“Great. That sounds fantastic,” I say, too tired to try and hide the sarcasm. “Should I fling my panties off right here, or do you want to string me along for a little while, you know, really get your fill?”
He sighs deeply, smiling, and if I wasn’t in the city of Hollywood, I’d almost believe he was genuine.
“This isn’t like that. Maybe you need to read my card again.”
I glance down at the card, the embossed letters, the matte cream cardstock. Expensive. So sure, he’s legit. But that doesn’t mean a damn thing in this town. I glare at him. “If having a card proved anything, I wouldn’t still be playing grungy open mic nights. So thanks, but no thanks. I know your type.”
I rip the card in half, let the pieces flutter to the floor, and step forward to go past him. But instead of letting me pass, he steps back, filling up the hallway and opening his palms out as if he’s the one scared of me.
“Whoa there! Look, I’m not trying to pull anything here. I genuinely think you’ve got something going on, and I want to be a part—”
“Bullshit!” I yell, pushing him away from me, my palms pressed for one hot instant against his rock-hard chest. His eyes widen, and I have to admit my outburst is a surprise even to myself. Weeks of frustration I’ve kept boiling inside of me burst out like a volcano. I glance down at the torn business card on the floor, my fury still raging. “Bullshit, Brando Nash! You’re very recognizable, you know, with your Easter Island head face and you Gladiator body. You think I didn’t notice you out there? You say you enjoyed my set, was that while you were picking up women, or when Lexi Dark showed up in a dress too small for my nine year old niece? Maybe you caught the chorus as you were bullying that short guy with bad shoes?”
“I…look, it…okay. Just…”
“You didn’t hear a damned note I played. I bet you can’t even remember one of my lyrics, can you?”
He stares at me, mouth open, before his eyes drop to the floor.
“I thought not,” I say, breathing deeply to regain some calm. “Look, I’m tired, and I have work in the morning. So nice try, but we’re done here.”
His hands go to his hips as he steps aside, and I push past, out through the crowd of strangers, and into the city that keeps on disappointing me.
“Another late night?” Jenna asks over the sound of the cash register as I tie my apron on hurriedly, join her behind the counter, and slip into my role as underpaid coffee dispenser for the morning rush.
“Late nights are fine,” I reply in between the hiss of the coffee foamer, “it’s the early mornings that get me.”
Jenna and I shouldn’t be friends. She’s a morning person, I like the night. She ties her pretty blonde hair in a ponytail that swishes around as she moves with all the grace of a ribbon, while taming my thick brown curls feels like putting out a fire every second of every day. Her wardrobe consists mainly of skin tight designer gym clothes and colorful classics, mine is a funky combination of ripped jeans and faded vintage t-shirts. She’s the prom queen, I’m the rock chick. When you spend eight hours working in a shitty coffee shop, though, all of that fades, and all you’re left with is the stuff that matters. And what matters is that we get each other.
I pour the coffees, glide toward the counter with them, and hand them over to my customers with a big white smile and a nod. Coffee machines and cash registers you can learn in a day, the smile and the nod, however, that takes weeks. I can only just hold it for a full three seconds, just enough time to send the customer on their way before turning around and settling into a more comfortable bleary-eyed scowl.
Jenna moves to the machine as I step toward the cash register and take another order.
“Well,” she calls over her shoulder as she pours out some coffee beans, “how did the open mic gig go last night? I’m still bummed I couldn’t make it to see you kill it, but someone had to cover your shift so you could go,” she winked.
Taking orders while holding conversations is another useless skill I’ve picked up since working here. I sidle up beside Jenna and pretend to do something practical, like rinse the frothing pitchers, while I talk to her.
“Well, you didn’t miss much. I was pretty much last on a bill that included a guy singing songs in what I think was German, and a comedian who – if anyone could hear him – would have probably offended every minority in the crowd. And then Lexi Dark decided to show up just before I started my set and get everybody’s attention. I played to the back of about fifty heads, so all in all I guess it wasn’t a total bust. I mean, nobody booed me, right?”
Jenna’s face registers shock. “Wait – Did you say Lexi Dark? The singer? She showed up at the open mic?”
“She of the perfect boobs and come-hither looks, yes. I don’t know if I should be glad she did, because it meant nobody could be bothered to hear me play the worst set of my life, not least because I broke a string halfway through.”