Chapter Seven: The Learning Curve
NICOLETTE stood at the podium, tapping her fingers impatiently. It was a Friday night and Harry’s had been busy -- very busy -- but business had finally begun to taper. She’d only been on shift since 6, but coupled with her morning shift at Coffee Beach, her feet had long ago graduated from merely whining to remorselessly barking. She hoped she could get home before they started... she frowned as she briefly wondered what came after ‘barking’. Howling? Baying?
Can feet be described as ‘baying’?, she wondered, chuckling at the thought, then swore under her breath as the dry erase marker nearly rolled off the podium.
An hour, maybe two, and I’m done, she thought.
She looked forward to putting her feet up, even if it was only for a couple of minutes in the staff room before heading home. Of course, she had a shift at Coffee Beach the next morning, so she wasn’t going to get much free time. Or sleep, for that matter. She was adjusting to her schedule, but the long hours, coupled with irregular breaks left her exhausted.
At least at Coffee Beach she had a sympathetic coworker -- Paula Richetti, a high energy blonde just finishing her teens. Paula’s dry wit and scandalous asides made the morning shift pass far more quickly than Nikki would have believed. They usually had a short window of time just before opening where they could talk a little bit, Nikki sometimes giving in to Paula’s playful nature, getting into soda straw knife fights or bowling stacked cups for chocolate-covered espresso beans in the confined space of the coffee shack.
Once people started showing up, there wasn’t much time to relax until the end of the shift. They usually took turns making the drinks and interacting with the customers, but when Nicolette had first started the job, she had forced Paula to let her make all the drinks, giving herself a crash course in using the various machines. Once she’d started to get the hang of it, she relented, giving Paula a chance to hide in the background and take a break from the customers. Though taking orders was the less difficult job, it required interaction with the customers, a task which they both found surprisingly exhausting -- though it was a little harder on Paula than Nicolette.
She shook her head ruefully, Bikini barista is not the silliest thing I’ve ever heard of...but it’s pretty close. Two girls prancing around in bikinis making coffee...it’s probably not the coffee that keeps ‘em coming back, she thought with wry amusement. I guess it was only a matter of time before the male mind found a way to make money by combining naked girls and coffee, she thought, reflecting how silly she had felt at first.
Unfortunately, Paula was quitting the morning shift, leaving Nicolette all by herself in the little coffee shack. She was going to miss having Paula for company while she worked, but ironically, she felt less self-conscious when it was just her and the customers. Without Paula, it felt more like working at the Kitty Kat shortly after moving to Los Angeles, with all the good and bad things that implied...mostly bad. She was willing to admit that she didn’t mind being the center of attention, that being stared at didn’t bother her as much as she supposed it should, but she looked forward to the later steps in her plan when such demeaning work wouldn’t be necessary anymore.
Harry’s was only slightly better. Her job was to, what was it Mr. Solis had said?: ‘Look stylishly winsome and welcoming.’
Both jobs were mostly eye-candy jobs, requiring little beyond standing around and being ogled. At least Coffee Beach kept her constantly in motion, and the tips were pretty good even if the pay wasn’t. Given a choice, Nicolette would have preferred to work almost anywhere else, but as Garcia had warned her, finding work had been challenging -- even with an AS degree in Biology. She was finding the combination of her work history coupled with being a parolee made her almost unemployable with her current education.
One of her first job applications had been for a secretarial job at a small local bank. She hadn’t expected to get the job, but had been genuinely surprised that they’d called back. Unfortunately, it was little more than a courtesy call, the woman at the other end of the line apologetically informing her that her criminal record made hiring her an impossibility. Nicolette had been disappointed, but not terribly surprised; she had applied mostly to show Garcia that she was serious about getting work.
After a long series of applications brought no response, she’d finally heard back from the pet store. She had been excited at the prospect of working with animals, even if it was only a small part of the job description. She had been surprised when the manager -- a balding, middle aged man named Roger -- had offered her the job, though he made it clear her criminal record made him nervous. She had settled in, working long hours doing whatever needed doing for minimum wage -- less, really, because she often worked after her shift was over, partially as a means of impressing Roger, but also because the staff was lazy and often left jobs half finished. It had always been a compulsion of hers -- if something needed doing she wouldn’t hesitate to take matters into her own hands. Roger had gradually relaxed, eventually leaving her to her duties without constantly checking up on her.
That had lasted until the kid.
He had been a lanky teenager, red-headed and energetic. He had stared at her, eyes wide, probably convincing himself that he wasn’t seeing things after he’d recognized her. It was a look she had come to instinctively recognize, and lately had come to dread. Eventually he had nerved himself up to walk over and ask for her autograph. It was an old instinct; to show fans she appreciated them, chatting with them if they were polite -- which most were -- and signing autographs if asked. She knew it had been a mistake from the moment she’d agreed, though realistically, it wouldn’t have mattered after he’d recognized her. His mother, a tall woman in a pantsuit and a no-nonsense attitude had been puzzled at her son’s behavior, and pressed him until he explained who Nicolette was and how he knew her -- Nicolette definitely didn’t envy the poor kid for that conversation!
The woman had wasted no time and immediately complained to Roger. Twenty minutes later Nicolette had been on the street, severance check in hand. “Morality clause” he’d explained; children frequented the store, and they couldn’t have someone like her around them, it was bad for the store’s reputation. He had spoken as if the logic was inherently obvious, as if she was somehow contagious.
Someone like me? What does that even mean?, she thought bitterly, still feeling the dull hurt from that conversation. She still couldn’t understand what they thought she was going to do or how she could be a bad influence if she swept floors or picked up after diarrhetic pets. Intellectually, she knew they could’t possibly know her well enough for their opinions about her to matter...but the bruises from their judgements still lingered.
The pet store had hurt, but the job at the vet’s office had hurt worse.
It hadn’t paid very well at all -- it was mostly volunteer work, with a little money as an afterthought. But Nicolette loved working with the animals. She loved helping the interns with them, even when the animals were frightened and uncooperative -- especially then, because she couldn’t stand seeing them in pain, and she found it deeply gratifying when she could proactively do something which alleviated their suffering, leaving them in a better state than she’d found them.
Everyone at the vet’s office respected her innate beside manner, her ability to calm even the most fractious or frightened animals. One of the paid interns, a spunky Latina preparing to apply for veterinary school, had taken to calling her “the cat-whisperer” after Nicolette had deftly handled a Persian with a bad reputation for biting and scratching. The combination of respect she received at the vet’s office, coupled with the actual work had put a spring in her step...for all of four and a half days. How the elderly woman recognized her, Nicolette would never know, but when Nikki saw her speaking with the vet -- Dr. Lin -- their eyes often falling upon Nicolette while they spoke, she’d felt her stomach sink as some foreboding instinct forewarned her.
Sure enough, she’d be
en called into the doctor’s office fifteen minutes later. It had been the same spiel she’d gotten from Roger: morality clause, check; the children, check; reputation to maintain, check; Nikki somehow damaging it by breathing, check.
Dr. Lin had been apologetic, clearly embarrassed by the whole conversation, but also clearly relieved when Nicolette hadn’t made a fuss and quietly left. Dr. Lin couldn’t afford to lose loyal customers, but Nikki -- an ex-con ex-sex worker, on the other hand...
Nicolette had held her composure until she’d left the office, unwilling to give them the satisfaction of seeing her upset. Later she had cried over the betrayal and disappointment.
By contrast, she hadn’t really wanted the job at Coffee Beach, but had been surprised when Mr. Lewis offered her work despite being an ex-con on parole. After she met Mr. Lewis and learned the nature of the business, her surprise had lessened. Ostensibly, It was a natural fit, after all. She could see the train of thought when she’d met Mr. Lewis: “ex porn star takes off clothes to make money, provides free advertising”...never mind that Nicolette was trying to start over, to rebuild her life here in Half Moon Bay, leaving the film business behind. He had nodded politely while she explained, then offered her the job again, even going so far as to offer her a hiring bonus. Desperate for the money and the stability of a job -- any job -- she’d accepted.
She suspected he’d quietly leaked her stage name -- it would explain the number of guys asking for autographs that had “just realized who she was.” It didn’t bother her, per se -- they’d been generally polite and most tipped well. Some were even politely complimentary, though many of them took her status as an ex-sex worker to flirt outrageously. Even so, she would have preferred anonymity...or even better, work where she didn’t have to take off her clothes. She had intended to quit after she landed a better job...but her subsequent experiences with morality clauses had left her desperate to have at least one reliable gig; regrettably it seemed as though Coffee Beach was going to be it. Garcia had been clear that having a job greatly increased her odds of getting through parole. With that in mind, it didn’t seem prudent to quit until she was sure a new job would stick.
Then she’d landed Harry’s, mostly due to Garcia’s contacts opening the door for her. The interview had been short. The owner -- Mr. Johnston -- had taken one look at her and decided on the spot to hire her. Maybe he was a good judge of character, maybe he recognized a hard worker when he saw one.
She sighed bitterly, Or maybe he made the decision after one look at my ass, because that’s pretty much all I am to him. Or Mr. Lewis, for all his easy Jamaican charm.
She wondered if Mr. Johnston knew anything about her previous career, or if he’d decided he wouldn’t ask until someone (aside from Mr. Solis, at any rate) complained. Maybe she was just being unfairly cynical and he really had hired her for altruistic reasons. Either way, she’d landed the job.
It pays worse than Coffee Beach -- no tips, after all, she thought with bitter amusement, but at least the hours suck. Two eye candy jobs, almost back to back. Ah, the joys of being an ex-con, she thought ruefully, and morality clauses...gotta love the morality clauses. I may as well be branded with a scarlet letter of my own.
She pulled at her necklace, briefly considering adding a bright red ’N’ to keep St. Jude company. The pairing seemed fitting; Scarlet Letter presided over by the Patron Saint of Lost Causes.
With a snort of disgust, she mentally flipped off Hester Prynne and her stupid letter, then swore under her breath as the dry erase marker rolled off the side of the podium. It had been doing that all night -- somehow placing itself in line with her elbow or wrist so it could be knocked to the floor at every opportunity. She firmly placed it back in its holder, then glared at it for good measure, “I have a whole box of replacements just itching for your job, pal.”
She checked the restaurant, scanning the tables to see if anything needed doing, then double-checked the seating chart to make sure it was still accurate. She was determined to avoid careless mistakes, to avoid giving Mr. Solis any reason to lecture her. Thankfully, most of her mistakes as she settled into the rhythm of Harry’s had been relatively minor.
She sighed, waiting impatiently for her shift to end.
Collisions