Two large cracks marred the screen of my four-year-old iPhone. My shoulders dropped. I had no money to fix it. I squeezed my eyes shut, blocking the moisture that wanted to escape. I wasnotgoing to cry. I had one more stop, and it could be the one that ended my run of bad luck, because that’s all it was, right? Just an unfortunate chain of events that freakily happened one straight after the other. I didn’t really believe that, but carrying the I’m-not-good-enough mindset into this last stop wasn’t going to help me get a job. Others could smell self-doubt.Chin up, Faith.
Before I could put my phone back into my bag, it dinged with a message.Momster. Against my better judgment, I opened it. It was worse than I thought. Not only was it not a last-second message of support, it was a picture of my stepsister wearing her office getup. I didn’t bother responding that she wore stripper heels, and her mid-thigh-length skirt was so tight that if she sat down, her underwear would be very visible. Her pink shirt was pretty but was a size or two too small in the upper, mountainous region, the space between the buttons gaping. If they popped, someone was going to lose an eye. The pic was accompanied by text:This would get you more jobs. Love, Mom.
Maybe not the jobs she thought, but I wasn’t telling her that.
I dropped my phone, successfully this time, into my bag, banishing it from sight. Raising my umbrella and my head, I straightened my back and set off for Café Nero. When my sock squished, I ignored it. I wasn’t a total loser. I could do this. Besides, I wasn’t shooting too high. A barista job would mean money to help Amy with the bills—it wouldn’t be enough to get my own place, but it was a start. It would also mean discounted coffee and hot chocolates… maybe.
I turned onto East 27thStreet and spied the café. Finally.
Being late afternoon, there were only a handful of people occupying tables and one person standing at the counter, waiting to beserved. I lowered my long, black umbrella and closed it, then took my last stapled resume—all two pages of it—out of my bag.
Here went nothing.
I smiled, hoping it made me look less tired. I stood in line. A well-dressed executive-looking woman in her late forties with shiny auburn, just-from-the-salon hair ordered her coffee. I was next. The young guy behind the counter took her order and passed it to the barista to his right, but instead of asking what I wanted, he decided to take a short vacation. He turned to his co-worker. “Did you get the ingredients for the burgers?”
He stopped making coffees to answer. Great, now he was distracting the whole production line. “I couldn’t get the onions. They ran out.”
His forehead wrinkled, and he rolled his eyes. “Who runs out of onions? It’s literally the easiest thing to get, man.”
The barista shrugged. “Not our day, bud. What can I say? The burgers will still be fine, won’t they?”
My own personal torturer scratched his head. “Ahhhh, I think so, man.”
For crying out loud. I eyed the door to the bathrooms and squeezed my pelvic floor. I was edging from needing-to-go territory to busting, about-to-have-a-gushing accident territory. I squeezed my waterlogged toes in my wet sock—that reminder of water wasn’t helping either.
Argh. I wanted to interrupt, but that might turn them against me, and I needed a job, like yesterday. I shuffled my feet side to side. Maybe some subtle movement would attract attention without seeming rude?
“Yeah, it’ll be fine. Onions, shmonions. Am I right?” The barista chuckled.
“Yeah, onions, shmonions.” The cashier fist-bumped his friend, and I wanted to fist bump both their heads.
In case they decided to discuss what beverage was or wasn’t being served tonight, I shot my hand in the air, which just happened to be holding my resume. This was me waving my white flag, begging for mercy.
The guy supposedly manning the register finally looked at me. The nerves I suffered every time I had to ask for a job had disappeared. At least being frustrated and desperate for the restroom was good for something. “What can I get you?”
The barista chose then to froth some milk, so I had to talk loudly. “I was wondering if you had any job openings. I have experience as a barista and server, and I have a degree in marketing. I can make coffees and do social media. Bonus, right?” I was selling it. Or maybe not. He didn’t look nearly as impressed as he should. I held up my résumé again. “Could you give this to the boss, please?” The barista stopped frothing halfway through my sentence, and now I was yelling in a quiet café. The woman waiting for her coffee and the couple at a table near the windows stared at me. At least I hadn’t wet myself yet.
He took the resume. “Yeah, sure. I don’t think we need anyone right now, but you never know.” He smiled, taking the edge off the rejection.
“Ah, okay. Thanks. I’m kind of desperate, but it is what it is. Can I grab a hot chocolate and a chocolate donut?” How pathetic was I on a scale of one to ten? Thirty-seven rejections in two days. Was it some kind of record? If Brandy could see me now, she’d be smirking. I pushed her image out of my mind so I could wallow in private.
The server gave me a sympathetic look and rang up my order. Trying not to show my disappointment, I paid and stood to the side, considering whether I had time to rush to the powder room while they made my order.
Looked like tomorrow was another day of pounding thepavement. At this rate, I’d be back at Momster’s in no time. The few freelance marketing jobs I’d done since being fired from Piranha Advertising were small. How long until Amy had had enough of me staying in her study? I needed more money, stat.
Another man walked in and came straight to the counter. Tall, bulky, and wearing a beanie the same color as his black beard, he looked like he meant business. He turned to the lady next to me and pulled a knife from the front pouch of his maroon hoodie. “Give me your wallet and phone.”
Oh shit. I sucked in a breath as my stomach dropped, and my thoughts went a bazillion miles an hour, my near-to-bursting bladder momentarily forgotten. The expensively dressed woman stared at him, her mouth open, obviously shocked. She might be able to afford to give up her belongings in a monetary sense, but she was just as human as me, and the way her face paled showed she was terrified.
“Hurry up!” He waved the huge knife toward the guy manning the counter. “Give me everything in the register.” Everything? More like $2.75 and some muffin crumbs. Hardly anyone carried cash these days. Being an online scammer was where it was at for thieves—times were tough for muggers. And why was I thinking this when a violent criminal was here trying to rob all of us? Those guys, doing their jobs—albeit slowly and frustratingly—all of us, minding our own business. Howdarehe.
Adrenaline flooded my body. Anger heated my cheeks, and because in fight-or-flight circumstances, my mouth wanted to fight—and no one had a donut to shove in it to save me from myself—out the lecture came. “How dare you! Why don’t you work like the rest of us, or get online and steal like a civilized criminal? Who do you think you are, coming in here and waving a knife around? What would your mother say?” As if my day hadn’t been bad enough, this guy had to double down.
The rich woman next to me, who’d managed to pull her LouisVuitton wallet from her handbag, gasped. Her eyes widened, and she gave me a small headshake, warning me to zip it. Maybe she had a point.
Mugger dude swung around and pointed the knife at me, hovering it a few inches from my face. “I said, give me your wallet and phone, and shut the fuck up. I’m not playing.”
Heart racing, pee leak threatening, and bluster fading, I took my phone and wallet from my bag. My wallet contained approximately five bucks fifty—after I’d paid for the hot chocolate and donut—and some discount cards. My debit card was on my phone, which reminded me—would I still be able to access it with the cracked screen?
