Champagne Life (10 page)

“I had an interview with a law firm. I didn't want to say anything. I didn't want to get our hopes up and then have them smashed to the ground again.”

DeShaun nodded, knowing exactly what I was referring to. A week ago, he was in a position to become the manager of a restaurant and making more money. Days after that, we found ourselves scrambling around trying to decide which bills we could put off. At this rate, showering at the gas station around the corner was becoming more of an option.

“It went well.” I attempted to downplay it and conceal my optimism. “It's a decent company and if I qualify, they'll pay for schooling. I could even take paralegal courses or get my Masters. It's a good option.”

“That sounds great,” DeShaun said. “In the meantime, I'm looking for work. I even got a tip about a catering company from M.J. He's worked for them as a side gig a few times. I'm going to put in an application next week. Plus, there's that party Mr. Herjavec is having for his wife. That should pay pretty well.”

“So we're on the right track. Maybe you'll make more contacts at
the Herjavecs' party and one of them will use you for another party.”

“True, true,” DeShaun said. “And if that doesn't work, I can always become Mrs. Herjavec's escort for awhile.”

“Don't forget about the Countess.” I playfully swatted his backside. “Those women would love that and I bet both would pay triple for a piece of your sexy self, probably triple what you and I could make an entire week combined. Not to mention, you'd be able to hit all the high society parties. Those people were always having parties, or is it called a soiree when you're rich?”

“Parties?” DeShaun said. “Mrs. Herjavec probably wouldn't let me out of the bed long enough to go to any of those parties.”

“Yeah, and you'd come home sore and with bruises on your body from swinging from the chandeliers. But, hey, it would be worth it to have these damn bills paid.”

“Speak for yourself. You wouldn't be the one needing a hip replacement at forty.” He stood up and limped around the couch, feigning like he had a bum leg.

We both laughed so hard, our sides hurt.

“By fifty, I'll be in a wheelchair,” he said, making another lap around the couch.

“And I'll push you around.”

He came around and plopped down onto the couch next to me. “Oh, man,” he said, out of breath. “I do love you, Mimi. I just don't want you to stop loving me.”

“Are you serious? That could never happen. Sure, we have our issues, but we'll find a way to deal with this. We always do.”

He stretched out his arm around me and then leaned in to kiss me. “You're right.” At first, his kiss was a quick peck, but then he leaned in again. This time his kiss lingered as he rubbed his hands up and down my back. He pulled my shirt over my head and I pulled down his jeans. I slid off the couch and onto my knees.
With my teeth, I pulled down his Fruit of the Loom boxers and went to work. When I finished, he scooped me up and carried me to the bedroom. Gently, he laid me down onto our bed and stepped out of his jeans and boxers bunched around his ankles.

“Now, I'll do you.”

I
woke up and performed the daily bare minimum. By that, I meant I showered, brushed my teeth, unwrapped my hair and threw on a pair of black pants and a pink silk blouse. I skipped the moisturizing, skipped breakfast and skipped the gas station on the way to work, which I would probably regret when I was sitting at the gas pump with every other nine-to-fiver. I even skipped calling in to the supervisor when I realized I was running late and wouldn't be there in the next ten minutes. Bare minimum.

The fact that I
had
to go to work now more than ever stabbed me right in the gut. I needed to before, but at least in previous circumstances, I was able to fall back on the standby that DeShaun was working and pulling in a salary too.

For the past few days, DeShaun had been searching for a job and had even followed up on that catering tip his ex co-worker, M.J. gave him. Two days ago, he called the company and they had yet to return his call. I urged him to call at least two more times after that, treading dangerously into stalking waters, but the bottom line was; we were desperate. A few days ago, we received an overdue notice via mail from the power company. That really pissed me off. Three months back, we had overpaid them and it took two billing periods to get a measly fifty-six dollars returned. Now that we were four days late, PECO was sending notices and calling, asking for their money like a pimp would his whore. Dang! I got
that they wanted their money, but three calls in under an hour? If I didn't have the money the first time, chances were, I probably wasn't going to have it forty-five minutes later.

When I arrived at the bank, thirty-seven minutes late, Percy, the security guard, opened up the door for me. In his usual fashion, he gave a pleasant good morning, nodded and then tipped his security hat.

I wished I loved my job
half
as much as he did or, at the very least, could fake like I did.

I ignored the who-does-she-think-she-is, sideways glances from the other tellers and headed for the back room. I dropped my purse onto the floor of the employee closet and went straight for the bathroom.

I looked into the mirror and studied my reflection. Instead of looking like I was in my early thirties, my reflection screamed that I looked like I was at least forty—and not one of those gorgeous forty-year-old women who kept themselves up. I looked like that forty-year-old woman with three pain-in-the-ass kids, all under the age of six, that whined all damn day long and sucked the little bit of life I still had right out of me.

Hell, with the bloating that was popping up in my mid-section from all the late night stress snacking and the period that was due in a couple of days, I looked like a beat down, pregnant forty-year-old hag.

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?”