by Ivy Black
But that criticism has continued to fuel me. It pushes me forward and forces me to try and unlock that missing element. It’s also why I’m stalled out on my other works. This series is so important to me that I can’t seem to let myself focus on anything else right now. Not until I get this one right. Not until I’m satisfied that somebody can look at these works and feel all of the pain and anguish that still grips me tightly. Not until somebody looks at these works and understands the depths of my despair. Not until somebody feels it as deeply as I do 24/7 and cries with me.
I glance at the clock and frown. “Shit.”
I strip off my clothes on my way to the bathroom, not even bothering to close the door behind me. It takes a minute for the water to get warm enough for me to jump in so I brush my teeth and put on the shower cap. It’s too late to wash my hair right now, and I figure there’s no point since it’ll end up reeking like beer and cigarette smoke by the end of the night anyway. I’ll do it after my shift.
I take a quick utilitarian shower, not lingering beneath the warm spray of water like I normally do. That done, I towel off and throw on my work uniform—black jean shorts and a tight white top that leaves little about my chest to the imagination. The guys who frequent the Red Grizzly—the bar that occupies the bottom floor of the building—are older, usually drunk, and always horny. They also tip a lot better if I’m flashing some cleavage. To me, they’re just a set of tits—albeit a nice set of tits. To them though, it’s what they’ll be fantasizing about later as they fumble with their unfortunate significant other, or maybe just with themselves, and they usually pay a premium for a good show.
I’m sure feminists across the country would cry out in shame and rage if they knew I was displaying my goods with such little care and for monetary profit. But I figure they’re mine and if I want to have a cover charge for a little look-see, that’s my right. I figure if I got ’em, I might as well use ’em to my best advantage. And I don’t see anything anti-feminist or shameful about it in the least.
Finished dressing, I throw on a little makeup, check myself in the mirror then hustle down the long hallway to the door that opens onto the landing outside. I take the wrought iron staircase down to the sidewalk then enter the Red Grizzly—the Grizz to the regulars—through the back door reserved for employees and punch the clock with a minute to spare.
“You’re late,” Mary grumbles.
I slip my card back into the rack and give her a smile. “Actually, I’m a minute early.”
“You haven’t set up your station yet.”
“Are you suggesting I come in early, off the clock, and work for free, Mary?” I ask sweetly. “I do believe that would be a violation of California labor laws—”
“You got a smart-ass answer for everything, don’t you, kid?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“Get your station set up.”
“Glad to, now that I’m on the clock,” I chirp brightly.
Mary grumbles under her breath and walks into her office shaking her head. The slamming of her office door is thunderous, and I’m sure whoever’s at the bar in the front of the house had no trouble hearing it. I don’t know why she hates me. It wasn’t always that way. Not in the beginning anyway. But over time, she’s grown to really dislike me and makes no bones about it. She’s harder on, and more demeaning to me, than anybody else for reasons that continue to elude me.
But Mary is good at what she does and so Jack—the owner of the Grizz—tolerates her. And unfortunately for her, Jack loves me to death and thinks of me as the daughter he never had and so, short of catching me stealing money from the till, there’s nothing she can do that will ever get him to fire me. She knows that, and she resents me for it. It’s the only personnel decision she has no power over and it drives her completely bonkers—and I love it.
It’s not that I abuse that power. I’d never abuse Jack’s trust and faith in me. He’s a good man and yeah, with my folks gone, he’s been something of a father figure to me. But I don’t tolerate the abuse Mary heaps out onto me and the rest of the staff, and I’m not afraid to stand up to her. Jack has told us to find a way to get along but for the most part, he stays out of our way and lets us handle it on our own. I can’t really blame him for wanting to stay out of the cross fire. If I had that ability, I probably would too.
I tie my half apron on around my waist and push through the swinging door, stepping into the well of the bar and surveying the room. There are only a couple of people in at this time of day but I’m sure it’ll pick up. Bree, the day-shift bartender, is there and gives me a smile.
“I should have texted you to let you know Mary’s on a warpath today,” she says.
“Warpath? More like she’s on the rag.”
Bree laughs and finishes wiping down the bar in front of her. She was the first person I met when I started working here and has become my best friend over time. She’s tall—five ten—has legs for days and the kind of curves that makes men drool. Like me, she’s got full breasts and displays them proudly. She’s got dark hair that falls to the middle of her back, rich tawny skin, and almond-shaped eyes the color of milk chocolate. She has a vaguely exotic look to her. It’s just a hint of some blend of ethnicities, which only adds to her allure. I like to think I’m a pretty girl but standing next to Bree, I feel positively plain.
She’s a couple of years younger than my twenty-four years and takes classes at a local JuCo with designs on attending law school at Stanford in the future. I have every confidence she’s going to make a fantastic lawyer and already pity those who come up against her because Bree is a buzz saw and will go right through anybody who stands in her way.
“So, how was it in here today?” I ask.
“Other than dealing with Mary’s grumpy ass, it wasn’t too bad,” she says. “How are your paintings coming?”
I grumble and shake my head as I start cutting lemons and getting my station ready for the evening rush.
“I still haven’t found it… that missing element. I still feel like it doesn’t pack the punch I want it to, you know?” I respond.
“If you want my entirely uneducated, uninformed opinion, it’s that you’re overthinking it,” she says.
“Overthinking it?”
She nods. “Yep. You’re so concerned about how somebody will react to your work, you’re missing the bigger point.”
“And what is the bigger point?” I ask.
She looks at me with a small smile on her face. “Ultimately, you’re creating the art for yourself. Not for anybody else. But when you start worrying about how somebody will feel, or what they might think, you’re then creating it for them,” she says. “That means, if you want to connect with your work and put all that emotion you’re feeling into it, you have get back to basics and start creating art for yourself. Creating art is a selfish experience and that’s not a bad thing because at the end of the day, what anybody else thinks, feels, or even says about your work isn’t on you. It’s on them.”
I stare at her for a long moment, totally floored by her words. She flashes me a big smile. What she said is smart. There is a powerful wisdom in her words and it’s a perspective I haven’t really considered before and it hits me hard. Over the couple of years I’ve known her, I’ve seen a ton of different facets of her personality. But this is the first time I’ve seen the sage and wise counselor side come out. It’s as impressive as it was unexpected.
“That’s my life philosophy adapted to your situation,” she says. “Want to know what I call it?”
“Enlighten me.”
“I call it, ‘fuck ’em’.”
I burst into laughter. “So eloquent.”
“Damn straight it is,” she replies. “Anyway, I gotta jet. Got class in an hour.”
“Thanks, babe. And thanks for the advice,” I say. “Have a great class.”
“Anytime.”
She grabs her things and heads out, leaving me to fin
ish setting up my station, with her voice and the thoughts she inspired bouncing around in my head.
* * *
A new romance. A sinister threat. The past could decimate their future.
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See you on the inside,
Ivy Black