by Dixie Cash
PAIGE CAME AWAY from an unsuccessful meeting with the spa manager stunned more than disappointed. Her expensive spa where she spent a ton of money on tanning, massages, facials, pedicures—you name it—paid starvation wages. In addition, they expected a receptionist to work horrible hours—nine to six, with only a half hour for lunch, five days a week and one Saturday a month. Were they kidding? Why, it was slavery.
When she told the interviewer she had a very fashionable wardrobe that would make a great impression on the spa’s customers, the woman informed her the receptionist wore a black nylon smock, and a wardrobe was at the bottom of their list of requirements. Lesson learned. Paige wouldn’t make that mistake again.
She had a headache, left over from drinking too much Scotch yesterday. She wouldn’t do that again, either. She put on her swimsuit and headed for the pool. Twenty-five laps would make her feel better.
The next day’s search for work began with a negative. Every ad in the Star Telegram classifieds called for a résumé. Paige spent the rest of the day trying various formats, but in the end gave up. She had no employment history to put on a résumé. For education, she could show six years of attendance at good universities—SMU, Texas Tech, and TCU—but no degree. She could barely type, and the only computer knowledge she had acquired was logging on to the Internet to check her e-mail.
The following day, not forgetting that her wardrobe was unimportant, Paige dressed down in a white turtleneck sweater and a simple straight black skirt that struck her midcalf—how could someone get any plainer than that?—and pushed her hair back with a headband into a severe do. She added tall black boots and studied her image. She looked positively drab, so to her earlobes, she added the large diamond studs Daddy had given her for Christmas last year.
She set out on foot, her destination the real estate sales office in a strip center at the end of her block. When she entered, she was surprised by the decor. Compared to the spa, the place was as plain as her attire, but she could adapt. After all, how many hours a day would she spend here?
The office manager, whose nameplate said MS. DENNISON, told her they could use a receptionist. The job started at twenty. Paige did a quick calculation in her head: twenty dollars per hour added up to around forty thousand per year. She certainly couldn’t live on less.
“Oh, that’s wonderful.” Paige had heard from her friends who held down jobs that starting pay was negotiable, so she added, “But do you think you could bump that up to forty-five thousand? A girl does have expenses, you know.”
Ms. Dennison’s face took on a flat expression. “Dear, we’re discussing an annual wage of twenty thousand dollars, which may be more than you’re worth. You’re an attractive young woman whose appearance would be an asset to our front office, but you have no experience and no skills that I can discern.”
Why, the nerve! Who did Ms. Dennison think she had sitting across from her, a potted plant? Stung, Paige rose from her chair, smoothed her lap wrinkles, and summoned a saccharine smile. “I may not know how to type, but that’s no reason for you to be so rude.”
As she made her exit, she thought of the countless number of women who had to accept such insulting pay and the attitude that went with it. By walking out on Ms. Dennison, she had struck a blow for them.
Feeling heroic, she returned to her condo, where she mixed a pitcher of margaritas, donned her bikini, shoved on her new Sama sunglasses, and marched to the pool. Before long, one of her neighbors and her adorable four-year-old joined her. When Paige told of her job-hunting experiences, the neighbor said the law firm where her husband worked was interviewing for a clerk.
A lawyer’s office. Why, absolutely. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? That would be a much more prestigious job than receptionist in a spa or a real estate sales office.
Paige awoke the next day to a depressing Sunday and another headache. Yesterday afternoon, the neighbor and her daughter had left the pool and been replaced with a divorced stockbroker from the other end of the complex and one of his friends. When the pitcher of margaritas ran dry, the stockbroker had gone back to his unit and returned with a fifth of Crown Royal. The three of them had partied until well after dark.
With no transportation, she was homebound. All she could do was either watch TV or hang out at the pool again. She was channel surfing when Sunny returned her call. Her friend had just returned from some kind of cooking classes in New Orleans. Paige was in tears by the time she finished telling Sunny her troubles.
“Oh, I know just what this calls for,” Sunny said.
“My liquor cabinet’s almost bare. I don’t want anything to drink anyway.”
“Not liquor. Honestly, Paige. What this calls for is chocolate. I’ll come over and make you a lava cake. What do I need to bring?”
Paige sniffled. “Everything but an oven.”
Sunny came. And left late in the afternoon. They had finished off the tequila. The lava cake had turned out more like chocolate pudding than cake, and they had discovered that deep rich chocolate and tart margaritas did not enhance each other. Sunny’s disapproval of the combination of tastes had driven her to declare she needed to take more cooking classes.
Judd appeared in the Escalade on Sunday evening. A cervical collar ringed his neck and a heavy plaster cast cocked his arm at a forty-five-degree angle. He had to turn his entire body to hand her the SUV’s keys at her front door. She couldn’t find it in her heart to be mad at him.
“Oh, my gosh, Judd. Are you in pain?”
His handsome face took on a scowl. “I’m on drugs. I shouldn’t be driving.”
Paige sneaked a glance at the dusty Escalade parked in her driveway. It appeared to be all intact and undamaged. She breathed a silent sigh of relief and swung her gaze back to Judd’s injuries. “You must have drawn a good bull. Did you qualify?”
A murderous glare shot from his blue eyes. “All I qualified for was disability.”
“Do you need a ride somewhere?”
“I’ve already got a ride.”
As he limped away, Paige saw a shiny yellow Corvette parked at the curb. The driver was a glamorous-looking blonde she didn’t recognize. Judd must have qualified at something.
Which was more than she had done in the past few days.
three
Morning brought new resolve. Paige searched her closet for a respectable suit and decided on a beige two-piece Donna Karan she had never worn. The skirt hit just above the knee, and she pondered if its hemline was a tad too short for a job interview.
She found a peach-colored blouse that accentuated her tan and…well, her cleavage, too, but the cleavage wasn’t as important as the tan. A bunch of stodgy lawyers probably wouldn’t notice what she was wearing anyway.
Last, she added a pair of three-inch honey-colored lizard pumps and checked the mirror again. Her five-feet-ten-inch frame seemed to be all legs. Up until two or three years ago she had thought her long limbs gangly, but she had finally filled out. Oh, well, why debate with herself? The suit was a tailored outfit, wasn’t it?
The law firm, located downtown in one of the Bass Towers near the courthouse, was quiet, cool, and formal and done in blue tones. Good. Blue was one of her good colors.
As she passed the receptionist and several women and men she assumed were lawyers, she wished she had left the three-inch heels at home. She was a head taller than everyone she saw.
She had always thought of lawyers as being exceptionally smart. A lawyer was one of the few people to whom Daddy ever listened. When she was shown into the senior partner’s office, his lack of mental acuity shocked her. Why, the man forgot the job requirements, and he sweated so much he grabbed a legal document and began mopping his balding head.
Oh, dear. She wasn’t sure how she felt about a man who perspired so profusely.
Then it occurred to her he could be having a heart attack. He had to be at least fifty. “Oh, Mr. Blodgett, are you okay? I know CPR—”
“Miss McBride,” he b
lurted, springing to his feet, “this just isn’t going to work out. You see, I’m a happily married man.”
What did that have to do with anything?
Men were so strange, she thought as the assistant escorted her to the front door.
Experience required.
Only Experienced Need Apply.
How was she supposed to get experience if no one would give her a chance? She scanned the classifieds again and zeroed in on an ad:
No experience necessary. Immediate opening. Executive position for the right person willing to work hard. Top pay in short time.
Could this be real? Something so promising and so in tune with her needs had to have a downside.
On the other hand, maybe her luck had taken a turn for the better. Maybe she’d had such bad experiences with those other interviews just so she could find this job.
Paige dialed the number and within a matter of minutes had an appointment for tomorrow morning.
The interview with Joe Gist started off so well Paige speculated she could call Daddy this very afternoon and tell him he didn’t have to worry about her ever again. She was on her way. Grab the Windex! Glass ceiling, here I come!
Polite and professional—but rather short and wearing brown shoes and white socks with a shiny blue suit—Mr. Gist told her she could set her own hours. “But of course,” he added, “the more you work, the more you can make.”
He gave her a grin that reminded her of a snake. And he looked her up and down like he might jump over the desk and land on her lap. “I’d say you’re built, er, tailor-made for this job, Miss McBride. Why, the day might even come when you’d like to go out in the field where you could make some real money. I see you raking in six digits in no time.”
“Oh, I’m so thrilled, Mr. Gist. But you haven’t told me what I’m supposed to do.”
“We do a type of telemarketing here,” he said.
His involved explanation left her blinking and dumbfounded for a few seconds. Finally, she found words. “You—you mean you want me to call up strangers and sell them rubbers?”
“Condoms, Miss McBride. Condoms. You have to understand it’s a public service. Many men are too intimidated to purchase condoms in a bricks and mortar store. You’ll be promoting safe sex. Do you know how many unfortunate people contract STDs each year, or, God forbid, AIDS?”
Paige felt as if her entire body had been given a big shot of Novocain. She shook her head.
“Unwanted pregnancies,” Mr. Gist continued. “Have you seen the number of babies born to women who don’t want them? Babies left unloved, uncared for, that become abused children?”
Oh, dear. Paige couldn’t bear the thought of unloved babies or abused children. She felt herself relenting. “Wow. Gosh, when you put it that way—”
“Oh, splendid.” He opened his desk drawer and took out a sheaf of papers. “Now. We have canned presentations you can memorize in no time. Here’s an example.” He pushed several pages across the desk on which she saw written dialogue.
She scanned it. “Oh, my.” Her head began to slowly shake as she read. “Oh, my, no. I don’t think I can call up men and discuss the size of—”
“Now, now.” Mr. Gist’s palm came up. “Don’t be discouraged. It’s nothing more than research. The right fit is important to making a happy customer.”
She read on, then stopped at the end of the last page and stared at him. “Excuse me, but after they agree to buy one, you want me to ask if they’d like help putting it on?”
Mr. Gist’s eyes popped wide and both palms flew up. “Oh, don’t worry. We don’t expect you to do it. We have people on staff to—”
“People on staff?” Paige felt her eyes bug as wide as Mr. Gist’s. “You want me to be a pimp!”
“Miss McBride, please. No. No, absolutely not. Think of yourself as a, uh…a love facilitator.” He made a sweeping motion with his arm as if he were skywriting.
Paige yanked up her purse and sprang to her feet. “Sir, I have to go now.”
She backed toward the door, feeling behind herself for the knob. He skirted the end of the desk, shoving a business card at her. “Here, take a card. So you can call me. Tell your friends about us.”
Her hand closed on the doorknob, but she released it and stared down at her palm. “Yuck!”
As her high heels clacked lickety-split up the hall, she heard him call out, “We offer an excellent dental plan.”
OUTSIDE, PAIGE CLIMBED into the Escalade, sank into its buttery leather upholstery, and drew a shaky breath. She had always thought of herself as worldly, but the meeting she had just left set that notion back a step or two.
The grip of determination to succeed was beginning to slip.
She turned the ignition, prepared to back out of the parking lot, when the low fuel light caught her eye. God, it seemed like she had just filled the gas tank. She wished now, when it had been her free choice, she had gone for the VW instead of this gas-guzzling SUV.
She pulled into the next service station. She hung the nozzle in the gas tank and returned to her purse on the passenger seat for the forty-five dollars the gas would cost. She had twenty-five dollars in her wallet. She counted the money a second time before darting to stop the gasoline flow at twelve dollars.
How was it possible she had no more than twenty-five dollars? Only three weeks had passed since Daddy had delivered his ultimatum and told her he had put twenty-five hundred dollars in her bank account.
Sure, she had purchased a few things—new earrings to match her beige suit, a new purse with matching wallet, her favorite perfume, but it had included a free body lotion. That wasn’t frivolous. That was smart shopping.
She had replaced several empty bottles in her bar. She had eaten out in a couple of her favorite restaurants. She had to eat, didn’t she? Daddy surely didn’t expect her to go without food.
Thinking of eating out reminded her she was hungry. The portable sign at the McDonald’s next door caught her eye. CHECK OUT OUR $1 MENU ITEMS.
With thirteen dollars in her hand Paige started the engine and made the short trip across the parking lot. She hadn’t eaten at a Mickey D’s in a long time, but she knew the food was hot and cheap.
Balancing her order on a plastic tray, she found a seat near the cashier. The front of the large dining room seemed to be the safest place because the remainder of the room had been overtaken by birthday revelers. A stream of water ran from the direction of the bathrooms. The pimply-faced teenager behind the counter told her the group celebrating an honoree’s fifth birthday had stuffed the toilets with gift wrap. A food fight was in progress, and all of the younger children were wailing.
As she ate, a sign written in chalk below the Employee of the Month picture beckoned to her. NOW HIRING. ASK FOR MANAGER. A lightbulb clicked on inside her head. Maybe fate had pulled her to this spot. Whatever. All she knew for sure was that she was now down to less than ten dollars.
“May I speak to the manager, please?” she asked the harried teenager.
“Is something wrong?” His shoulders sagged with dejection. “Aw, man, if I screwed up your order…One more complaint and I’m fixin’ to get canned.”
“My order was fine. I uh…I want to talk to him about something else.”
“Is it the noise? I’m sorry. The parents are supposed to keep these little monsters under control.”
“I want to talk to him about the job you’re advertising.”
“What job?” The young man’s brow tented over troubled eyes.
Paige pointed to the sign.
“Oh, that. It stays up all the time. We’re always looking for somebody. Hold on. I’ll get Melvin.”
When Melvin rounded the end of the counter, the little that remained of Paige’s ego left like air from a punctured balloon. He looked to be not much older than the birthday celebrants. He was five three and maybe weighed a hundred pounds. Above his left shirt pocket, his name was embroidered.
He had to be eighteen, Paig
e theorized, staring down at ketchup and mustard splotches on his shirt. A pocket protector filled with pens hung on his chest like war medals, and he held a clipboard close to his body. Paige recognized him as the Employee of the Month and glanced again at his picture grinning proudly from inside the black plastic frame.
He pushed his thick glasses back to their place on his nose and looked her up and down. “We don’t hire corporate level from this location. You’ll have to go to Dallas.”
“I’m not looking for a corporate job,” Paige said. “I want to apply for the job you have here.”
“You’re kidding, right? Is this a sorority prank? They do stuff like that to us all the time.”
Paige lifted her chin, making her tower over him that much more. “I’m serious. I’ve never had a job. I don’t have any skills, but I’ll try my very best. That’s all I can say.”
A pregnant pause followed. He appeared to be considering the situation. Suddenly he extended his hand and beamed the smile that had surely earned him the monthly employee recognition. “Welcome to McDonald’s!”
He gave her a stack of papers to fill out, a set of uniforms, and a brief speech on keeping the uniforms clean and pressed. Paige lifted the garments one by one. Polyester. Pressed? Who did Melvin think he was kidding? As if polyester wasn’t bad enough, he handed her a hairnet.
PAIGE SHOWED UP the next day on time, in spite of spending half an hour in front of her vanity mirror wrestling with the hairnet. The skimpy elastic strings barely contained her mane of curls. Flattened on top, her trendy Shelton’s hairstyle angled down to a bob about her shoulders. She looked like a mushroom. A mushroom in polyester. If anyone she knew came into McDonald’s, she intended to stick her head in the deep fryer.
Melvin assigned her to the grill. Within minutes her acrylic nails had begun to melt, and for the sake of safety and fire prevention, he moved her to the cash register, contorted nails and all.
The cash register was perfect, given Paige’s lack of experience. The name of each item served was written on each individual key, and to remove any doubt, a picture of the item was also displayed. The amount of change due a customer was practically shoved into his hand by a change-making machine. Melvin stood by at a discreet distance in case she got in over her head.