After dropping Grandma off at her doctor’sappointment, I practically skipped on over to Jeff’s. I had never been insidethe nondescript, almost shady-looking dive, but I had heard the tranquil soundsof piano drifting along the wind anytime someone happened to open the door.
There was nothingdangerous about a piano that sounded that beautiful.
I swung the door openand stepped inside. “Holy crap,” I whispered to myself. The outside of thisbuilding did absolutely nothing to lure anybody in, but once within its walls,I was immediately encased in a comfort I couldn’t begin to come close todescribing. I felt instantly at home, as the scent of wood polish, liquor, andleather spiraled in hypnotizing clouds around me, and I slowed my urgency as Iheaded toward the bar.
As I crossed theshining parquet floor, littered with candle-topped tables and mismatchedchairs, a man behind the bar, wearing a plaid shirt, fedora, and suspenders,lifted his gaze to watch me approach.
He raised a brow when Istopped in front of him. “What can I do for you, miss?”
Noticing his beard andcurled mustache, my grin spread even wider. “Actually, I saw the sign outside.You’re looking for a bartender?”
He cocked his head withscrutiny as he nodded slowly. “We are, yeah.”
I waited for him tocontinue, and when he didn’t, I added, “Well … I’d like to apply for the job.”
“Sure,” he replied,reaching under the bar to produce a clipboard and attached pen. “Just fill outan application and I’ll take a look.”
Something about the wayhe assumed responsibility made me wonder if he was in fact Jeff, or at the veryleast, the owner of the club. But I didn’t ask. I thanked him politely and tookthe clipboard with its pen dangling unceremoniously from its string. I foundmyself a table—the place was presentlyemptyso I hadmy pick—and sat down.
“Let’s see,” I mutteredto myself, and began filling in the basic questions. Name, phone number, placeof residence … it was all straightforward and simple, until I reached the peskypart that wanted to know about my work history.
What could I really sayabout my work history? I didn’t have much. I’d spent a few years in collegewaiting tables and I’d taken that degree in Creative Writing and found oddballfreelance jobs. I wrote greeting card messages and articles for mid-gradeentertainment websites. Things like, “The20 Worst Places to Take a First Date” and “15 Terrible Tattoos of Cartoon Dogs.” Then, after a few years ofbarely making ends meet and paying rent at my parents’ house, I made theannouncement that I was going to finally write that book I’d been meaning toget to for the greater part of my life.
Because if I wasalready living in squalor, I might as well be working toward the thing I reallywanted to be doing, right?
And so, I made theagreement to move into my grandmother’s house. I’d live there rent-free andwork on my masterful prose,as long asI kept an eyeon Grandma and prevented her from burning down the house. Easy-peasy.
That was six monthsago. And I hadn’t written a damn thing.
Correction: I’d writtena lot. But I deleted even more.
I stared at the blanklines and tapped the end of the pen against the clipboard.Work experience. “Maybe I should lie,” I muttered under my breath.
“Lying is bad.”
For half a second, Ithought the small voice had been my conscience. My very own Jiminy Cricket. Ilifted my head totake a lookaround me and foundnothing, until I turned to my left and spotted the source.
A little girl of maybethree or four stood there, wearing what appeared to be a princess costume. Inone hand, she held a tinsel-adorned wand and in the other, a small purse. Herhair was in one of the sloppiest ponytails I’d ever seen in my life, and hermouth was covered in what I hoped was only chocolate.
All in all, she wasmaybe the cutest thing I’d ever seen since my brief obsession with Hanson whenI was twelve.
“Yes, it is,” Ireplied, laying the pen down and folding my arms against the table.
“You’re pretty,” sheassessed.
“Thank you. So areyou.”
She cocked her head andlet out a long exhale as her narrowed eyes took me in. “What youdoin’?”
“Um, well,” I lifted myarms and gestured toward the application, “I’m applying for a job here.”
“Why?”
I tipped my head,considering my answer. “Well, I guess because I need to do something elsesometimes.”
“Why?”
I scratched my chin. “Ithink it’s mostly because my grandma is driving me crazy. I love her to death,but—”
