I have to get a second job.
I grab my black faux leather tote, slip my feet into my matching flats, and head out the front door. It’s Sunday, a day regular working-class folks relax at home. In the Leighs’ upper-class neighborhood, the houses are deserted and the front yards are empty.
Am I the sole survivor of an apocalypse, destined to wander the streets of Beverly Hills forever searching for food and a second job? Will I see Blaine, a neighbor, or anyone ever again?
An elderly man saunters out of a backyard, pulling a long green garden hose, and I beam at him, thrilled to see another living person. He nods to me, the weathered skin around his eyes permanently crinkled. He’s wearing a pale blue lawn maintenance uniform, the coveralls pulling tight over his stomach.
I slow my strolling to a crawl. Should I ask him if his employer is hiring? Or will any income I make from lawn maintenance be spent on sunscreen, protecting my pale skin from the harsh L.A. sun?
The man turns his back to me and waters the roses in front of the massive franken-mansion. The flowers’ fragrance mixes with the scent of freshly cut grass. I note the name on the back of his coveralls and continue walking to the shopping plaza, passing more immaculately maintained empty mansions.
Some of my rich neighbors have gathered at the coffee shop. The patio is packed with designer dressed twenty-something patrons hyped up on overpriced java.
At one umbrella-shaded table a sunglass-wearing man loudly curses, his phone pressed to his right ear, a huge cup of whipped-cream-topped ice coffee clasped in his left hand. To his right a big breasted blonde twirls her gum with her finger as she stares blankly at her phone’s screen. To his left a dark-haired artsy type taps furiously on his computer keyboard. Empty coffee cups and crushed cigarette packages litter the tabletop.
I’m not here for the coffee or for the first world angst. I head to the counter, looking for the manager, the gatekeeper to this possible second job.
A long line of frowning customers curls around the counter. Coffee aficionados recite orders at hyper speed, speaking a lingo I, as a non-coffee drinker, don’t understand. The baristas, wearing beige aprons, bob their heads, strained smiles fixed on their youthful faces, and they rush around the machines, adding ingredients and filling cups.
“Does this look like soy?” a bearded man yells at the tired-looking manager. He reaches into the cup with two hairy fingers and flicks the white foam at her pale face.
“I apologize, sir.” She wipes her cheeks with a beige paper napkin. “Nick, please replace this patron’s coffee and give him a gift card for another visit.”
The bearded man smirks and toddles to the front of the line. He relays his lengthy coffee requirements, including the order in which the ingredients should be added, his tone pompous.
I gulp, intimidated by the customers, needing the money and flexibility this job will give me. I wave my hand and the manager’s head turns. “Can I ask you a quick question?”
“A quick question.” She has dark circles under her brown eyes, and tendrils of coffee-colored hair have escaped from her ponytail.
“Are you hiring?” I summon my best smile.
The manager reaches under the counter and pulls out a form. “Fill this out and we’ll schedule you for training.” She hands the paper to me.
“I—”
“Miss.” A woman interrupts my question, which would have been about the hours worked. Her voice is shrill, her perfectly straight nose wrinkled and her red lips curled. “I ordered ice made from mineral water. This tastes like tap.”
“Let me take care of that for you.” The manager rushes to help her. I wait. Another customer demands her attention. I wait some more.