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“DO NOT walk into that apartment, Al. You need to call the cops,” she warns. But I’m already pushing the door open while holding the taser hooked to my key chain. “ALANA, I CAN SEE YOU MOVING. I SAID DON’T GO IN THERE!”
While Ricole yells, I flip the lights on anyway and let out a breath. My TV is still in my living room, my laptop is on the coffee table, and nothing seems out of place. I look around my small living space, the beige walls sans any décor, the threadbare gray carpet that looks like it used to be white, and the sparse furniture. A black futon, a wooden coffee table covered with rings from wet cups, and a thirty-two-inch television sitting on a card table instead of a TV stand.
“Well guys, either I forgot to close the door completely, or whoever tried to rob me walked in and realized I need this sad shit more than them.”
I still need to check the bedroom and the bathroom, but I can see that the kitchen is empty. Ashley laughs. “Honey, you’re living a minimalist lifestyle. I applaud you for it. You’re a nun at this point. No possessions, barely any food, no sex life to speak of.”
Yikes, bitch, you aren’t helping my mood;I think.
“Ashley, shut the fuck up, you’re killing the vibes,” Ricole loudly chastises Ashley. “It’s cool that you moved and are trying to start over. And I wouldn’t have wanted to take any of Greg’s slutty furniture, anyway. It probably has Vivian’s pussy juice all over it.”
“Rick, that’s fucking sick. Please stop talking about Vivian’s pussy juice. Now be quiet. I have to check my bedroom and make sure Ed Gein isn’t hiding in my closet,” I reply.
The knob to the bedroom door turns in my hand, and I slam it open violently. It bounces off the wall with a loud bang, the door stopper long gone from the tenants before me. I frantically look around and realize my room is empty. I can also see into the bathroom, and it’s empty as well.How the fuck did I not realize I didn’t shut my door completely this morning?
“Alright, now that we know I’m alone, can I please tell you about the horrific day I had?” I ask.
Settling onto the couch, I kick my feet up on the wobbly coffee table and get ready to vent about my job to the people who matter most in my life.
* * *
The fourth day of hell begins today. My coworkers and I are all convened in the bar, ready to divide and conquer the cleaning list Mr. Prick left for us on the bar rail.
1. Scrub all tables, table legs, chairs, chair legs,
2. Detail the walls from top to bottom.
3. Empty glass chillers and remove all broken glass and debris.
4. Clean all liquor bottles and glassware of sticky residue.
5. Detail bar rail and sinks.
6. Scrub drains and pour drain cleaner to eliminate smell and gnat eggs.
7. Use a bristle mop and scrub behind the bar and bar floor.
8. Move everything back and make sure you didn’t miss anything.
There are four full-time bartenders, so this list is long enoughandin-depth enough to keep us here for at least two eight-hour days. Samantha and I decide to tackle behind the bar, while our coworkers Thea and Marshall start on the floor side. How the fuck am I supposed to clean alongside Samantha? She can’t have a five-minute conversation with someone without sounding snide and condescending.
Samantha empties the glass chillers while I pull glassware and liquor bottles. As tempting as it is to spit-shine them for Mr. FuckFace, I know I’m on camera. For a while, we clean in blissful silence. I have an earbud in my ear listening to the latest episode of my favorite true crime podcast. The duo who created it are two of my closest friends. They don’t know I exist, but I spend more time with them than I do anybody else.
“Did you hear me, Alana?” Samantha stares at me like I’m stupid.
I slow-blink and remove my earbud.
“I said, I’m going to take a break. I’m the only bartender who cleans the way we’re supposed to throughout the week, so I don’t even think it’s fair that I’m here. Jim knows that. I’m going to have him talk to Andreas about it,” and before I can respond, off she goes.
I guess I’m working alone for a while.
The thought isn’t unpleasant when the company I’m forced to keep is such a sourpuss. Samantha needs an orgasm and a glass of wine, stat.
* * *
After another hour and another podcast, I’m done polishing the glassware and liquor bottles. I’m in the middle of cleaning the display stands for both when Mr. Rivera walks behind the rail. Sweet baby Jesus, he’s tall. He has to be at least six foot three. I crane my neck to look up at him, hating him and admiring his beautiful face at the same time.
He picks up a wine glass and says, “These are still foggy; do them all again.”
