I splashed some cold water on my face and dabbed it dry with a wad of scratchy brown paper towels. I gave myself another quick once over and then headed to my counter to face my adorning fans, also known as picky, irritating customers.
“Something is wrong with my account,” the next man in line said. “I don’t know what happened, but my interest was miscalculated. Your bank is off by more than twenty-three dollars.”
I tried so hard not to roll my eyes. Twenty-three dollars, huh? My life was falling apart and this dude was bitching about a derisory few dollars? I wished that was my only issue.
I hadn’t heard from MacIntyre, Roth and Associates since the interview, and quite frankly, I was getting worried. The interview went well, or so I thought, and I e-mailed the follow-up thank you response, so why was I getting the silent treatment? For the past two days, I replayed the entire interview in my head, combing through every single detail.
Professional attire? Check.
Pleasant demeanor? Check.
Confident attitude? Check.
The other day, feeling slightly insecure, I gave DeShaun the details about the interview.
“What if another applicant was more qualified?”
He simply smiled and shook his head. “Not possible.”
“But I had read up on the company to find out what they looked for in employees,” I told him. “They wanted passionate, smart, articulate people. I possess those qualities, don’t I?”
Again he nodded, more sure than I could ever be. “You’re the most passionate person I know.”
When I questioned whether or not I may have been overly confident, he kissed my cheek and that was reassurance enough. I only wished I was as confident as he was.
Jim McIntyre, the person who interviewed me, asked what I could bring to the table? I rattled down my qualifications like my life depended on it, which often times during the interview, I felt like it did.
“Do you think I got the job?” I had asked DeShaun like he was The Oracle. Every single detail raced through my mind. Maybe they had many more applicants than I had anticipated and decided on hiring a fresh-out-of-college kid who would demand much less money and minimal health benefits as opposed to someone who had dependents.
DeShaun had embraced me and said, “Take a deep breath, Mimi. Remain positive and the job will come through.”
He was right. I had nothing else to go on. A little bit of hope would keep me moving.
“Did you hear me?” The man at the counter stared me down. “Something is wrong with my account. I don’t know what happened, but my interest was miscalculated. Your bank is off by more than twenty-three dollars.”
I punched his account numbers into the computer. The man had over seventy-five thousand dollars in his savings account and he was bitching about twenty bucks.
“I am so sick of you people trying to pull this.” The man’s voice got louder with each word, capturing the attention of nearby customers. “I put my money into your bank and expect to get the correct interest. How hard is that?”
I took another deep breath, trying to maintain my composure. “Sir, I’ll take a look and take care of it.”
“You’re damn right you will!”
That was it. I had enough. “Excuse me?” I felt the hot blood pumping through my veins and for a second, I imagined myself reaching across the counter and wrapping my fingers around his scrawny neck. I had it with these people I was so sick of everybody complaining about nothing. At least they had money in the bank to complain about.
The man opened his mouth to say something else, but before he could, I felt a tap on my shoulder. When I turned around, Jeremy was standing there, with a composed smile on his face. “Why don’t you allow me to handle this gentleman?”
I glared at the customer. “You don’t have to do that.”
The composed smile remained on his face when he said, “I insist.” Before I could protest further, he grabbed hold of my shoulders and steered me toward the back room.
“These people are so annoying,” I whispered, angrily. “Seriously, who gives two craps about his stupid twenty dollars?”
Jeremy stepped up his pace as he continued steering me to the break room.
“Shit! I’ll give him the twenty dollars to get the hell off of my line!” I called back, hoping the old bastard heard me.
“Chill,” he whispered. “Take a few minutes and get yourself together. When you’re ready, you can come back up to the front and I’ll let you deal with the jackasses. Deal?”
“Thanks.” I opened the door to the back room and headed straight for my purse. I pulled out my phone and dialed. I called DeShaun’s cell but a recording came on. The phone was “out of service,” which translated into the bill had not been paid. I didn’t need the recorded voice to tell me that. I thought he had at least another week before his service stopped. That only meant one thing; my phone was next. I gave it another two or three days, tops.
Several minutes later, Jeremy came to the back room. “Is everything all right?”
I flopped into the refurbished lounge chair and flicked off my left shoe with the toes of my right foot. I did the same with my left shoe. I reached down and squeezed my toes hard, like I was ringing out a wet dishtowel.
“It’s the usual,” I sighed. “I was seriously about to strangle that old dude if he didn’t get off my case about his stupid twenty-three dollars.”
Jeremy watched me rub my aching feet. “Yeah, I could tell that. And the funny thing was, it wasn’t our mistake. He miscalculated.”
I hopped up. “What? You mean he brought that mess to me and got me all riled up for nothing?”
“Woosah, woosah. Take it down for a minute,” Jeremy said. “I can read the morning headlines now, Black woman teller strangles elderly white man with big ears.”
“You noticed those ears, too?”
“How could you not?” he said. “Ever notice that when you massage yourself it never feels as good as when you’re being massaged by someone else?”
“Huh?”
“Your feet.”
I looked down. I forgot I was still rubbing them. “Oh.”
“What did you think I was talking about?” He thought a second. “Oh, I didn’t mean it like that. I only meant that it feels better when someone else rubs your feet as opposed to doing it yourself.”
“Yeah. I got that now,” I said, still rubbing.
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Do you want me to do that for you?”
“Nah.” I squeezed my big toe. “I’m good.”
“Be glad you didn’t have to talk to the man for too long,” Jeremy said. “His breath was like roadkill, and not the kind that was hit an hour ago. I’m talking the skunk-that-was-struck-by-a-semi-tractor-trailer-three-days-ago funk.”
I gave an obligatory chuckle. He was trying to make me feel better, but I really wasn’t in the mood.
“Speaking of roadkill. Your feet—why don’t you put them dogs away? My eyes are starting to water.”
I picked up my shoe and tossed it at him. It smacked the side of his arm and clunked to the ground. “Oh, shut up. My feet don’t stink.”
“Nah, I’m kidding.” He tossed the shoe back at me. I ducked and it missed and hit the back cushion of the chair. “Your shoe smells like honeysuckle.”
“Shut up, Nerd Boy!”
He raised his brows. “Oh, I know you ain’t talkin’ Candylicious. Wasn’t that your skripper name?”
“Not even close, Barry Back Brace.”
“Nasty Naomi.”
“Forty-Year-Old Virgin.”
“Fantasia Freak-a-Lot.”
I looked at him. “Where did that one come from?”
He shrugged. “Ran out of names. Look, why don’t you relax before you go out there and chop off someone else’s head?” He stood up and headed toward the door. “Oh, yeah, I came back here to tell you the manager wants to see you in her office.”
So much for relaxing. “Do you know what she wants?”
He shook his head. “Contrary to popular belief, I do not get into my aunt’s affairs. I have to tell you, though, be prepared. Maybe dude with the big ears complained. Don’t worry, I got your back on this one. Dude was straight ignorant.”
I stood up and stepped into my shoes. “Might as well get this over with.” I headed down the hall, toward the manager’s office. I wasn’t looking forward to this conversation, especially after being late a few times and my nasty attitude write-up, but hey, you never knew, miracles did happen. It might actually be some good news for a change.
As I walked down the corridor, I had a tough time believing that.
And I was right.
DeShaun and Naomi
Something had to give. He had been to four restaurants today and nothing. One wasn’t hiring, the others took his application and told him they would call if something came up that fit his requirements. In restaurant speak that meant his application was going into the trash bin. He was a server applying to restaurants, not as the CEO to Fortune 500 companies—of course these spots had something that fit his requirements.
He had called a fifth and final time about that catering gig M.J. had mentioned, but they haven’t gotten back to him. He wished people would stop being such assholes so he wouldn’t waste his time.
He hadn’t told Naomi yet, but the car people called and threatened repossession by the end of the week. He almost wanted them to take the damn car. It wasn’t like they could afford gas prices anyway. Even if he found a job today, it would take at least two weeks before he got a paycheck. They would still have to play catch-up. A month ago, Naomi had started categorizing the bills; the behind stack and the way behind stack. Eventually, they all fell into one pile; the probably-never-getting-paid-and-getting-stuck-on-your-credit-report stack.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone and dialed. It was cut off. “Dammit!” He had used his cell as the contact number for the job applications. He had also used the number as the contact for the catering gig. Maybe they called. He had to go under the assumption that they called so he made a quick decision to contact them one last time. If he didn’t, he’d be thinking about this for the rest of his life.
When he got home, he burst through the door. Good, he beat Naomi home. He headed straight for the phone. No messages. He picked it up to dial. There was no dial tone.
Crap!
He had also left his e-mail address on the applications. Maybe when they realized they couldn’t call to offer the job, they would send an e-mail. He ran to the computer but then remembered they stopped paying the Internet bill last month in order to make a partial car payment. He turned on the computer anyway. He had to try.
As predicted, the Internet was down.
He headed straight for the kitchen and opened the fridge. He pulled out a cold beer and demolished it in ten seconds flat. He grabbed another one as he tossed the empty can from the first one into the trash. Now what?
He took another swig. He thought about his father and what prompted him to get out of dodge, leaving him and his mother home alone to do the best they could. Did his father feel like DeShaun did at this very moment? He would never leave Mimi, but maybe his father felt overwhelmed. Regardless of the reasons, no way was DeShaun ever going to be that weak. He’d figure something out. What that something was, he had no idea.
Normally, he would have a delicious dinner waiting for Mimi when she came home, but not today. The only meat in the fridge was a frozen chicken and he wasn’t in the mood to thaw out and fry chicken.
He took another gulp as he listened to the soles of his wife’s heels click against the hardwood floor. He listened as she kicked off her shoes, her heels making a sharp clack as they landed against the floor. He polished off his second beer, listening to something sounding like a stack of magazines dropping to the floor. He heard her curse under her breath and then slap her keys down onto the foyer table. Apparently, she wasn’t in a good mood either.
Eventually, the muted footsteps headed toward him. When she came into the kitchen, he glanced down at the stack of brand new bills in her hand. When she saw him, she greeted him with a tired “Hey.”
“How was work today?” DeShaun opened up the refrigerator and grabbed the last beer. “Want it?’
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“At this point, I’d believe anything.”
“Not this.”
“Try me.”
“Okay, here it goes. Today I was fired from my crappy job at the bank. And do you want to know why?”
“Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack. Apparently, that guy, Jeremy, I thought was so cool, turned out to be an asshole. Surprise on me.”
“What happened?”
“First, I was told I was being fired because I left work early to go on that interview I told you about.”
“How did they find out about that?”
“Who knows? I’m guessing Jeremy. But that’s not the best part. When I denied it, the manager came at me with another excuse—drinking at lunch.”
“What? You were drinking at lunch? When?”
“That day I told you Jeremy and I went out to lunch. He bought us two—count ’em—two light beers. He had one, too.”
“Really, Mimi? Drinking on the job?”
“I know you are not judging me. You were fired too, remember?”
“Not for drinking.”
“Oh, no, just for stealing.”
“For the last time, I wasn’t stealing,” DeShaun said, angrily.
“Then how did you get fired for stealing if you weren’t stealing?”
“It was those bottles of wine I used to bring home for you.”
“You were stealing those? I thought your boss gave them to you.”
He shook his head. “Like you really thought Stiles would give anyone anything. I was bringing home the bottles but paying for them later. They were getting the money and then some. I wasn’t even taking the discount when I paid for them.”
“You got fired for that?”
“That old dude had it in for me a long time before that.”
“So lemme get this straight; you’re saying you paid them for the bottles of wine after the fact?”
“It was always the very next week.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that? More importantly, why didn’t you tell them that?”
“I didn’t think I had to tell you that.” He pulled the tab on the last can of beer. It made a hissing sound. “And second.” He took a long, drawn-out swig. “They don’t care.”
“I didn’t ask you if they cared, I asked you if you told them that.”
“What for? I hated that place. Besides, you hated me working there.”
“It was a job, DeShaun. And even though I hated that job, you at least had a job. I wanted you to have a better position, not NO position.”
“Look,” DeShaun said, taking another sip. “What’s done is done. I’ve been thinking. Maybe we need to hit up your parents again.”
“There’s no way that’s gonna happen.”
“We’re desperate, Naomi. We’ve got to do something. You’re standing there now with a shit load of bills in your hand.”
“Why don’t we hit up your parents for the money?”
“That’s not funny, Naomi.”
That was ignorant, I knew it. DeShaun’s parents had divorced when he was six years old and he had only seen his father twice in his life, but I was only trying to make a point.
“Please don’t remind me how your parents paid for our wedding, Naomi. And please don’t give me the speech about how they put the down payment on the house and even loaned us money to purchase a car. Seriously, I can’t hear that mess again.”
“It’s true. I’m simply saying my parents are not an option this time. We need to consider something else.”
“Like what? We ran out of options when the power company thre
atened to turn off our electricity. Options sailed down the river when we received the car repossession letter in the mail yesterday.”
“We got a letter yesterday?”
“Yeah. That, and a late notice from the credit card people, telling us that we are two months past due and that we are being charged fifty dollars a month in late fees.”
“Oh, crap! I forgot about that.”
“Ask your parents for a loan,” he said. “We have to do something and quick.”
“What I don’t understand is why are my people always considered your go-to option first? Shouldn’t that be my call? They’re my family, not yours. Shouldn’t I be the one to lean on them?”
“I have to be the first to suggest it because you won’t.”
“DeShaun, you know how my mother can be, especially about money.”
“Exactly,” he said, nodding. “Now imagine having to live with that when we can’t make our mortgage payment.”
“Stop running to my parents every time we get caught out there. Why don’t you hurry up and get a job?”
He matched my gaze. “Why don’t you?”
Our eyes locked. At first, we were dead serious, but then for some unknown reason, we burst out laughing at the exact same time. We must’ve been thinking the same thing.
“Can you imagine living with my mother and making out in her basement like teenagers?”
“You think that’s funny,” DeShaun said, “think about that ratty old bathrobe your pops wears. The one with the hole right in the crotch that he refuses to throw out. The man is a surgeon; he can afford a new robe.”
“And what about that ugly brown scarf Mom ties on her head every night?”
“So that’s where you get it from?”
“When she called me the other day, we only talked for a few minutes. She said she had to wrap her hair before bed and all I could picture was that ugly, holey scarf.”
“So you want to go back to that, huh?”
“No.”
“Will you ask for a loan then? We’ll pay them back like we always do.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“I’ll tell you what,” DeShaun said, scratching his chin. “Sleep on the idea.”
“I will.”
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