Only Forward

(2) Just A Little Cranberry Juice

There's nothing that a couple ounces of red juice won't fix.  Be it cranberry juice or Chardonnay wine or tomato soup....well, maybe not tomato soup, but you get the idea.  Holding a goblet of blood colored liquid in the air is satisfying.  Have you felt that before? 
Forget the juice for a moment.  I have spoken ahead of myself. Back up 48 hours. 
Last you knew, it was the day after my sister's wedding and I was reflecting on life, to a degree.  Then the weekend hit and now it is monday.  Dad went back to work and Mom as well and I have the whole house to myself.  It was way too quiet, which reminded me I need to find an occupation to pass my time and earn me some cash.  Not sure where that will be. 
However, after straightening some fallen books on the cave's oak shelf and staring out the clear glass window for a few minutes, I decided that job hunting would not play out on its own.  So I slipped on my lucky black strap boots and tied a scarf around my hair before shutting the front door behind me.  I own a small car which can easily whip around corners and pick up speed quickly, but the day was breezy so I took my good old time.  I stopped first at BlueCorn Coffee, right at the beginning of town and recovered my first cup of hazelnut brew for the day.  All the baristas at BlueCorn know me.  I think I spent every waking high school and college hour, perched on one of the wicker chairs, pouring my entire mind and body into whatever textbook needed my attention. 
Alyssa Blanton is the owner's daughter.  She and I could talk for hours.  She splits her time between the coffee shop and interning at the veterinary office down the road.  I saw her as I paid for my hot liquid and we exchanged a few words.  She assured me that I had a job here if I only requested it and I nodded, wanting to push myself out of my comfort zone.  She totally understood that and wished me good luck on my potential opportunities.
As I drove, I passed all kinds of retail stores, franchises and uniquely owned ones, but I shook my head and got on the highway instead.  My friend Sabrina has worked at Old Navy, Maurice's and now is an actual fashion consultant at Nordstrom. If I was deep into fashion, perhaps that would be a splendid choice for me, but in my imagination, I just see myself stocking shelves with shoeboxes or hanging racks of coats and being bored for life. 
I pulled off at an exit as I realized that I needed gas and noticed a lighted patio across the street from the station.  When my car was filled up, I made my way in that direction.  Called Miss You Wines, this little restaurant looked extremely busy and alive. I wondered how I never remember passing it before and yet I was on this street all the time.  The community college campus, where I had taken a few classes before being accepted into my university of choice, was just one more block or so down the way. 
The hostess on deck spotted me first.  Although she wanted to seat me at a table, at the request for a manager, she immediately disappeared and was back in an instant.  I stepped to the side so that others could get to her podium and I waited for the manager in question who strolled over in a couple of seconds.  He listened to my inquiry of hiring positions, but frowned sadly upon hearing that I did not have much experience with waiting tables.  He handed me an application anyway and said they would consider giving me extra training if they especially liked my resume.
As I departed for the highway again, I craved BlueCorn's pumpkin nut bread.  But I refused to listen to my yearning stomach and marched into a couple of the restaurants leading back towards my house instead.  Applebee's was not hiring, Stolen's was out of applications and their system was down at the moment and the other bar and grill's hiring manager was out of town.  They suggested I check back in sometime in the next week or so. 
I still only had one application laying in my front seat and it was not a very promising one at that.  Eventually my feet, or more correctly, the black tires of my car, rolled their way back to the coffee shop and I found myself purchasing two slices of my favorite sweet bread.  Alyssa pinpointed me immediately and welcomed herself to my little table. 
"Any luck?"
I shook my head, my mouth full of delicious crumbs.  She frowned.  I swallowed.
"I have one application from Miss You Wines over on Berkeley." I related to her my whole incident of being there and talking to the gentleman.  "I've never even seen that place.  Did you know it was there?"
She nodded her head.  "My dad went to school with the owner's brother.  They seem to do pretty well over there."
I rolled my eyes.  "Except when someone wants a job there."
Alyssa laughed and pushed a napkin my way.  "Just press harder on them and show them your talent.  They would want you if they knew you."
I smiled.  "You're sweet."
"In the meantime," Alyssa went on.  "Dad has already written you into next week's schedule.  I guess he decided you work for him, whether you like it or not.  And I am supposed to tell you that we have shifts that need covering Wednesday, Friday and Saturday as well if you want any of those.  At least you'd be making immediate money."
I held up my empty paper cup, desiring more beverage with which to quench my thirst.  "I suppose I will go behind the counter and get my own refill of dark roast then?"
Alyssa laughed and we got up from the table together.

48 hours later, it is Wednesday and while I am not offering you a top-off of the most authentically dry white cocktail to sip in the westerly breeze of Miss You's patio, I can suggest you sample any one of BlueCorn's best tasting chai lattes or the new flavorful blonde roast, mixed with shots of vanilla, caramel or mango mint.  Instead of catering to several snobbish wine connoisseurs , I am stirring a skim white chocolate mocha and listening to comical receptionist conversations as my customer vents her day aloud.  Instead of measuring out a half cup of cranberry juice with papaya ice and tequila, I am handing four red velvet cupcakes to each of Mrs. Ritter's four grandchildren.  And instead of meeting a lofty businessman who sees immediate interest in my ridiculously general degree, I am suddenly face to face with my window neighbor, Ross Lynch.