8. CHAPTER SEVEN #2
“Well,” I replied, my voice down to a whisper, “I’m Zorro.”
“Bahahahaha!” Mike sputtered.
“Shut up, dick!”
He took a second to calm down. “Yo, my cheeks hurt now. Fucking Zorro. That’s classic, Brady. I can’t wait.”
“Thanks, man. I hate you, too.”
“You’ll be fine. I’ll get your outfit for you. I’ll grab it this weekend.”
I spent the next several days regretting the decision to try such a ridiculous get-rich-quick scheme.
It was just really fucking hard to find a decent job when the season was already underway.
In the resort world, my split from my dad had turned into fodder for the gossip mill, so none of the big chefs in the area wanted to work with me.
The stories were so exaggerated, ranging from me screaming in his face in public dining to me pulling a butcher knife on him in the kitchen, like some kind of psychotic monster.
I got a Zoom interview for a Market Research Analyst position with a firm based in New York City, but it wasn’t for another two weeks (since the recruiter was on vacation) and would also require a second round interview live in midtown Manhattan, if I got that far in the process.
That job had solid earning potential, but the hiring process would probably take the entire summer.
See, that was the thing. The long-term employment opportunities were never a quick fix, and since I hadn’t really been prepared financially to get kicked out of my living situation at the hands of my fucknut father, I found myself struggling – and out of cash – a lot sooner than I expected to be.
Sure, I could use my credit cards, but if there’s one thing I know from my background in economics, it’s not to abuse credit.
Don’t spend what you don’t have , my freshman year econ professor warned. I always took that advice to heart.
Which is why, when Big Mike said he had an idea for a way to get me paid quickly and in cash, I listened. Sure, it sounded suspect. But I wouldn’t have to sleep with anyone. The job was simply to dance for 30 minutes to an hour and make the women feel attractive.
$800 for 60 minutes or less? Fine, I decide now, after a (thorough) shower, a toasted English muffin with butter, and a glass of water from the tap. Maybe it was worth it.
It’s just as I’m turning off the faucet from washing my plate in the sink that I hear keys jingling out in the hallway. Before I can stop myself, I grab the dishtowel and dry my hands, then swing my door open and pop my head out.
Gretchen startles, dropping her tote bag by accident. “Shit!” she seethes. “You fucking scared me!”
I study her. Same color hair. She’s wearing a pair of sweatpants and an oversized UMass t-shirt.
She could be coming from anywhere. Until – shit, there it is – I notice the mermaid scales on the underwear that spilled out of her bag onto the ground.
She bends down to pick up her things, hastily sweeping the panties back into the bag.
Then, she stands up and looks at me. I’m awkwardly facing her, each standing at our apartment doors. Wordless.
Until –
“You!” we both scream and point in unison.
“I knew it was you!” I exclaim.
“How is this what you’re doing on a Friday night?” she retorts.
“Shh,” I admonish her. “Keep your voice down.”
“You’re the one sneaking up on people in the middle of the night, popping out of your condo like a fucking Whack-a Mole!”
Just then, the door down the hall opens and our massive neighbor, the one with the dog that shits everywhere, steps out into the hallway.
“Yo,” he says, in a voice so deep it sounds cavernous, like the great and powerful Oz.
“Can the two of you please have a little respect? Some of us are trying to sleep.”
Gretchen’s eyes bug out, as if there’s something she wants to say.
I glare at her, trying to silently warn her that perhaps now is not the time for her to air whatever grievances she might have about this particular giant (who stands at least 6’5”) when I am the only one around to protect her from being murdered here in the hallway.
“Yeah, man. Got you. Sorry,” I say, and he shuts his door with a grunt.
I walk toward Gretchen. It’s about a dozen steps. “I knew it was you,” I repeat, more quietly this time.
“What are you doing working as a stripper ?” she replies, louder than I’d like. I’m not interested in engaging with the gargantuan down the hall again.
“Shh,” I whisper. “We should have this conversation inside.”
“Inside where?” she asks, as if I’ve just suggested we hop in a rocket ship and fly to the moon together.
“Your house? My house? I don’t care,” I say.
“Not my house,” she declares.
“Fine – my house. Just not here,” I murmur.
She sighs. It’s not exactly a sound of acquiescence. More like – I’m not sure – relief, maybe? She gives me a pretty hard side eye, like she’s contemplating whether I might be a murderer.
“You were fine barging into my house weeks ago,” I remind her.
“I thought you were Luis.”
“Okay, well, I’m going to go in there,” I whisper, pointing into my condo. “If you decide you’d like to discuss this like mature adults, you know where to find me. But I am not going to stay out here and get clubbed to death by that neanderthal.” I jut my chin out towards the C apartment.
Gretchen sighs dramatically. “Fine. Let me put this down. Hang on.” She fumbles to put the key in the lock, turns it, drops her bag and follows me back to my condo, keys in hand.
She steps inside, closing the door behind her quietly.
“Well?” she says, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Go ahead.”
I narrow my gaze at her. “Summer, huh?”
“I’m sorry, Zorro, ” she replies, smirking.
“Why the name change?” I wonder aloud. “Is it just so people don’t know that it’s you?”
“I wish,” she says. “Apparently my name is not acceptable.”
“According to who?”
“Arrow. She’s my boss. The one who was screaming at you in the parking lot?”
“Ahh. I see.”
“But is that the real elephant in the room, though?”
“What? You working at a strip club?”
“It’s not a strip club. And even if it was, mine was not the junkbucket on full display tonight,” she says.
“No? You just walk around in your underthings on the street, then?”
“Not on the street. Only in the studio,” she responds. “But at least my dumptruck was fully covered. That’s more than I can say for you, my friend. You and the ol’ dick in the box really caught me by surprise.”
At this, I can’t help but laugh. “Um, you and me both. I feel like you were suffering an identity crisis. Is she Ariel? Is she a gecko? You were like a walking riddle tonight – what’s green, shiny, and wobbles when it walks?”
“Excuse me!” Gretchen retorts. “I was trying out new shoes! You of all people should know how hard it is for me to walk in heels. And the snake mask was courtesy of the bride , thank you very much.”
“It seems like every time I see you, you’re about to fall down.”
“Not right now,” she points out.
“No, I guess that’s true.”
She folds her arms across her chest and sizes me up.
“What?”
“It’s just, the last time I was standing here, you were kind of a dick. And this time is proving to be more of the same.”
“No, I wasn’t. You were the one who stormed in here, telling me when and where I could use my power tools. I was actually quite delightful.”
“This is a sad turn of events. First, he goes off to become a stripper. Then, he develops early onset dementia.”
“I think I know why you’re so salty,” I reply.
“I’m not salty.”
“You like me.”
“Gross.”
“Fine. You want to like me. You thought I was the hottest Zorro you ever saw.”
“Correction: you are the only Zorro I’ve ever seen.”
“And now that we work in the same industry, you want to be friends with me.”
“I would never be friends with you, Brady. You’re the reason I’m in this industry in the first place!” She gives me a tart look.
“How’s that, exactly?”
Gretchen huffs. “Please. Let’s not rehash it.” She puts up a hand and takes a step towards the door.
“Wait! Don’t go,” I say.
“Why not?” she snaps, flipping that fiery hair over her shoulder and looking at me with a sneer.
“I just think we’ve got more to discuss, that’s all. And I genuinely don’t understand why you say you would never be friends with me.”
Gretchen groans with resignation, turning back to face me.
“Well, if you’re going to trap me here, I suppose I’m welcome to check the refrigerator for snacks.
” She walks the few steps into the miniscule kitchen and swings the fridge door open wide.
“Yikes,” she says. “Slim pickings, huh?” She holds up a half-eaten jar of pickles.
“Don’t eat those,” I say. “They’re not mine.”
“Whose are they?” Gretchen laughs.
“Those belong to Luis. He didn’t clean out his condiments before leaving.”
“So, your fridge is basically empty and you can’t even claim the condiments as your own?”
“I have oatmeal if you want some. Or microwave popcorn.”
“Popcorn, please.”
I grab a package of movie-theater popcorn from the pantry and toss it in the microwave. As it pops, Gretchen hoists herself up to sit on my kitchen counter, next to the sink.
“Make yourself at home,” I comment.
“Thanks,” she says, not picking up on my sarcasm. Or, possibly, just ignoring it. “So,” she begins.
“So,” I reply. Pop, pop, pop. The scent of butter begins to permeate the airspace.
“Far cry from private dining, huh?”
“Yeah, I’d say so.”
“I guess Daddy gave you a flexible schedule so you could go parade your tubesteak around for the almost-married contingent of the Outer Cape?”
I laugh, pleasantly surprised with her humorous observation. “No, princess. Or should I call you Chicken of the Sea?” She snickers at the quip. “I haven’t worked at the Diamond Excelsior since our last time there together, actually.”
“Wait – what?”
“You heard me.”
“Why not? Did you quit?”
“Far from it. My fabulous father fired me.”
“Really?”
“Indeed,” I say. The corn pops like fireworks, not a far off metaphor from the sparks I felt flying around Gretchen before she snapped off my eye-mask earlier.
Somehow she’s even cuter now, perched on my kitchen counter like she lives here or something.
“Why? Was it because of me?”
“Nah.” I figure she doesn’t need to know that she was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. “I had it coming.”
“Really? But you always seemed so… uptight. Professional. Like a neurotic penguin in your fancy suit.”
“Neurotic? That’s real high praise,” I say. “And it was a uniform. If anyone should understand about a uniform, it should be you, Fishnets McGee.” Smirking, I take the popcorn out of the microwave and carefully pull apart the edges of the bag. Then, I hand it to Gretchen. “Careful. It’s hot.”
She accepts it and places it in her lap. “I’m serious,” she goes on. “Believe it or not, I actually didn’t hate you – until you fired me.”
“Wait.” I let her words sink in. “ Fired you?”
“Yeah,” she says, sheepishly. “After the David Krumholtz thing.”
“I never fired you. I came back out with new table linens and you were gone.”
“You called me Stumbelina and told me to stop crying.”
“I know. But I didn’t fire you. I thought you still worked there.”
“No. Your dad told me you wanted me to leave. Once I cleaned up the mess, I went back into the kitchen and Chef Brax told me I should go.”
“So, he fired you.” I consider this new piece of information. “Seriously? He had no right to do that. It was my job to manage the wait staff.”
“He specifically said that you wanted me gone – immediately. He told me that if I put up a fight or made a scene, he’d call the police. And I couldn’t risk him doing that, because my dad’s the police chief in Eastport, and word travels fast on Cape Cod.”
“What a fucking asshole. First of all, he would never intentionally bring the cops to the restaurant – that’s just ridiculous.
Secondly, I never said any of that!” I insist, feeling my blood boil.
“I swear, Gretchen. I felt bad about what happened to you. Anyway, that night I came home – back then, I lived with my dad – and he fired me, too, and kicked me out of the house.”
“Which is how you ended up subletting from Luis.”
“Exactly.”
“Wow. Brady, your dad’s a real taint.”
I laugh. It’s such an accurate depiction. “You’re right. Point is, it wasn’t me. I would never have let you go for tripping, even if you did spill the steamers on a celebrity. You were doing me a favor, working outside of your station at the pub.”
“I just assumed you were mad. Your dad was furious, and even when he wasn't in crisis mode, he was always intimidating. So I kind of assumed that you could get angry like that, too. Or, rather, that you would get angry. Sorry,” she rambles. “I’m just surprised. I really thought you fired me. He said it with such rage. I thought you were both just assholes. No offense.”
“Oh, believe me, none taken,” I say. “I’m sorry you thought that. I guess that explains why you had such an ax to grind with me when I moved in here.”
“Can you blame me?”
“No. I suppose not,” I concede, grabbing a handful of popcorn and putting a few pieces in my mouth. “Anyway, I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. Glad we cleared the air, though.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”
She sets the half-empty popcorn bag down on the counter and hops down. “Well, this has been enlightening. But I've got to go. I’m beat.”
I nod, feeling my throat constrict.
She walks to the door. “It feels weird.”
“Which part?”
“The not hating you thing,” she says. “It’s going to take some getting used to.”
“Well, you know what they say.”
“What’s that?” she asks, with her hand on the doorknob.
“Practice makes perfect,” I grin.
She smiles. “Tell that to your dance moves,” she says, raising her eyebrows.
She shoves her hand into the pocket of her sweatpants and pulls out a crumpled dollar bill.
Tossing it on the floor with the same motion one might use for a mic drop, she smirks at me and says, “Night, Zorro.” Then, she slips away, leaving me bemused, awash in the scent of popcorn, listening to the echo of her apartment door opening and closing behind her in the hallway.