Alice
“What the hell is this?”
He stares at me over the sheet of white paper held in his big, meaty fist with one bushy eyebrow raised and the corner of one mouth slightly upturned in a rictus snarl.
“It’s a resume.”
I shift a little in my seat and unconsciously smooth my dress pants and shirt. I do my best to keep eye contact like you’re supposed to do — five seconds of eye contact, one second of looking away — even though I’m feeling a very strong urge to do anything but look at the man sitting across from me and the judgment that is all over his face.
Running seems a good idea, right now.
Life hasn’t been easy since I left my job in San Francisco and moved to Crescent Falls, CA, a small town in the middle-of-nowhere California, and just a short drive from the Pacific Ocean. If my mom didn’t absolutely need me to be here, I wouldn’t be.
And if I didn’t absolutely need to be in the room with this man-mountain covered in tattoos, I wouldn’t, either.
He absolutely terrifies me.
“Why the hell do you think I want to see this?” He says, shaking the paper at me. He’s staring at me like he wouldn’t be shocked if I had a babysitter waiting for me outside.
“You have an opening for a bartender. I’m applying for it, sir.”
“Don’t call me ‘sir’.”
“Sorry, uh-”
“It’s ‘Hammer’.”
“Ok, Hammer.”
My soon-to-be-boss is a literal tool.
“Now then, since we’re being so formal: what the hell are your qualifications, Ms. Alice?”
“They’re on the resume, uh, Hammer.”
I shift some more. He’s looked at my resume only once since I gave it to him, and that was for a total of maybe two seconds, which I’m sure was just so he could learn my name. Since then, he’s stared at me with the kind of intensity that makes me fidget.
“I can see your resume. You have five years at who-the-fuck-cares incorporated in San Francisco, and you went to Oregon State University. Go Beavers. That’s fan-fucking-tastic. But what the hell are your qualifications?”
There’s some suggestion in his eyes that I can’t quite pick up. I knew it was a mistake coming here, and I wish I could just stand up and leave right now, but I can’t. I need this job. I barely have enough money in my account to cover buy the bottle of wine that I’ll need after this job interview.
“I’m sorry, I think I’m confused. Qualifications? Are we speaking the same language?”
He laughs.
“I don’t know, are we?” He says.
I am so fucking confused.
“I honestly don’t know, Hammer.”
“Alice, show me your qualifications.”
He’s looking at me that same way again. There’s a quarter-smile on his face and some kind of predatory glint in his eyes. I thought the techies that I dealt with on a daily basis in San Francisco were obtuse, but this guy blows them out of the water.
“That’s why I gave you my resume. So you could see my qualifications. Look, Hammer, I really don’t know what you’re after,” I say, starting to stand up.
“Look around you, Ms. Alice. Look at the pictures on the wall. Look at that poster above the bar — you know she tended bar here? She’s got a great set of tits on her. Nice ass, too. And she wore that bikini some nights. So, Ms. Alice, what do qualifications do you think I’m looking for?”
My voice comes out a whimper.
“I know how to mix drinks…”
“Most of the guys that come in here are going to drink beer or whiskey. I think even an educated woman like yourself should be able to pour a liquid into a glass. Unbutton your shirt a little and let me see your qualifications.”
“What? No. No way.”
I shake my head. I really start to stand up. I’m going to walk out of here. I might be desperate, but I’m not that desperate.
“Why the hell did you even apply for this job, then? Do you see that sign above the door? The one that says ‘The Smiling Skull’? Does that strike you as the name of an uptight family establishment, or one where real men might like to see a little fucking skin every once in a while?”
I glare at him.
“I applied because I want money. Why else? There aren’t many places hiring right now, and there’s no way I’m bagging groceries or answering phones for the cable company. But I’m not showing you my breasts. I won’t do that just to get a job. I have standards. I’m worth more than that,” I say, snatching my resume out of his hands. Both his eyebrows raise a little bit and his quarter-smile turns into a half-smile, which pisses me off even more. “So, if that’s everything, thank you for the opportunity, thank you for the consideration, but you can go fuck yourself. Have a nice day, asshole.”
I’m halfway to the door when he bursts out laughing and then calls out and stops me in my tracks. “Wait a second, Ms. Alice. I like your attitude. Maybe we can work something out. You ever been arrested? You have a record?”
“No. Why?”
“You ever been pulled over? Gotten a parking ticket or a speeding ticket?”
“I got a parking ticket once. But I got it struck down in court. I proved their meter was malfunctioning. What does it matter?”
“If I’m going to hire you, I need to know these things.”
I shake my head in surprise.
“Hold on. Does that mean you’re considering me for the job? Even though I’m sure as hell not going to show you my breasts or do anything even close to sleeping with you. Or any of your customers.”
He nods.
I feel myself stand up straighter and a little glimmer of hope fills my chest.
“It’ll be part-time,” he says. “And don’t you worry about me wanting to sleep with you — you don’t have enough meat on your bones to survive even an hour in bed with me. You ain’t my type.”
I deflate a little bit. Not at the not-sleeping-with-him part, just the hour reduction part.
Oh well, something is better than nothing.
“Oh. But the sign said full time.”
He laughs. “Fuck whatever the sign says. I’m the one who’s paying. I run an auto-dealership in addition to this bar. I need someone I can trust to run some errands for that business as well. You got brains, standards, and a clean record. Just the type of person I want. You’ll work here some nights tending bar, and some days you’ll do some business stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Do you want the job or not?” He says. “It’s a simple fucking question.”
“And I don’t have to show my breasts?”
Hammer shakes his head. “Not unless you want to. And I’ll make sure all our regulars know that, too. You’ll be off limits as long as you’re working for me.”
I straighten up a bit and smile. In the last minute or so, for some reason I don’t know, Hammer suddenly has become a lot less of an asshole.
“Fine. I’ll take the job.”
He grins like a wolf that’s just spotted a three-legged sheep.
“Welcome aboard, Ms. Alice.”
* * * * *
“Ms. Alice, put that dishrag away, you’re not tending bar today.”
It’s morning and I startle and nearly drop the tray of pint glasses I’m carrying from the dishwasher, part of my morning routine of setting up for the day. Three days on the job and I’m still not used to Hammer’s perpetually-shouty voice. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.
I find a safe spot for the tray of drinks on a table and run back to the front of the bar, where Hammer is waiting for me with a set of keys.
“What’s going on?”
Hammer tosses the set of keys to me. I catch them and look at them warily — though I’m excited for the change in pace, I’m nervous. I’ve actually started to get the hang of tending bar at the Smiling Skull Saloon, and, though they scared the hell out of me at first, most of the patrons are actually pretty nice once you dig beneath the outer layer of leather, the patches with ‘Reaper’s Sons’ on them, and all the tattoos — most of which feature some kind of preoccupation with skulls, nude women, or snakes, or some combination of the three. They’re regular people deep down. Granted, they’re a bit rougher, and a bit more likely to get drunk and into a fistfight with each other, but people all the same.
“I’ve got a different job for you. I need you to get your skinny ass across town to my auto shop. There’s a car waiting for you there.”
I look at the set of keys in my hand and then back to Hammer.
“What then?”
“I sold the car. An online deal. The buyer is down in Mexico. In Rosarito. It’s about ten miles south of Tijuana. You’re driving the car down there.”
I look at the keys, then back to Hammer. “I don’t feel comfortable driving alone down to Mexico and delivering a car to a stranger from Craigslist.”
He laughs. “You’re not delivering the car to the buyer personally. I’ve got a second dealership in Rosarito, it’s in the hills between there and Tijuana. You’re to drop the car at the dealership, and they’ll give you a different car to drive up here. Nice and easy.”
I nod, considering. It’s a long drive down to Tijuana, almost six hours.
“That’s a long drive. Am I going to be making the same just-above-minimum wage as I do here at the bar? I’ll be missing out on a lot of tips, and Curly — I think that’s his name, he’s one of the regulars, the fat bald one — just became an uncle yesterday, so I was counting on there being a lot of drinking and celebrating and tipping tonight.”
Hammer doesn’t blink. “I’ll give you seven hundred and fifty to do the drive. Half now, half on completion. How’s that sound?”
I stick the keys in my pocket.
“Much better.”
* * * * *
I make the drive in five hours, a new personal record. It’s a full hour faster than my previous best — a Spring Break road trip my Sophomore year of college that went through Tijuana and on to Cabo San Lucas.
It’s a nice drive, too. The car is a sporty little sedan, I put the top down for most of the way along the California coast and spend hours with the wind and the smell of the salted air and my tunes blaring over the radio.
I smile a big smile most of the drive and even sing along to the radio. This is the first time in a long while since leaving my job and moving home to take care of my mom that I’ve actually felt free and unencumbered. I look out at the waves and think about surfing, and swimming, and just lazing on the golden sand while the ocean laps at my feet — anything other than how sick my mom is and all that I’ve sacrificed to take care of her.
It’s a wonderful feeling.
The money in my pocket helps my attitude, too.
I treat myself to a ridiculously caloric frappucino-thing loaded with two different kinds of caramel and full-fat whipped cream on the ride down and I don’t feel guilty about drinking it or about spending the eight dollars to buy it.
And thinking about not feeling guilty for spending the money makes me smile even more. Things are looking up for me, after a long while of feeling like I’ve hit bottom.
This happiness feels like a novelty, and I’m almost sad when I see the border checkpoint come across my horizon.
Customs is a breeze. There’s something about being a little older, a little more mature and professional, that gets you through a checkpoint just a that much faster. I’m not a kid going across the border to get drunk, I’m not some sketchy dude heading to the strip clubs that Tijuana is famous for. I’m just a woman on a business trip.
I make the trade-off in Rosarito nice and easy.
I buy myself a trio of small street tacos from a roadside cart with one of those big whirling meat-rotors — al pastor that drips with juiciness and smells divine — and then buy myself another trio because what the hell, I’ve got money in my pocket and they’re delicious and the food stand has this wonderful super-spicy-but-super-flavorful avocado salsa. For once, I don’t need to micromanage my money.
I eat those extra three tacos just as fast as the first three and then I buy another set for the road. It’s indulgent, but it’s only two dollars and I damn well deserve it. And when I get back to my mom’s house, I’m going to eat those tacos and think about my trip to Rosarito and enjoy my little taste of freedom.
The ride back goes just fine, too. Better than fine. The replacement car I pick up from Hammer’s dealership is a two-door beast with enough horses under the hood to make a rancher jealous. Traffic is light, the papers with the car all match up fine — which is something I was worried about — and the woman in the booth at the border even tells me my hair looks nice.
I feel good. Real good.
The whole drive back to Crescent Falls is a dream.
Until I’m forty miles from town.
Then I spot a man in the dusky light of twilight in my rearview mirror. He keeps pace with me for ten miles, even getting close enough at one point that he could reach out and touch my back bumper.
But I keep driving normally.
I refuse to let some asshole on a Harley ruin my day.
Twenty-five miles from town, he speeds up and smacks my trunk with his fist. I swerve a little, my heart jumps in my chest, but I pull it together and keep going straight.
He’s on a bike, I’m in a car, I’m a lot bigger than him and there’s nothing he can do to make me pull over.
All I need to do is keep my cool and keep driving like normal.
Twenty miles left.
I can make it.
I press the accelerator, intending to speed up a little bit. But I forget just how much oomph this sports car has and end up speeding up a lot.
Still, he keeps pace with me.
Fifteen miles to go.
I’m almost there.
Whoomp.
Something heavy hits my rear driver-side window.
I look in the mirror.
He’s got a gun.
It’s pointed right at me.
I scream. I swerve.
He gestures to the shoulder of the road. Pull over.
I look ahead, then I look in the rearview mirror hoping — praying — I’ll see someone — anyone — other than this guy on the motorcycle. But this stretch of road that winds through the mountains outside of Crescent Falls is as deserted as my college’s library the day after finals.
I’m alone.
He bangs on my car again and I hear a frightening pop of a gunshot.
He’s not messing around.
He wants something – probably the car – but whatever it is, I’m not going to make it easy for him. I try to still my heart and keep my wits about me, I remind myself that if he was really going to shoot me, he’d have done it by now. I have a lot riding on this job, and I doubt Hammer will be understanding, even if it’s a legitimate car-jacking.
I pull over onto a bit of gravelly shoulder that hugs the cliff-side on this mountainous stretch of asphalt.
He hops off his bike behind me, ripping off his helmet, and swaggering towards me with his gun held lazily at his side, his finger hovering just over the trigger, ready to fire at a moment’s notice.
He’d be handsome if he weren’t so terrifying. Firmly-muscled body, sculpted features, and confidence to spare. But what captures me the most are his striking emerald-green eyes. there’s a fire in them that burns with determination and tenacity. The sight of him has me imagining all the grim ways my future can go wrong. Murder, kidnapping, robbery, violation.
He raps on my window with the business-end of his gun and says just four words in a deep-throated growl.
“Out of the car.”