My arm trembles with strain as I weave through the crowded bar balancing a tray of drinks above my shoulder. One double margarita on the rocks with salt, one frothing mai tai with an umbrella pierced through a chunk of pineapple, two flat Pacifico drafts with lime wheels perched on the rims, and a gin and tonic so strong, the pine tree smell makes my eyes water. As soon as I deliver the drinks to the droopy-eyed patrons, a different group waves me over to order another round. It’s Flamenco-Friday night at Tio Lico’s Cantina and the 50 and over bar crowd showed up in droves. Judging by the amount of booze being ordered tonight, it’s been a rough week at the office for all.
I wipe my hands on my faded black apron covered in salt and browning guacamole and head back to the kitchen, my extra-wide sketchers sticking to the ground with each step. Out of the public eye, I pull my phone from my apron pocket and open my G-mail app. No new messages. I refresh the page just to be sure. Still nothing.
“Is there anything worse than belligerent 60-year-olds?” Krista asks as she bursts through the kitchen door.
“I know. I’ve hit my limit and it’s only 9:30,” I say as I take a red plastic basket from the stack and line it with pale yellow paper before shoveling chips on top.
“Did you hear back from that job?” Krista joins me at the counter, fetching herself a chip from the bin, dipping it in the big white tub of salsa, and shoving it in her mouth.
“I’m pissed, actually. They were supposed to let me know by noon today and nothing. Another rejection, I guess.” I ladle salsa from the large white tub into three small bows on my tray.
Krista sighs on my behalf as she opens the big silver freezer and grabs a ball of ice cream covered in cornflakes and cinnamon and wrapped in cellophane. She unwraps the dessert and lowers it into the deep fryer, the oil spits and sizzles. Tio Lico’s might be a windowless, dimly-lit hell hole that I’ve wasted the last seven years of my twenties at, but their fried ice cream is something like a gut bomb of a silver lining.
“Well, fuck ‘em. Their loss.” She fishes the fried ice cream out of the oil with tongs and places it in a bowl. I fetch the whipped cream from the fridge and layer it on top, she hands me a spoon, and we devour the treat and this quiet rebellion before heading out to deliver more cheap drinks and stale chips.
Clean-up is gross, as always. I collect a beer glass filled with warm, pink vomit and I fold over and breathe deeply to calm the gagging sensation in my throat. Under my shoe, I see a crisp white piece of paper with something written on it. I grab it and read the neat cursive handwriting:
Midnight, 2/8
246 Rolling Rd.
$$$
“Are you on a break or what?” Sal, the night manager, snaps at me and I stuff the note in my back pocket and continue wiping sticky tables with a musty damp rag.
Outside afterwards, Krista and I split a cigarette. I feel the smoke gnawing on my lungs, but the nicotine kneads out my internal kinks and my shoulder muscles loosen from bone. I watch the illuminated “Tio Lico’s” sign flicker then fade to black. Just like my life, I think.
Krista’s boyfriend picks her up and I wave them goodnight as I lean against my rusted blue Honda Accord, sucking on the last bit of cigarette. I’m not religious, but when I look up at the sky—no stars just an empty void of darkness—I think, God give me a different path. Any path but this.
And then I remember the money signs. Goosebumps spread across my skin as I retrieve the note from my pocket and read it again. Surely, this was not meant for me. And yet, my mind revs.
I check my phone for the date and time. February 8. 11:47PM. Rolling Road is about a ten-minute drive from here. I fold the piece of paper and place it back in my pocket, get in my car, and start driving.
246 Rolling Rd. is a small house with boarded-up windows. A warm shade of light seeps around the edges and in-between splinters of wood. A slick black Mercedes-Benz with oversized platinum rims is parked in the driveway. The contrast between the dilapidated house and the expensive car sparks a feeling of cautious optimism.
It could be anything. Anything but what already is. The thought of this propels me to get out of my car and head towards the glowing cracks of light like a moth surrendering to fate. A chain-link fence surrounds the property, and the latch shrieks when I lift it and enter the front yard.
Each step forward amplifies mumbled voices from within the house—a crescendo of intrigue—but I still can’t make logic with the words. All my senses heightened, I try to collect information to build facts. There’s a shrill laugh from a woman, a deep murmur from a man. Someone coughs. I linger at the bottom of the porch steps and think about what I’ll say: I got your note. I’m here to make some cash?
My phone buzzes from my pocket causing my heart to rattle inside my chest. When I look at my screen, I see it’s 12 midnight and I have a new email. I click the message.
Thank you for applying to M3Studio’s Design Team. We’re thrilled to offer you the position…
“And who do we have here?”
I hadn’t heard him open the door, but now here he stood hovering over me on the porch—a sliver of a man wearing baggy slacks and a wrinkled dress shirt with rolled up sleeves. He looks me up and down with dark eyes, his mouth screwed up with interest. Behind him, the alluring soft light now appears harsh as it illuminates smoke trails that creep from the belly of the house and slither around the shape of him.
My hand trembles as I look down at my phone then back to the stranger. “Oh. I…I have the wrong house.” My voice is small and unstable.
“Are you sure?” The chilling whisper of a man takes one step forward, his eyes still fixed on me, daring me to change my mind.
But I put both of my hands up and start walking backwards. “I’m sorry.” I’m not.
He watches me in loaded silence as I fumble with my key, climb in my car, and start the engine.
And without hesitation, or another glance, I drive home under the starless night.