THE EXES IN MY IPOD: A Playlist of the Men Who Rocked Me to Wine Country

by Lisa M. Mattson

  Christina collapsed onto the queen bed in the adjoining room, where she’d slept with some guy she’d just met who was wearing a T-shirt that said, “This isn’t a Bald it’s a Solar Panel for a Sex Machine.” (Like Insult Generator says, if her vagina had had a password, it would have been password.) “What an ass wipe!” Christina stared up at the popcorn ceiling. “He can’t be doing this to us.” She reached for a pack of Marlboro Lights on the nightstand.

  Alicia exhaled a perfect ring of smoke. “He can kiss my ass.” She shoved her lit cigarette toward the door. “I’ll go bartend on South Beach and make twice the money.” Christina cheered from the next room, cigarette dangling from her mouth. Even Brent nodded and flipped off the phone. He was five years older than me and had a college degree; that made him the most responsible person in the group. It felt as if I was watching fifth graders on a playground standing up to the class bully.

  “Maybe you guys don’t care about getting fired,” I snapped the words, standing in the center of the tiny living area, “but I do.” I crossed my arms over my new Mardi Gras T-shirt. I wore a checkered flannel shirt wrapped around the waist of my intentionally ripped Gap jeans and black Army boots (a ‘90s fashion statement I’d prefer to forget).

  “There are plenty of good jobs in Miami, Dorothy.” Alicia pointed her French-manicured nails at my nose. “You haven’t lived there long enough to realize it.”

  “I’m not losing this job!” I spun in a half circle to look each of them square in the eye. Beads jingled around my neck. My voice echoed in my head. “We can drive home now and be there in time for work tomorrow.” My heart hammered in my chest. The room was silent.

  Alicia took a long drag and exhaled. “We’re not driving home now.” She twisted her stub in the ashtray on the coffee table. “It’s not even Mardi Gras yet.” Her shoulders squared. She fixed her eyes on me. She loved to argue. My hands began to shake. I’d never been in a fight before.

  “I’ll find my own way home tonight if I have to!” I boot-stomped over and grabbed my duffle bag. “Maybe losing a good job doesn’t mean much to you guys, but it means a lot to me.” Having a five-month stint on my résumé seemed like the scarlet letter, irresponsible and unreliable: two things I’ve never been. And the loss of my job would strip me of the only security blanket in my independent life: money.

  “Maybe you should talk to him then,” Alicia hissed.

  “Fine.” I plucked the phone from Brent’s chest. I had a good relationship with our supervisor. He’d recently promoted me to server trainer.

  “Harley, I like you,” he said firmly, after listening to my plea. “You’ve been a great employee, but if you can’t cover your open shifts, I will fire you all. You leave me no choice.” My voice trembled as I asked him if he could give me a list of every person not scheduled to work on Monday. I jotted down every name and phone number on a hotel notepad. My fingers shook in cadence with my breaths. Then I kindly asked if I could speak to whoever was currently at work. One by one, I spoke to seven people on the list of ten. Brent left Alicia’s side on the couch and joined in my cause. We pleaded our grave situation to each co-worker. Thirty-five minutes, $200 cash and four I.O.U. shift-trades later, the crisis had been averted. But the big save didn’t make me feel like doing cartwheels.

  I looked down at Christina and Alicia fanned out across the couch in our messy hotel room with cigarettes dangling from their mouths. How did I get so far off track? This wasn’t part of my original game plan when I’d moved to Florida. I’d planned to build my life around five steps: take one year off, get my residency, save money, pay down debt and go back to college. Instead, I was standing in the middle of a cheap hotel room in New Orleans with no money in my pocket and a three-day-long buzz, surrounded by people who lived to party. The Cheesecake Factory was an opportunity of a lifetime for me. The only corporate job within an hour of my house back home was for Wal-Mart. While riding the wave of their carefree lifestyle, the only real decisions I’d made were draft or bottle, dine-in or to-go. My credit card debt had ballooned to $750 and my checking account had dwindled to $100. I’d squandered most of my tips on beer, shots and smoked marlin dip at Flaningan’s Loggerhead. I’d started wearing acrylic nails like Alicia’s, an expensive luxury. Trent Reznor’s words should have been echoing in my head: My whole existence? Yep. It was flawed.

  To celebrate our victory, we group-hugged in the middle of our hotel room, the floor littered with clothes and beer bottles. My mind was already driving home, far from the revelers dancing in the streets outside our window. Were these the friends who would be wearing caps and gowns with me at college graduation? Nope. We were reading off two different menus.

  I returned to work with a newfound purpose—and a rock in my stomach. In the heat of a drunken and desperate moment at Mardi Gras, I’d kissed a slurring Ole Miss student. I’d lost my co-workers and didn’t know how to get back to our hotel. I needed $10 for cab fare, and he wasn’t about to give it up for free. Trust me. I tried. While the kiss was innocent, the anticipation of facing Marco again was agonizing. I could never lie to someone I cared about. One look into my eyes, and he’d see my infidelity.

  Marco coasted right past me on his way to the bakery. “Hey, kiddo,” he called out over his shoulder. His eyes never met mine. The sweetness in his voice was gone, along with the “Honey.” The rock moved from my stomach to my throat. I’d been thinking for days about how much I missed him, how I wanted to erase all the bad things that had happened in New Orleans and start my life over. I juggled my tables’ orders and tried to help deliver his drinks. He was one step ahead of me every time.

  At the end of our shift, I spotted Marco near the main bus station talking to Gabriela, one of the new servers. She was Brazilian with a body like Beyoncé and a brown mole on the tip of her nose. She had green cat eyes and thick, brown hair that tumbled down her back. She loved to dance salsa just like Marco. Their brown eyes bounced around each other’s faces. Her cheeks plumped when he talked to her. She lifted a spoon from her cup of soup to his lips, and my mind screamed: No! Not the telltale sign! Was he already playing “Sub” teacher with her? Did she have a safeword? They were definitely an item. I’d already been traded in for a new model.

  Linda plopped down on her milk crate in Cheesecake’s back hallway. “They’ve been making goo-goo eyes at each other since you left town.” Pumping her for intel was as close to confrontation with Marco as I could get. “They’ve been going to raves. Rolling like crazy.” She rolled her eyes and tapped her foot.

  “Rolling what?” I asked with a puzzled face.

  “Ahh, Wheels.” She shook her head in disbelief of my ignorance. She began to explain. My jaw fell when the word “drug” left her mouth.

  I stamped my sneaker on the concrete. “God, dammit. Not again!” My chin dropped to my chest. Why is life in the big city so damn complex? Rave was a brand of hairspray, not a dance party for druggies. Rolling was what Chris did to make homemade joints. Linda explained how co-workers (even James!) took hits of a drug called Ecstasy at “raves” or “rolling parties.” People took the pills, then pawed each other like cats for hours, every sensation magnified twenty times. I couldn’t believe Marco had fallen prey to the party drug scene—just like Robert and James. Marco was a schoolteacher, a mentor to small children. My squeaky-clean picture of him began to shatter. Ecstasy sounded as bad as cocaine.

  “X will screw up a person’s nervous system for life,” Linda said, perched on her milk crate with ankles crossed. “Those two have rolled at least three times this week.” I sighed deeply and looked down at the floral-print tie on my flat chest. Gabriela hated football. She loved shopping. She and Marco had little in common. But she did have some big cans …

  I buried my elbows deeper in my knees and covered my ears with my hands. My relationship with Marco was officially over—cut short by factors beyond my control. There was no need for verbal closure; I didn’t want to date a druggie. Never, ever again. I neede
d to spend more time getting to know a guy before sleeping with him. I’d gone from eight hours with Robert to two weeks with Marco, which was an improvement, but still not long enough. Meet guy, have sex, become a couple, be shocked when he does drugs and cheats … the end. My love life, abbreviated. And it was duplicating more times than the syllables in Hawaiian.

  Every day at work, I was forced to watch Marco and Gabriela pet each other. I learned more about their budding romance through pre-shift gossip sessions. They’d dressed up in black leather and went to S&M night at a seedy club on South Beach. He’d played the sub, and I finally realized what that actually meant. Holy nipple pinchers, Batman! Gabriela knew how to surf, and he’d already taken her twice. She’d helped him wax his board—and his chest! Resentment and denial were tangled in my mind and made a strong tag team. I didn’t want to date him, but I didn’t want to watch him snuggle with the girl he’d dumped me for.

  Coconut Grove Playhouse hosted a senior citizen’s discount day once a month. Two Greyhound busloads of Boca Raton snowbirds poured into the restaurant as soon as we opened the doors. Every table was filled with blue-haired old ladies with gaudy jewelry and huge handbags. I marched back into my beehive of a station, quadruple-sat, still fuming over my first Gabriela glance of the day. She was wearing Marco’s Jerry Garcia tie! I rushed over to service bar with sixteen drink orders—decaf coffees with low-fat milk (not cream), hot teas—the kind of high-maintenance shit that would piss off any server. Every hot teakettle was already in use. Four coffee machines were brewing new batches after being wiped out in the first five minutes of the shift. I huffed and shoved the last three creamer cups in my apron like a soldier storing ammunition. It was February and seventy degrees outside. The mere idea of drinking coffee infuriated me. “Take your coffee and your big hair,” I hissed under my breath far from my station, “and go back to New York and shovel snow.” I painted on a sweet smile as every little old lady at my tables ordered egg white omelets with no oil and no butter, each with a different type of toast and side dish.

  “I ordered my omelet with pumpernickel bread,” one of the ladies said, as I placed the large, oval plate in front of her. She tapped her acrylic nail on the lip of the plate. “This is wheat.”

  I laced my hands in front of my apron. “I’m sorry, but we don’t serve pumpernickel bread.” I could hear the frustration in my sharp tone. Cheesecake’s whole-wheat baguette had oats baked on top, and no matter how many times I explained what it was, senior citizen guests insisted the restaurant served rye or pumpernickel.

  She snarled at me. “I can’t eat this.” Her bony fingers pushed the plate into the center of the table, bumping her coffee mug and nearly knocking it over.

  I plucked two dirty side plates off the table. “I’ll bring you some sourdough.” I marched back to the line, head throbbing. My neck felt stiff and hot.

  “Fresh side of sourdough toast, pleeeezzee,” I said to the expediter. The warming lamps in the kitchen service window made my head feel like a pressure cooker. I stood up against the wall of mirrors by the kitchen with dirty side plates in hand, and looked out into the restaurant. At the bakery counter, Gabriela and Marco were giggling, squirting whip cream out of the canister on top of two lattes in a slow, suggestive way. Get a fucking room, people! I stomped over to the main bus stand. Standing over the stainless-steel trash shoot, I smashed the side plates together like marching band symbols.

  I glared at the dirty plates in my hands. “Does anyone in this place have respect?” My voice boomed like a sportscaster’s. The line of servers at the bread station turned and stared. The whole shitty situation had reached a boiling point. I wanted to skewer Gabriela and serve her to the blue hairs with a side of “fuck you.”

  I growled and banged the plates harder against the trash bin. Lettuce caked to the plates flew over my head, as a loud clank rang out in my ears. A blanket of silence covered the restaurant. I looked down at my hands. The jagged pieces of ceramic felt like rocks between my fingers. My head turned toward the line. Cooks and servers on both sides of the kitchen window were staring at me. My cheeks felt on fire. I dropped the last two broken chunks into the half-full trash bin, hearing another huge thud before throwing open the swing door and storming into the back hallway.

  At the end of my shift, I sat in a booth by myself, stacking napkins and chewing my nails. Our manager Richard marched over to my table. “I need to have a word with you.”

  I followed him into the empty veranda, my arms cinched around me like a straight jacket. He shut the heavy glass door behind us. Nausea whipped through my stomach as he grabbed a wicker chair. We sat down at a table with a view of the street. I wanted to jump out the window.

  He leaned back and ran his fingers through his short, brown hair. Even though the restaurant had been closed an hour, his dress shirt was still buttoned and his tie knotted snuggly around his neck. “I don’t know what has happened to you.” Every syllable shot out of his mouth like rounds from a pellet gun. “You were one of my star employees.” He paused, lacing his hands on the stone tabletop. “Then there was the Mardi Gras trip and the scramble to cover your shifts.” His eyes were anchored on my face. My wicker chair creaked. My throat felt like sandpaper. I hadn’t felt that embarrassed since a boy depantsed me in eighth grade study hall.

  Richard’s head shook from side to side. “And now this.” His eyes bulged. “You throw plates. You yell. You storm out of the dining room. You are not the Harley I hired.”

  I looked down at my hands cupped in my lap. My breaths trembled as tears swelled in the corners of my eyes. Say something, Harley. I watched my fingers shake. My vocal cords were tangled by the shame. He is right.

  Richard leaned over the table. “I don’t know what is happening in your personal life.” He furrowed his eyebrows. “And I don’t care. We’re adults, and this is a business. You’re here to do a job and do it exceptionally well.”

  “I am…I’m sorry.” The words stumbled from my quivering lips.

  “I like you,” he said in his ever-hurried pace. “I think you’re a good kid with a bright future. Six months ago, you were a different person. You had a plan. You were following your dreams. I don’t want to see you mess up your life.” His green eyes pierced mine. “Some people can’t handle the lifestyle of working in a restaurant. Don’t let yourself become one of them.” His eyes scanned the glass doors where Marco, Gabriela and Alicia were folding napkins in the other room.

  I wiped the tears from my cheeks. I’d been surrounding myself with people who brought out the worst in me—a side I’d never seen before.

  “I know.” My shoulders caved, and my necktie fell onto the tabletop. “This isn’t like me.” My epiphany during the Mardi Gras trip flashed through my mind. I’d made bad choices. My good intentions always disappeared after dark. My determination had drowned in a Bourbon Street Hand Grenade. I was one broken plate away from being fired from the best job I’d ever had—all because of a slacker who shaved his chest. I’d ignored Linda’s advice and had fallen for another horny co-worker. I should have listened more closely to the lyrics of “Closer.” Someone, something was getting me closer to God. I’d taken the long route to self-realization, getting closer to my inner devil first. I definitely needed a higher power to intervene.

  Richard stared me in the eye. “I’m giving you one more chance.” I looked at his hard face. Rays of sunshine poured from the French windows behind him, lighting his silhouette. He looked like Moses reading the Ten Commandments. “But that’s it.” He slid a white sheet of paper across the table for me to sign. “This is a disciplinary form. Please review and sign.” My gut felt like I’d eaten two Shepherd’s Pies. I’d officially been written up for bad behavior. I was even more ashamed than the time I’d gotten arrested in high school for skinny-dipping in the public pool after hours.

  My hand shook as I signed and dated the scarlet letter for my employee file. “Thank you.” I rubbed my cheeks to blend in the trail of tears.
“I will get back on track. I promise.” I opened the veranda’s glass door and stepped into the empty dining room. Fellow servers in white uniforms with loosened ties counted tips and folded napkins in the booths just outside the door. Everyone looked up from the stone tables when the door shut behind me. I turned and scuttled to the service bar. So much for my new family. I felt like an orphan fleeing from a very fucked-up foster home. There was only one person in the restaurant who could set a new course for the transplant who’d gone far off track.

  Me.

  MATTHEW

  “SANTA MONICA”

  Everclear

  REWIND: I buried my nose deeper in the book, searching for answers. Tiny, turquoise waves patted against the shore of the empty, barrier island beach. The fiery sun baked my black string bikini and my backside, as I lay sprawled out in reverse spread-eagle on a towel. My hideous position was one Saint Andrew’s Cross short of a S&M club stage show, and I was none the wiser.

  A sharp, scraping sound blasted into my ears. I flipped onto my back, and my eyes flew to the water’s edge. Adrenaline surged through my veins. My mouth dropped faster than a dress on prom night. This is it. This is how I’m going out.

  “Incoming!” the shirtless man screamed from a Hobie Cat sailboat. His fiberglass bow dug into the shoreline a few feet from my toes, as his arms tugged wildly at the sail’s ropes. My heart beat violently, as I scurried up the beach backwards on all fours like a human sand crab. The tip of the boat continued to barrel toward me. I dropped to the ground and began rolling wildly like a grade schooler at a “stop, drop and roll” fire drill. The warm sand felt like needles grinding against my bare skin when every pore was dripping with sweat and fear. The boat slammed to a stop a few inches from my beach towel.