When The Sun Rises | ✔

12 | Toot N' Boot

Chapter 12 | Toot N' Boot

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        Two weeks pass and my struggle to find a company willing to hire a teenager with no experience or special skills outside of the ability to binge an entire series in one sitting, continues. The outline of my laptop is now permanently engraved into the canvas of my thighs after the hours spent browsing employment websites.

        Over the course of my search, I've applied for nearly every occupation possible: fast food, babysitting, tutoring, retail, customer service, personal assistant, dog walker, etc. I even considered being the test subject in some scientific experiment that only asked for a urine sample and proof of residence.

        After the first six applications went unanswered, I was desperate and the initially off-putting recruitment from Pound Cake down at The Toot N' Boot – a downtown strip club – had started to look more and more appealing.

        I mean, dancing is a legitimate profession. What would be so bad about doing it while wearing heels as long as my arm, a string of floss as panties, and glittery stars on my nipples? I go as far as to start thinking up a stage name until I remember how little upper body strength I have and get a mental image of myself trying to do a pole trick, failing, landing on my neck, and forcing myself into early retirement.

        Dispirited and frustrated with my fruitless attempts at finding a job, I lift the laptop from my lap. I trudge down to the kitchen and wrench the refrigerator open. I stare aimlessly at the shelves of food for what feels like hours, not seeing anything fattening enough for the occasion. Not a junk food in sight.

        My eyes skim over half-empty milk jugs, Tupperware containers stuffed with leftovers, random condiments, drawers of fruit, and a bunch of other stuff I'm not in the mood for. I sigh and push the door closed, snagging a granola bar from the pantry.

        As I take the first bite, Mr. Paul emerges from the dining room and wanders over to the fridge.

        He has been sitting at the table surrounded by mountains of paper and manila folders for the past five hours reviewing the details of his latest load of cases and filling out paperwork. He's a public defender that actually fights for his clients, and over the course of his career has managed to save hundreds of minorities from serving hard time on first offenses, non-violent drug charges, and misdemeanors.

        One of the cases he's currently working is open and shut, no need to plead. Especially since the suspect was described as a middle-aged white man and his client is a curly-haired, Hispanic kid who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

        He shoots me a peculiar glance as he uncaps a bottle of water. "Everything alright?" he asks and takes a sip.

        "Yeah, just this job search. Can't find anything," I mutter.

        "I thought you had an interview last Wednesday. What happened with that?" He twists the cap back on and sets the bottle down on the island.

        "Didn't get it."

        Of the dozen applications submitted, I've only been called in for an interview twice, and both positions were given to someone else.

        He's quiet for a while, a reflective look on his face when suddenly his eyes light. "Wait a minute, I was on the phone with Rondo the other day and he told me Lisa got another job so they're looking for a new waitress. If you want, I could call him up and let him know you're interested." He wriggles his phone out of his pocket and gives it a little shake. "It'd only take a minute."