that even a thing? she asks.
My thumbs fly across the screen. Probably not. Nothing new here. Why, you got any leads?
Three dots. Then a pause. Then, three more dots.
Possibly. Depends.
On?
Three more dots.
Well… how open minded are you?