As I put on some mascara, my phone dings with an answer.
[11:06]Fallon:So cute!
[11:06]Fallon:Did you finally get out of that gas station job??
[11:07]: Auto shop lol
[11:07]: And no, I’m still there
[11:07]: The museum is just a volunteer thing
[11:08]Fallon:Ooh I see haha
[11:08]Fallon:Still no luck on the job front?
[11:08]: Nothing yet, but getting closer!
(That’s a tiny lie, but I’m hoping karma will overlook it.)
[11:08]Fallon:Yay!
[11:08]Fallon:You’re way too smart to be a secretary forever lmao
She sends a string of emojis afterward, the one with the girl wearing a graduation cap. I bite my lip.
[11:09]: Lol
[11:09]: What are you up to this weekend?
I wait a few minutes, but she doesn’t answer. I turn back to the mirror and apply another layer of mascara, feeling a bit squicky inside. Talking to Fallon does that to me sometimes. Out of our group, she was the one I was closest to in university. She had this way about her, this sort of sparkly, infectious energy, and whenever we used to talk about the future she would grin at me and tell me we were destined for great things. I know she’s disappointed in me for winding up where I am. Sometimes it seems like she’s my alter ego, like a successful version of me. I’m really happy for her, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes it makes it sort of painful to talk to her.
I sigh and give my head a little shake. Jealously is a bad color on anyone, and I’m not going to become one of those people who resents anyone who’s better than them. I need to use Fallon as a source of inspiration, not resentment. I’m going to find a job that I love as much as she loves hers, and I’m going to live in a big, exciting city and achieve all the great things she always said that I would. And in the meantime... in the meantime, I’m going to have a little silly fun at the local barrel-making museum.
I nod determinedly at my reflection and head out to my car. I arrive at the museum thirty minutes before my shift, just in case I need to do any training before I start, but the manager, Shelley, just sits me at the front desk and shows me where the cashbox is.
“Do you take credit cards?” I ask.
“The machine’s broken,” she says, scowling like the machine is personally conspiring against her. “I’ll be in the back if you need anything.”
She heads off before I can think of any more questions. I’m a bit nervous to be left on my own already, but at the same time,I’m glad I don’t have to work beside her all day. She seems a tad unpleasant.
I straighten out the pamphlets on the desk, clean a coffee stain off the cashbox, and then count all the money in it so I can make sure the balance is correct at the end of my shift. Then I sit up straight and wait, eagerly, for someone to show up.
But fifteen minutes pass by and the place is as empty as it was when I arrived. I think yesterday might have been an anomaly. The sun is out today, and although plenty of people walk by, no one even glances at the museum.
Tucking the cashbox in a drawer, I get up and take a quick spin of the place. I know it’s just a small, kind of random museum, but it really is incredible. I feel like I’ve been transported back a hundred years. The floors are made of thin hardwood planks that creak underfoot, and the glass in the windows is warped with age. And whoever designed the exhibits clearly knew what they were doing. As you move through the rooms, they take you through the history of barrel-making, ending in the largest room in the back, where the barrel-maker was doing demonstrations yesterday. He isn’t here today, though. Maybe he only comes on Saturdays.
My footsteps echo as I loop the rooms once, then again. I reread all the little placards that explain all the different tools and peer out the windows to the enormous yard in the back. It’s really beautiful, with a few big shady trees and a pier overlooking the water. It’s a shame they don’t use it as part of the museum. They could put in a barrel-themed playground for kids. Maybe in the summer they could even put a barbecue out there and sell burgers and hot dogs.
“Hello?” calls a voice.
I jump and hurry back to my desk, where two middle-aged women are waiting.
“Hi!” I say brightly. “Did you want to buy tickets to the museum?”
“Oh, no,” one of the women says. “Do you have a bathroom?”
I hesitate—something tells me Shelley wouldn’t approve of this—then nod. There’s nothing worse than being stuck somewhere and having to pee, and something tells me these two women are tourists. “Of course,” I say. “It’s right through there.”
