“Shit.” I grabbed my checkbook from my purse, flipped it open and looked at my balance: twenty dollars and forty-two cents. “Could I put a little something down on his tab and pay you the rest in, say… two weeks?”
I looked back at the part-time job listing for the escort service. Maybe it wasn’t Denny’s. Maybe it was Marie Callender’s and I could get some pie before a guy suggested a different kind of job?
“That is a splendid idea,” Mrs. Santiago said. “Send us six hundred dollars today and then an additional two thousand by the thirty-first and his account will be current. For this month.”
“I was thinking of, like, fifteen dollars today?” I wrung my hands. “Uncle John’s been at your place for three years now. I’ve paid every month. This is really the first month I’m late.”
“Actually, it’s the thirteenth.”
“Look, Rosalie—”
“Mrs. Santiago.”
“Mrs. Santiago,” I said. “Could you take fifteen now? I could probably get you another hundred in a couple of days. And handle the balance in two weeks. What do you think?” I asked super cheery, crossed my fingers on both hands, squeezed my eyes shut and held my breath.
“Oh, Lucy,” Rosalie sighed. “You know I’m supposed to say no.”
“I know,” I said. “But Uncle John is so awesome. And you do such a great job with him. I’ve fallen on tough times recently.”
“You mean tougher times,” she said.
I exhaled. “Sorry.”
She whispered, “Mercury’s in Retrograde, a strange astrological time, where transactions and communications are constantly confused. Send me the fifteen dollars now and it will be temporarily entered as fifteen hundred. That will buy you a little time. But not much. And you can’t tell anyone that I—”
I crossed myself. “Not a soul, Rosalie!”
“Mrs. Santiago.”
“Mrs. Santiago,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Pedal to the metal, Lucille,” she said. “Go find yourself a new job. I adore you and your uncle. Send us enough money so we can keep him in this over-priced, but top-notch facility.”
“Thanks Rosalie. You’re a peach. Will do.”
I hung up the phone, sunk my head in my hands and felt a little light-headed. Stress and low blood sugar always did that to me. I opened my small, sweaty fridge, grabbed a carton of orange juice and poured myself a glass. Sat back at my tiny kitchen table, downed it and continued to troll Daveslist.
“Part-time Job: Wieners on Sticks seeks Sales Persons who love to bounce!
* * *
WE: Are an up and coming mall restaurant featuring the finest hot dogs and kielbasas. We are looking for a few ambitious sales persons who are happy to bounce on mini-trams while serving customers our delicious food.
* * *
YOU: Proof of medical insurance. Must pass stress cardiac test prior to accepting this job. An interest in fitness is preferred and if you are female—underwire bras are suggested.”
I paged through at least twenty pages of listing when I ran across an ad that had been posted earlier in the week.
“Part-time Job: Personal Assistant Needed.
* * *
YOU: Twenty-something. (Not actress years—real years.) Blonde. (Or willing to become a blonde for this job’s duration.) Medium height. Average weight. You are cute. Presentable. Can think on your feet. Willing to travel for job. You like older people—they do not creep you out. You are not a huge partier, but can sip champagne or enjoy a hearty lager. You are not addicted to drugs or alcohol. You have a high school degree and preferably advanced degrees and/or are working toward that goal.”
Hmm. I had a GED and was getting undergrad credits so I could apply to nursing school. I could knock back a few with the guys. Being a cocktail waitress at MadDog had definitely trained me to think on my feet. Older people? They had stories, experiences, and for the most part were so much more interesting than people my age. Unfortunately traveling made me really nervous. What did they mean by “Presentable?”
“JOB REQUIREMENTS: You must possess excellent people skills. You can improvise, aka ‘roll with the punches.’ (If you are an actress, you cannot be SAG and you can never list this job on your reel or resume.) You are ‘sports friendly.’ This means you have a rudimentary knowledge of a variety of sports.”
Football: The Chicago Bears—check. Baseball: The Chicago White Sox—check. Hockey: The Chicago Blackhawks—check. Soccer: I’m the only person who doesn’t care. Tennis: Love the guys’ legs—check.
“It would be ideal if you spoke a foreign language but this not a requirement.”
Hola my mejor amiga! Comò estàs? Quieres nachos y cervezas frías esta noche?
“THIS IS NOT A SEX-FOR-HIRE JOB! Prostitutes and escorts need not apply.”
Perfect! I had no desire to attend a Learn-All-About-It Annex class where I sucked on a banana for three hours and strained my jaw.
“Everyone who does apply must submit to a stringent screening and thorough background check. Rest assured we are reputable with vast references. This Part-time Job position only lasts a few weeks this summer. It will require minimal effort and maximum pay if you are the woman we are looking for.”
The job post was, to say the least, weird. It was also intriguing. I read the entire listing three more times and then printed it out. Yes, it was probably an ‘I’m an imprisoned Princess in Nigeria, please send-me-money and you can inherit half of my captured billion dollar estate’ scam. But, honestly, what did I have to lose? I sent an e-mail to the Part-time Job people, included my slapped-together resume and shut down my computer.
I called Uncle John. He told me about how he took the time to study the players in his shuffleboard group. Really learn their moves. And then beat them at their own game. And for one night? Uncle John Trabbicio was Prince of Shuffleboard at The Vail. He sounded so happy that I placed the phone down on the couch and applauded his win.
After we hung up I cracked open a fine bottle of Three-Buck Chuck cabernet and poured myself a glass. I gazed at a framed photo that rested on my coffee table: a snapshot of my parents wearing big smiles as they sat on their Harley motorcycle. “I hope you’re enjoying the rides in heaven.” I raised my glass and toasted them.
I turned on the TV and watched an episode of I Love Lucy. I half-suspected my parents named me after her because both she and I always had some ‘splainin’ to do’. I flipped to the show about medieval royalty that I was addicted to. The one with the castles and dungeons, tribes and treachery, kings and queens, pretty dresses and creepy forest hovels. I imagined what everyone was doing back at the bar. And shut that thought down.
I wondered what it would be like if I could be a princess—of anything? Didn’t even have to be full-time. Could totally be a part-time gig? I slugged the remainder of my glass of wine and nodded off.
And I dreamt of a stone castle with fog ringing its turrets. I wore a long white gown and raced, my breath ragged, across a steep drawbridge as uniformed men raised it. I leapt over the top and suddenly I was holding tight to a muscular man, my arms wrapped around his waist on the back of a motorcycle. We sped along mountainous roads that curved around mist-covered lakes and meadows with knee-deep wildflowers that poked out of melting snowdrifts.
We slowed, pulled to the side of the road and the man offered me his hand. I stepped off the bike and gazed up at him. He felt so warm and familiar—as if I had known him for an eternity. I didn’t even know his name and yet I did know two things:
Number one: he had the bluest eyes and the blackest hair I’d ever seen in my life. Number two: I was completely, one hundred and fifty percent, in love with him.
Chapter 4
I woke up the next day and blinked my eyes open. The sun peeked around my curtains, attempting to melt my windows. Another glorious, Midwestern, summer day! Well—it would have been glorious except it was already ninety degrees with ninety percent humidity.
I stretched in my smal
l lumpy bed, did wrist circles, then ankle circles, and mentally reviewed my daily itinerary. Number one: Coffee. Number two: Check e-mails. Three: Call Uncle John. Four: Go to work. Hold on. Something was off with work…
When the whole freaking nightmare crashed into my brain. I was job-less, broke, owed money out the yin-yang, and had no idea how I’d survive a week, let alone the month. I gave my head a shake, hopped out of bed, walked into the kitchen, made coffee, and checked e-mails.
Hello.
I’d gotten a response from the part-time job people who wanted a smart blonde who knew sports, liked older people, could think on her feet, and was cool with traveling. They admitted their interview request was last minute, but wanted to know if I could meet them today at noon in downtown Chicago. If I responded promptly and said, “Yes,” they’d e-mail me the specific address.
I hit the reply key so fast it broke the acrylic nail on my index finger. “Yes.” I typed. “I would love to interview for your job today at noon. Thanks for considering me!!!” I added several smiley face emoticons to really drive the point home.
I shook my hands and paced. What should I wear to my job interview? Conservative? Sexy? Classy? Concentrate Lucy. Concentrate. This would totally depend on who was interviewing me and where that meeting would be held. I grabbed the printout and re-read the job description. These folks were incredibly specific and I surmised they might be a little uptight.
I had one pastel skirt and jacket suit from Cheswick’s of Boston. There couldn’t be a conservative interviewer on the planet that wouldn’t appreciate Cheswick’s. A blister erupted on my foot from the nasty high heels I’d been forced to wear at MadDog, so I paired my pretty outfit with pastel Keds. Who didn’t love Keds?
I stood on the sidewalk on the curve of Lake Shore Drive peppered with swanky high-rise buildings as it rounded the bend of Oak Street Beach and headed north.
Oak Street Beach was a narrow patch of pricey sand filled with tourists and posers and families. Lapping onto its shores was the grand mama herself—Lake Michigan—a body of water so large she was called Great. I held the printout in my hand and gazed up at the Drake Hotel.
The Drake was approximately twenty stories tall, majestic and reeked of old school fancy. This hotel had been around forever and was practically a Chicago institution. Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio had carved their newly wed names into the booth at the Cape Cod Room, the in-house seafood restaurant. Princess Diana stayed here on her only visit to Chicago.
Whoever the hell held a job interview in this place had to be interesting, let alone have the bucks to pay decent part-time wages. I crossed my fingers as I jogged across the intersection.
I examined the address on the printout. The interview wasn’t just taking place in the Drake: it was being conducted in a Penthouse suite. Jeeza-Louisa. I shook my head, cracked my knuckles and wondered who in the hell advertised on Daveslist and still had the bucks to hold a job interview at this swanky joint?
Perhaps the part-time job people were millionaires? Or drug dealers? Maybe they were millionaire drug-dealers with a lucrative side business selling twenty-something women into sex-slavery? But that didn’t make sense—didn’t sex-slaver types usually deal in skinny girls with big boobs? I was far from being a twizzle-stick. Oh jeez, I was totally over-thinking this thing. I closed my eyes, gathered my courage, crossed myself and entered the hotel’s front doors.
I knocked on the solid wood door to Penthouse #5. Took a deep breath, ran my fingers through my waist-length hair and tucked a few errant wisps behind my ears. I fished through my purse, snagged my Maybelline Perfect-in-Pink Super Sparkly Lip-gloss, applied it, and smacked my lips when the suite door flew open.
A late sixty-something, robust, crinkly-faced man with a full head of silver hair, wearing thick, black-rimmed glasses stood in the doorway and regarded me. “You must be Miss Lucille Marie Trabbicio.” He extended his hand.
“Yes.” I nodded, shook his hand and for some strange reason was tempted to curtsey. “But you can call me Lucy.”
“I prefer Lucille. Do come in.” He opened the door to the suite a tad wider. “My name is Mister Philip Philips.”
“Mr. Philip Philips?” I blinked.
He sighed. “It’s a family name. You may call me Mr. Philips. We’ve been on our tip-toes with excitement, eagerly anticipating your arrival.” He pushed himself to his tiptoes for a millisecond and then dropped back down on his heels. He wore a sweater vest on top of his long-sleeve, crisp cotton shirt.
A sweater vest in the beginning of June, in Chicago—seriously?
“Wow. That’s awesome. I’m so… honored to hear that.” I entered the penthouse living room. There were sweeping northern views of the lake, the Gold Coast, DePaul University, and Lake Shore Drive as it wound past beaches and parks. Hell, I could even see the pink towers of the famous Edgewater apartment complex miles up the Drive.
“I admit that I am a recent visitor to Chicago. It is a magnificent town,” Mr. Philips said. “Stunning architecture. World-class culinary adventures. A robust art scene, as well as a music mecca.” He pulled a monogrammed handkerchief with a large letter ‘P’ from his pocket and dabbed his forehead. “But the weather can be daunting.” He folded his hankie and placed it back in his pocket. “Might I offer you a cooling drink, Lucille?”
“Water’s perfect. Thanks. But you don’t have to wait on me. I’ll help myself.” I walked a few feet around the mahogany-colored bar, knelt down and opened the mini-fridge. It was stocked with Evian, Pellegrino, two bottles of Cristal champagne, and a clear, glass container that contained pea-green liquid. I peered up at him. “Can I get you something, Mr. Philips?”
He shook his head. I grabbed a Pellegrino, stood up, twisted the cap open, took a slug and fanned my sweaty cleavage. Phew, summer was arriving early in the Windy City.
Mr. Philips plucked a file off an immaculate desk. There were ten folders on the right side of the desk and probably over two hundred divided into five neat stacks on the left side. “Do have a seat.” He gestured to a pretty loveseat next to the window. “I insist.”
He seemed a little uptight. But heck, based on those sky-high stacks of files on the desk, he’d probably been through a ton of job applications and was likely exhausted. I plunked down, took a load off and took another drink of my bubbly water.
“We are in receipt of your Internet application. You signed the waiver for a background check, which we have performed,” he said.
I swallowed and hoped the incident in MadDog hadn’t shown up. Or that time I shoplifted the blue eye shadow on a dare from Walgreens when I was thirteen. That was supposed to have been expunged from my record. Or that thing when I was eleven years old and Suzy Delaney started a rumor at my middle school that my mom had left us because she realized all the other middle-grade kids were cuter and smarter than I was. I wasn’t the only kid Suzy Delaney mean-girled. But I was the only one who decked her.
“Your criminal record is clean which is a must for us—”
“I knew that,” I said.
I totally didn’t know that.
“Or you wouldn’t be seated on that settee right now.”
I glanced down. “You mean the love seat?”
He regarded me thoughtfully. “The settee.”
“Right… the small couch? I mean... I assumed that… I would never apply for this position if I didn’t feel that my qualifications matched the employer’s expectations.”
He nodded, opened my file and paged through it. “Lucille Marie Trabbicio. You were an A student in high school but dropped out at the tender age of seventeen before the end of your junior year. You earned your GED when you were nineteen. You’re currently enrolled at Columbia Technical Academy in pursuit of your career as a licensed nurse practitioner. Is this correct?”
“Yes,” I said.
Why did he pronounce every syllable of ‘Lice end nerz prac tition er’ like it was a disease instead of a healing profession?
&
nbsp; “That sounds right,” I said.
“Do you have time for a part-time summer job?”
Could I survive without a part-time job would be the better question?
“Absolutely, Mr. Philips. I’m not taking any pre-req nursing courses this summer as I decided to focus on…”
Aw frick. What the hell was I focusing on?
“Volunteering for Save the Environment organizations and the search for world peace. Yes, sir, I absolutely have the time and energy for a part-time summer job!”
“World peace?”
I nodded. “It’s one of my most cherished dreams, sir.”
Mr. Philips snapped my file shut. “I never assume, so I will ask you directly.” He dropped it onto the desk where it landed half on, half off—teetering. “Why do you want this job Miss Trabbicio?”
I’d been on such a roller coaster the past couple of days, let alone the past four years, that I tried to think of something stellar to hit him with. “I’m broke,” didn’t sound great. “I don’t want to be a prostitute,” was a weak close second. “I could possibly qualify as a female mud wrestler, but I feared I’d spend a fortune at the Laundromat,” trailed in third.
I played back the job description in my head. In all honesty, it was a little vague. So—I punted. “In answer to your question, Mr. Philips. I like older people and I’m more than capable of thinking on my feet. I know a little about football, baseball, basketball, hockey, shuffleboard, ping-pong, blackjack and riding motorcycles.
He sniffed.
“I’m a hard worker, determined. I persevere. I’m loyal as long as the people I trust are loyal and forthcoming with me. I turn the other cheek three times. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me a third time, well, shame on the both of us. But the fourth time—I’m usually done.”
Part-time Princess Page 3