Page 2 of The End of Summer

“That’s nice.”

“I was wearing a Santa hat, and he signed it for me.” She sighs, awash in a new-to-me brand of teenage elfin-heartthrob memories. “So? How did he look? Was he with his wife? I’ve seen pictures of her online. She’sgorgeous.”

“No,” I say. “He was with some execs from Apple TV. They looked Hollywood-fancy, but I don’t know who they were.”

She leans in and lowers her voice. “I read they were filming at the Diamond Excelsior. There was a whole thing about it in theCape Cod Times. I can’t believe you got to see him.”

“Yeah. I mean, I guess it would have been cooler if it hadn’t ended with me losing my job.”

“Yes. Of course.” She nods. Her fingernails tap away at the keyboard. “Gretch-en An-drews,” she dictates. “Okay, tell me exactly what happened.”

“Well, if you’re working in private dining, you have to wear heels. And I can’t walk in heels. I told the manager, Brady, but he said, ‘Rules are rules.’ I wasn’t supposed to work in that section of the hotel. I’m usually down in thepub, but they put me there because the top server was out sick.” I take a breath, exhaling hard, like you do when the doctor puts a stethoscope to your chest. “You can wear normal shoes at the pub. I don’t evenhaveheels; Brady gave me a loaner pair. Anyway, long story short, David Krumholtz ordered a plate of steamers, and one of the other guys ordered the lobster mac and cheese. I was bringing the tray out from the kitchen and I turned my ankle. Everything spilled all over his lap.”

Brenda stifles a laugh. At this point, I’m used to it. Everyone thinks it’s justsofunny. “And, so, now…” Her voice trails off.

“So, I’ve tried to find work but you know how it is on the Cape. Tragic news travels fast. They’re calling me the blazing lobjob. The celebrity scrotum scorcher. The hot clam splasher. The list goes on.” I look at my feet, scraping my sensible sneaker against the industrial grey carpet. “Brady belittled me. In front of everyone. I was on the floor covered in sizzling fish juice and instead of helping me up, he just humiliated me.” I fight back the urge to cry, remembering how his highness called meStumbelinain front of David Fucking Krumholtz. Brady’s father, Chef Braxton Hawthorne, manages the culinary team for the country club and is a grade-A douchebaguette. His minions can only speak to him in subordinate phrases: “Yes, Chef! Heard that, Chef!” as if this was the military and the troop was about to go into full-fledged combat over the best way to flambè the fondue. I’ve heard horror stories of him verbally assaulting Brady on many occasions, leaving me to imagine that the kumquat didn’t fall far from the tree. It’s a shame, too,because Brady would otherwise be considered quite the snack, what with his sculpted jawline and latte-colored eyes.

I swallow what feels like a golf ball and run my fingers through my pomegranate-streaked hair. “It’s crazy,” I say to Brenda. “For a place with an economy that thrives on tourism, you’d think I’d have no trouble finding a job during the busy season.”

She nods. “Have you considered looking outside of the service industry?”

I shake my head. “I have school loans to pay off. And a mortgage. Not to mention, I owe my parents five grand. I can’t move to a desk job.”

Brenda raises an eyebrow.

“No offense,” I continue. “The tips are just too good to pass up.”

As she taps her fingers on her computer keyboard, whispering “ser-vice in-dus-try on-ly” to herself, I take in my surroundings. The Hyannis Career Center is so drab. Located in a strip mall off Main Street, it’s nestled between a vape shop and a now-defunct furniture rental center. The inside matches the outside: neutral cinderblock walls, old metal desks, one other employee stationed by a communal microwave, a single patron using the copy machine (which has metal bars over it like a jail cell and costs 25 cents per page). By the door, the world’s noisiest oscillating fan fails to cool down the claustrophobic space. And in the center of it all sits Brenda, the hyper-sexed elf aficionado, tippity-tapping away in her database of dream jobs for a klutzerfuck like myself.

Not exactly an advertisement for a family getaway in paradise.

“How far from Brewster are you willing to travel?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I’d like to stay in the lower Cape, ideally.”

“Hm.” She scrolls the wheel on her extinct mouse with an excited pointer finger. “I’m not seeing much,” Brenda says. “If you had come to me three weeks ago, I would’ve had a whole lot more to offer.”

“I know,” I reply. “Peak season’s already here.” My shoulders slump. I feel the weight of what she’s not saying.Take what you can get, Gretchen.

“Exactly. The good-paying jobs have all been scooped up.” She takes another sip of the Fanta. “Even the not-so-great jobs are mostly gone. You don’t want to work at the bowling alley, right?”

“No, thanks,” I say, a knee-jerk reaction. Tears begin to build in my eyes. I look up at the drop ceiling, focusing on the water stains, refusing to allow myself to get upset.

Brenda offers me a sympathetic smile. “I’ll put your resume into our system,” she says, handing me a business card. “And you can check our website for updates whenever you’d like. Sometimes new opportunities come up during the season. J-1s leave, you know. People get canned.”

“You’re sure there’s no way I can file for unemployment?” I ask. I can hear the desperation in my shaky voice. “It’s almost June 1st, and I’ve got a slew of bills due.”

“Sorry, honey,” she says. To her credit, she genuinely does look apologetic. “When you’re fired for cause, there’s really not much you can do.”

I nod.

“What are you studying?” she asks, perusing my resume.

“Teaching,” I say.

“Elementary?”

“Early childhood. I’d like to teach kindergarten.”

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