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Do people not understand body language anymore?
“If by ‘get along,’ you mean, she asks me for money and pretends to love me, sure.” I take a brief pause before adding, “I’m tired.”
Long seconds tick by, and I think she’s given up.
“Harley…I’m really sorry. That’s so awful. I can’t fathom not having a mom who really cares about me.” Her voice is quiet. She pauses, debating on how far to pry. She’s already gone about as far as most people care to.
“Do you…do you ever want to talk about it?” She doesn’t sound how people usually do who find out about my birth mother—full of pity. It’s sadder, which makes me feel full of the sadness I can usually keep out.
Silence is my answer.
Billy’s Pub is on the strip downtown. It was the first place I stopped after my twenty-three-hour bus ride from Carbona, Illinois. It’s on Seventh Street, which is party central for the college students and young adults in Greencity, Texas. The uniforms aren’t my favorite, but they do help with the tips.
I tie back the little black apron over my mini denim skirt. The white tank with Billy’s Pub written in red cursive script draws quite a bit of attention even though I’m only a small C cup. Billy hired me on sight. I guess I fit the vibe. My foster sister’s old ID didn’t hurt me landing the job.
Thankfully, I’ve made a work friend, a woman in her thirties named Sal. She has new baby-daddy drama to blab about every shift, allowing me to silently nod along. Sal’s curly black hair forms a perfect, fluffy circle at her nape. Her voice sounds like a girl I knew in high school who was from Brooklyn.
“This fool came home without a damn clue we had even broken up. He says to me, ‘Sally, ohh, Sally baby, come on and get up on it for me.’ I said, ‘Fool! Get your drunk, cheating ass outta my house! We done broke up, and you’re too shit-faced to even remember all the mean shit I said to you!’” She shakes her head, puffy ponytail bobbing. “Made me so damn mad. Thankfully, he passed out on the couch, and I left to take Marley to school before he so much as rolled over. Can you believe I put up with that shit for seven years? Seven years of my life.” She tosses a broken glass into the trash bin, nodding her head at it to emphasize what she thinks of those seven years.
“Although I got my sweet little Marley. You got any kids?” She’s washing shot glasses, preparing for the Saturday night crowd requesting lemon drops and tequila shots.
I shake my head, which is all the encouragement she needs to go on.
“Well, that’s a blessing. Keep it that way as long as you can, sugar.” Her tone is secretive, like she’s sharing profound nuggets of wisdom.
“I’m never having kids.” There’s not a hint of doubt in my voice. Someone like me wouldn’t know the first thing about how to take care of a child. I only know what you shouldn’t do.
“Aww, we all say that at some point or another.” She laughs at my cliché conviction.
What does someone with two “mom” failures and a grand total of zero “dads” know about parenting?
She’s moved down the bar to serve a customer, and I notice the influx of patrons. I tie my dark hair back and look up to serve the group who has just approached my section of the bar.
“Well, well, is this the engraved beauty from the Kappa Betas’ beach party?”
The speaker’s eyes leer down over what he can see above the bar top, which is really only a sliver of skin between my skirt and top. His tongue peeks out between his lips as he swishes back his surfer-boy hair. He braces himself up with one elbow on the bar. It’s the asshole with the unimpressive pickup line and the gaudy yellow shorts. His collared golfing shirt is the same color tonight.
“Didn’t catch your name, sweetheart?”
His buddies are all leering the same way he is, and unfortunately, I can’t dismiss him the same way I did at the party.
“What can I get you?”
It doesn’t mean I have to engage him any more than my job requires. My face is apathetic as I wait for them to order. Unfortunately, it might be encouraging this type.
“You can get me…your name and a night out…or in.” He smirks. “Your choice.” He says it slowly as he leans farther over the bar, narrowing his suggestive gaze on my mouth.
“Harley, you gotta full bottle of José?” Sal shouts from the other side of the bar.
I reach under the counter and meet her halfway.
“Harley, damn, I didn’t think you could get any hotter, but I can admit when I’m wrong.”
Swiveling back to my customers, I see all four pairs of eyes on my backside.
“Yep, I’m the bad girl of your dreams. Can I get you a drink, or will it just be the riveting conversation?”
Another guy with a long beard walks up to the bar, and I refill his glass with the foaming beer.
