Small nonprofit searching for a bookkeeper/receptionist. Part-time but full-time possible if it works out.
Another no. I need a company that has the funds to pay me a living wage. I appreciate all the good things that nonprofits do, but I’m not interested in eating ramen for the rest of my life just so some kids can have an afterschool program. I don’t even know what this particular nonprofit does, but I’m not interested.
There are postings for salespeople, but I know myself well enough to realize that I’m horrible at sales. I don’t like to talk to people, much less try to get them to part with their money. I roll my eyes and glance around the room.
My apartment is small, but it feels like home. My kitchen is pushed right up next to my living room, so I can see the stove from where I’m sitting. Out the window, I have a fabulous view of the parking lot with all its modest cars. I’m living the dream.
“Why is this so hard?” I demand of no one. I’m all alone and drowning in my own guilt.
The last time I saw Francisco, he invited me to a party. I’ve been to his house several times since then, and received a formal invitation. He’s really going all out. The problem is that I’m not sure I want to go.
Theoretically, the party is for Frankie to celebrate his success in school. But I’m not sure. It seems more like something Francisco Senior is throwing together to impress me. I know he’s rich, and I get the feeling that he’s dangerous. He’s also incredibly attractive; much more so than his son. But that’s where I’ve got to draw the line.
The more time I spend with them, the more paranoid I become. I don’t want to go to this party, and I don’t want to continue tutoring Frankie. He can find another tutor, I tell myself. He’ll do fine without me. I’m just not the right person for the job, and I know it.
I find myself teetering on the edge of panic whenever I go over to that house. It rubs me the wrong way–all those burly men standing still, guarding whatever door Francisco is behind. They’re obviously mafia; there’s no question in my mind anymore. And if Francisco isn’t the Don, he’s pretty high up. Everyone defers to Francisco and walks on eggshells around him. That’s not the kind of energy I want in my life right now, and I’ve decided to make a break for it.
If I can find another job, then I’ll simply tell Frankie that I’m moving on. It might be difficult to extract myself, but the longer I stay, the worse it’s going to get. That means I have to get out ASAP. But the classifieds aren’t helping. There isn’t a single interesting job in the entire city that I’m qualified for. I’m getting frustrated, and a quick check of the time at the bottom of my computer screen tells me that the party is coming up.
I pick up my phone and call Rebecca. She’s much more social than I am, and she should have some ideas about how to tactfully decline an invitation.
“Hey, girl,” I say when she answers.
“Hey, stranger,” she teases. “What are you up to?”
“Just looking for jobs,” I answer with a sigh.
“What for? I thought you were tutoring Mr. Cutie,” Rebecca jokes.
“I never called him Mr. Cutie,” I remind her. “And I’m done with that gig. I need something real. Something normal.”
“Normal is boring,” Rebecca scoffs.
My phone call is interrupted by a knock at the door. Who could be looking for me at home? I’m not aware that anyone knows where I live.
“Hang on,” I tell Rebecca, setting the phone down. I open the door to find a skinny man dressed in a business suit. He looks suspicious, but I can’t put my finger on why. Maybe it’s the curve of his nose, or the way he squints. Whatever it is, I don’t trust him. “Can I help you?” I ask, hoping he’s got the wrong address.
“Ms. Mancini?” he asks.
I swallow. My voice wobbles as I answer. “Yes.”
The man turns around and picks up a large white box that had been resting against the side of the door. I didn’t even see it there. I’ve been so focused on the stranger. He hands the box to me, and I struggle to lift it. It’s not that heavy, but it’s huge.
The man turns to go, and I yell after him. “Wait! Do I have to sign for it?”
“No, ma’am,” he replies, giving me a gentle nod.
I smile at him, relieved to have concluded our business so quickly. I set the box down on the couch and look at it. Then I remember that Rebecca’s on the phone. I pick up my cell and check to make sure that she’s still on the line.
“Hello?” I ask.
“I’m here,” she sings cheerfully. “What was that?”
“It’s a package,” I respond curiously.
“What’s in it?” Rebecca asks.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
