The positive pregnancy test in my hand says otherwise.
Someone bangs on the bathroom door and I jolt in alarm.
“Wait your turn,” I yell through the door.
“You’ve been in there for twenty minutes,” a person barks back. “Are you shitting out your guts or what?”
With a heavy sigh of frustration, I throw the test in the trash and quickly finish up. After washing my hands in the stained sink, I dry them on my jeans since there aren’t any paper towels.
Are you sure you want to work here?
Not really, but I’m running out of options.
I fling open the door and a woman with tanned, excessively wrinkled skin shoots me a nasty glare. As I walk out, she shuffles past me reeking of stale cigarette smoke and some kind of liquor. Bile creeps up my throat and I swallow it down, quickly putting distance between the two of us.
This is how I knew something was wrong.
Everything smells awful.
The crinkly yellow plastic bag that held my pregnancy test hangs out of my half-open purse and I quickly shove it down,hiding it. Before coming to my interview, I used my last two crumply dollars to buy the test.
I’ve done a lot of stupid crap in my lifetime, but this feels like the ultimate low.
Pregnant. Homeless. Jobless. Hungry.
My stomach grumbles at that thought.
I could go back home. Beg for help. Suck up my feelings about my parents and sister just to get what I need.
But at what cost? My sanity?
Rock music somehow makes it through the buzzing in my ears, bringing my focus to the here and now. One thing at a time, and the first one is finding a job. A few guys drinking near the bar skim their eyes over my chest, interest flickering in their gazes. I’m fully aware that my tits have gotten bigger, and apparently, they’re a fan.
“I’m looking for a manager,” I say to the guy behind the bar.
He’s wearing big eyeglasses that make his eyes seem bigger than they are. His dishwater hair is combed over, and he keeps licking his thin lips that are covered in sores. Gross.
“I’m the manager,” he says. “The name’s Barry. You got a problem, young lady?”
I’m grateful he doesn’t offer his hand for a shake. He gives me the ick.
“There’s a sign on the door that says you’re hiring a dishwasher.” I shudder when one of the tit-looker guys blows a plume of smoke at me. It’s on the tip of my tongue to lash out at the man, but I really need the money. “I’m looking for a job.”
Barry’s enormous eyes drop to my tits that are straining in my T-shirt, and he licks his lips again. Between the smoke stench and these leering men, I’m feeling nauseous. Again.
“Not just to wash dishes,” Barry says, big eyes gleaming like he knows a juicy secret. “Clean tables and shit, too. Sweep and mop after closing. Run trash to the dumpster. Maybe bringdrinks to the customers. You could probably pull me in some big tips.”
If Mom knew I was considering this job, she might have an aneurysm.
Dad would be disgusted.
Shame threatens to rear its ugly head, but I stomp it back down, lift my chin, and meet Barry’s scuzzy gaze.
“I can do it,” I tell him. “And I want all the tips I pull in.”
“No tips.”
“Half,” I counter, frustration mounting.
