Then, a miracle happened. I found a job. Although it doesn’t compare to the parting ofthe Red Sea or the Giants winning the World Series, it seemed nothing short ofmiraculous. I soon discovered it paid only $8.50 an hour, plus tips. I had broken the code, joined the club, and I was on my way at last.
I had gone to the City to interview for a sales clerk’s job at Mick’s, a furniture store located toward the ritzy end of Fillmore Street. The furniture is expensive and très chic, just the kind I like. But the interview didn’t go well. I could see right away that the guy interviewing me was underwhelmed by my lack of retailing experience. I tried to impress him with my enthusiasm for the furniture, but he blew me off with a “Thanks for coming in. We’ll call you when we make a decision.”
Dejected, I wandered down toward the cheaper end of Fillmore, looking for somewhere to get a smoothie. That’s when I spotted a HELP WANTED sign in the window of a funky-looking coffeehouse called Mad Malcolm’s Cyber Café. To be honest, the whole building did look a little mad, painted purple with orange-and-green trim.
I peered in the window and was not impressed by what I saw. The coffeehouse was furnished with a hodgepodge of mismatched furniture, and the customers looked equally odd. This was definitely not my usual kind of place. But maybe that was a good thing—maybe it would give me a better chance of getting the job. Surely people couldn’t be standing in line to work at a crazy-looking place like this.
I walked inside and inwardly groaned when I caught sight of the guy behind the counter—he was a pencil-thin, goateed young Asian with a shaved head and a tattoo of a dragon on his arm. If he was the management’s idea of the perfect employee, they wouldn’t want me. I wanted to turn right around, but I forced myself forward.
“Hi! I’d like to apply for the job,” I said with all the sassy self-confidence I could muster. He didn’t laugh or sneer or say anything at all, just stared at me, fished out an application from under the counter, and handed it to me. I filled it out and added a bunch of stupid comments about how much I loved coffee (I didn’t) and how much I wanted to work there (yeah, right). To show how much I loved coffee, I forced down a latte. Then I went home and forgot all about the place.
Early the next morning, the phone rang.
“This is Malcolm Merriman—from Mad Malcolm’s Cyber Café. Am I speaking to Ashley Mitchell?”
“Oh, hello,” I said, sitting up in astonishment. I had been half-asleep, trying to muster the energy to face the day. “Yes, this is Ashley.”
“Still interested in the job?”
“Of course.”
“Can you start right away?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Are you flexible? Can you work nights and weekends if I need you?”
“Yes, no problem.”
“Right, then. You’re hired. Start tomorrow.”
I was dumbfounded. “Don’t you want me to come in for an interview?” I asked.
“Nope. I’m not looking for a brain surgeon. Making coffee doesn’t take a master’s degree. As long as you can read and write and have half a brain, I can train you. What I need is someone who can start tomorrow. Nancy didn’t give me any notice, just up and left last week to go to Sedona and become an aroma therapist, for Christ’s sake.”
“I see,” I said, though of course I didn’t. It couldn’t be this easy, could it? There must be something wrong with this job.
“Be here tomorrow at eight AM sharp. No, wait, better make that nine, all right?”
“Uh, sure. Nine.” And then the words slipped out before I knew it. It’s as if I was channeling Mara. “What should I wear?”
There was a pause and then he said, “You know, for a moment I was tempted to say a clown suit. However, clothes are what I normally recommend.”
“I mean, I thought there might be a dress code or uniform,” I said, trying to recover my dignity.
“This ain’t Starbucks, darlin’. Wear whatever you want. But I wouldn’t recommend anything too short unless you want the customers looking up your skirt every time you bend over. Louis said you’re a looker.”
Taken aback, I answered, “I’ll figure it out.”
“Fine. See you tomorrow at nine. Bring your Social Security card.”
I had a job! I was ecstatic, even though the owner sounded weird. As I stared at my cell phone, I realized I forgot to ask him how much I would be paid. Oh well, it wasn’t like I was in a position to turn down anything, no matter how pitiful. And there was one blessing—I was sure that none of my former friends, no one from Burlingame, would ever show up in a place like Mad Malcolm’s.
• • •
That night, as I pumped the pedals on the exercise bike, I obsessed about finding a place to live. Whatever my salary was, I doubted it would be enough to rent much of a place, not at the astronomical prices that rentals seemed to cost. It would probably take every penny I earned. How could I find a cheap place to live?
A wild idea began to grow in the back of my brain—a crazy scheme that was born of desperation, but one I thought I might actually be able to pull off. There was only one roadblock to the plan—it would involve some serious groveling, and to Phil, of all people. I was mortified at the idea, but I didn’t see another way. I told myself it would be like acting, only in this case, my role was Little Orphan Ashley.
Chapter Fourteen
“What! Are you nuts? That’s the craziest idea you’ve ever come up with.”
Phil paused, wrench raised in midair, to stare at me in disbelief and derision. I had cornered him in one of the station’s service bays for Act One, Scene One, of my new play, Ashley, the Pathetic Beggar Girl.
Glaring back at him, I remembered why I used to call him Pill behind his back. Then I shifted gears and tried to look both sincere and pitiful. I was wearing my oldest jeans and a gray pullover I never liked, the closest thing I had to rags.
“I know it sounds crazy,” I said sadly, with what I hoped was the right amount of pathos. “But what else can I do? I’m desperate. It wouldn’t be for long, just till I save some money.”
He dropped the wrench on the workbench with a loud bang and let loose with a short, jerky laugh. “You can’t be serious. I can’t even begin to imagine it. You, of all people, living in a camper. There’s no phone service, no stereo or TV, no bathroom, much less bubble baths, you know.”
“I am serious, and guess what, my life isn’t all bubble baths right now. I’m in trouble and I don’t see any way out of it.”
Phil ran his fingers through his hair and gave me an exasperated look. “It’s illegal, you know.”
“Not in a bank-robbing kind of way,” I protested. “If it is, it’s just a little bit illegal and no one’s going to call you on it because no one is going to know.”
“People have a way of finding out about these things. Somebody notices or you tell someone and the next thing you know, I’ve got the cops or the Board of Health around my neck.”
“Believe me, Phil, I’m not going to tell anyone. Do you think I want anyone to know I don’t have anywhere to live?” I said acidly, and then downshifted my tone again. “I’ll make very sure that no one notices.”
“Ashley, you have no idea what living in a camper would be like. You’ve never even been camping!”
“What do you think I’m doing now? I have no furniture and the utilities are going to be shut off any minute now. Please, Phil, help me out. I don’t want to end up in one of those homeless shelters.”
“Come on, Ashley.” He snorted. “It can’t be that bad.”
“Oh, yeah, where can I go with no money, no family, and no job? Maybe you’d like to rent a room for me at the Ritz-Carlton?”
“Your mother wouldn’t want you living in a camper behind my station. She’d be horrified. I guess if you’re really in a tight spot, you could stay at my place until you’re on your feet.” He looked as if he couldn’t believe that he said it, and I couldn’t believe it either.
I sighed. I seemed t
o be doing a lot of sighing lately.
“At this point we don’t know what my mother would want, but she’s the one who got me into this mess in the first place. Anyway, I don’t think it would be a good idea for me to stay at your place. What would your new girlfriend think?”
Phil shifted uneasily, but didn’t answer.
“Look, I’m only going to sleep in the camper. I’ll be gone all day and only come back late at night, so no one will notice I’m there. It won’t be for long, I promise.”
I kept hammering away at him until finally he grumbled, “I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll think about it and let you know.”
“When?”
“In a couple of days,” he said, turning away. Then he turned back to add, “But remember, I’m not making any promises. I don’t think this is a good idea.”
I really didn’t think he was going to go for it, and I was thoroughly depressed because I didn’t have a Plan B. But the next day, Phil astonished me by calling on my cell phone and saying I could try it.
“The only reason I’m doing this is because I know you, Ashley. You won’t last a week living there.”
“Maybe not,” I retorted. “If I don’t, then you don’t have anything to worry about, do you?”
“You know, maybe this will be a good lesson for you,” he said. “Yes, this should be an interesting experiment. I’m going to enjoy watching this.”
“Always glad to provide a little bit of entertainment,” I replied, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice. To hell with him, I was tired of being condescended to and treated like a self-centered airhead. He underestimated me. They all did.
But first I had to find a place for Stella. She wouldn’t be safe at the camper—what if she got hit by some careless driver pulling into or out of the station? Keeping her locked up inside wouldn’t work either; she was used to having a big yard to roam and plenty of butterflies to stalk. The only thing I could do was ask Gloria if she would keep her for a little while.
I spun Gloria a story about how the place where I would be staying didn’t allow pets, but that I would find another apartment as soon as possible. Naturally, I didn’t tell her about Phil’s camper. She probably would have tried to stop me or insisted I stay at her house. I didn’t want to deal with her sons or hear daily reminders about what a screwup I was and how Diane had spoiled me.
I told Gloria to take good care of Stella and to not let the boys pull her tail. She’s very sensitive about having her tail pulled. She assured me that Stella would be well cared for, and I gave my beauty one last hug. She ruffled her fur and gave me what seemed like a resentful look along with a loud meow. I felt like I was losing my last friend.
• • •
The next night I quietly moved my belongings into the camper. I tried to keep my stuff to a minimum since there wouldn’t be much space. I brought bedding, a case full of makeup and bathroom supplies, my iPod, and my mother’s blue bathrobe. As for clothes, I brought only the basics: mostly jeans, sweaters, and a few skirts. I packed everything else into the boxes and cupboards in Gloria’s garage.
I purchased a few supplies that might be useful, including a flashlight, a couple of candles, bottled water for drinking, and some disposable facecloths for cleaning my face before bed. Being without running water was going to be a challenge.
The camper was parked behind the gas station, snug against a six-foot-high concrete retaining wall, with plenty of room to park my car facing it. The building would block most of my car from the street, although the rear fender and bumper might stick out a little. To a casual passerby, it would look as if my Jetta was one of several cars parked in the station overnight, ready for Phil and Reynaldo to begin work on early the next morning.
When I stepped inside the camper, I was surprised at how small it was. Standing there, I longed to walk out and say, “Forget it. Bad idea.” I had to remind myself that I didn’t have a backup plan.
At least it was clean. Someone had given it a good scrubbing. To put it mildly, the accommodations were austere. Squeezed nearest the door was a padded bench with a hinged table that could be raised or lowered—my new combination living room/dining area. Overhead were some cupboards for storage. More cupboards were mounted atop the sink, refrigerator, and stove area. I put clothes in all these places since I would be depending on fast-food joints.
At the back of the camper was my new bedchamber: a platform with a mattress on it. The door in the corner opened to a bathroom so small that turning around while inside was next to impossible. But I wouldn’t have to worry about that. Without any water or electricity, that teeny bathroom’s only purpose was to provide a mirror. I would have to sneak into the station’s ladies room and shower at the gym. There was one pathetically small closet. Sleeping and changing was all I would or could do at the camper.
I decided I would sleep in sweats. September and October are usually the warmest months around here, but the temperature always drops at night when the fog rolls in. Dressed in sweats I would be ready for whatever might happen. What if someone walked over and tried to look in the windows? Thankfully, the exterior door locked from the inside. Still, I couldn’t let myself forget for one minute that I was sleeping in a flimsy little camper behind a gas station.
Before long, I would discover that it wasn’t possible to forget. There’s nothing exactly homey about sleeping in an un-heated camper behind a stinky gas station. Even late at night I could hear horns honking, tires screeching, and the occasional whine of a fire truck or ambulance siren. I also heard the whistle of the train and sometimes even the jets of the planes preparing for takeoff at the nearby San Francisco Airport. Quite a chorus, all put together. The uninviting atmosphere was not enhanced by the ever-present aroma of gasoline drifting in the air and oozing into the camper. Only a heavy rain washed the smell away and then only temporarily.
That first night, as I sat in that dismal little tin can, the awfulness of the situation finally pierced the cushion of denial I had created around me. This was my new home. My mother was a thief who had vanished without a word, and I might never see her again. I was living on my own like the kind of person I had pitied in the past. My life as a person who was admired and envied was finished.
My chest felt as if a large rock were lodged somewhere below my rib cage, and I had to swallow hard to vanquish the nausea welling up in the back of my throat. Welcome to hell, Ashley, I told myself bitterly. Get used to it. I felt drained and resigned to my imprisonment in this metallic cage. I had only one plan for escape: to create a new life and a new Ashley.
By sleeping in the camper rent-free, I would save enough money to eventually move into a real apartment. I would need at least $3,000 for first and last month’s rent plus a security deposit; I already had a good start with the $2,000 left from the garage sale. Accumulating the other thousand might take a couple of months, but I was sure I could endure two months of discomfort to get myself on track.
Meanwhile, I planned to stay away from everyone I knew in Burlingame. When everything was going well—when I had a life, a cute apartment, and was enrolled in college—I’d reemerge as the new, independent Ashley. I’d be on my own while Mara, Scott, and the rest still lived off handouts from their parents.
Looking back I shudder at my optimism. Nothing, not one single thing, went as planned. Luckily, I had no inkling of the disasters that lurked just around the corner.
Chapter Fifteen
I was fifteen minutes late for the first day of my first job. It had taken ages to find a parking spot near the cafe. Dashing through the coffeehouse door, my hair flying in all directions, I stumbled on the uneven wooden floor in my high-heeled sandals.
“Dammit,” I yelped, just managing to avoid the indignity of falling flat on my butt.
As I regained my balance, I saw what was to become a familiar scene: Louis, the thin Asian guy, was manning the espresso machine with a bored look. Standing next to him, Santa Claus was leaning across the counter in co
nversation with a customer. That’s right, Santa, or maybe his clone. Anyway, this fat man had a big belly, a white beard, flyaway white hair pulled back in a ponytail, and a smiling red face. Instinct told me I was gazing at Mad Malcolm.
“She shoved her tongue so far into my ear, I thought she would break my eardrum,” said the customer, and Santa laughed uproariously.
That provocative conversation stopped abruptly as I came to a halt in front of them.
“Hi!” I squeaked. “Sorry to be a little late. I had trouble finding a place to park.”
“You must be our new serving wench,” Santa said. “Welcome to the Madhouse, Cinderella. I’m Malcolm.”
“Uh,” I mumbled. Serving wench? Cinderella? Is that supposed to be funny? “I’m Ashley.”
“Of course you’re Ashley. I see you took my advice about not wearing a short skirt. Still, you look fetching enough in those tight jeans. A little eye candy never hurts business. Yes, indeedy, you should make an interesting addition to our merry little band.”
“Did you say ‘the Madhouse’?” I asked.
“That’s a name that one of the customers gave this establishment a few years back, and it stuck. It seems to fit, since most of the customers are as deranged as I am.”
“No one’s madder than Mad Malcolm,” contradicted the customer, a tall, husky man of about thirty-five. “Hi, I’m Tom. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Your taste in employees is improving, Mal. She looks much more agreeable than Nancy. She tended to be a bit argumentative at times.”
“She could be,” Mal agreed. “You don’t have any strong opinions on doctors or modern medicine, I hope. Your predecessor hated doctors and insisted that they were all in collusion to keep us sick. How about vitamins?”
“Vitamins?” I said. “They’re good, I guess. I take a multiple vitamin every day, when I remember.”
My Lost and Found Life Page 11