Page 6 of The End of Summer

“You must be Jenna’s friend,” she continues.

I try to keep my eyes plastered on a spot in the distance, just above her forehead, in an attempt to not make her feel objectified by her lack of clothing. Not that she looks even remotely apprehensive about her wardrobe choices. Quite the opposite, in fact.

“Gretchen,” I say, extending my hand.

Arrow takes it in her own. Her palm is surprisingly dry, and I can’t help but notice that her fingernails are painted in zebra stripes. They’re not long, though, which – despite only knowing this woman for the past 30 seconds – somehow feels off-brand for her. She holds my fingers hostage andcatches my gaze, forcing my eyes down to meet hers. She pauses to wrinkle her nose. “Yeah, Jenna told me. You poor thing.” Confusion sets in – is she lamenting my employment status? “I’m sorry, sweetie. I’m sure you can understand why it just won’t work for us. Let me think a sec.” She closes her eyelids; her fake lashes create a black fan about an inch and a half long on each side, like two creepy jack o’lantern smiles have taken up residence on her cheeks. My hand remains captive; my brain, fully scrambled.Is this some bizarre greeting ritual?I steal a glance at our entwined digits and notice the tattoo just under her right breast, a bold, cursive first impression if I’ve ever seen one.

Boss bitch, it proclaims.

She opens her eyes. “I’ve got it!” she announces. “You’re a temp. Let’s call you ‘Summer.’ You know, since you’re seasonal.” She purses her lips, dropping my hand like a hot potato.

“I’m sorry?”

“Well, we can’t call you ‘Gretchen,’” she laughs. “I mean, that’s not exactly drip, right? Maybe if we were hosting, like, a quilting circle, your name would be super-cute. But this is pole, babe. We’re here to bring out the sexy. ‘Gretchen,’” she goes on, using air quotes around my evidently-now-defunct name, “is, well. Just, no.” She places one hand on a cocked hip.

Wow.

Discombobulated by the interactions of the past two minutes, I simply nod and accept my fate. I am here to make money. If my moniker – passed down from my belovedgrandmother – is a no-go, I can live with that. I smile and nod, affirming my rebirth asSummer.

“Slay,” Arrow says. “Come. I’ll show you where to put your stuff.”

I follow her to a bank of lockers in the corner of the room. They look like the ones at the Diamond Excelsior, all wooden laminate fronts and electronic code locks you can set and reset over and over again.

“Nice, right?” Arrow comments. When I look up at her, curiously, she adds, “What? I can tell an impressed face when I see one. I’mveryintuitive.”

I clear my throat. “Sorry. I was just noticing how these are the same lockers as the –”

“Chatham Bars Inn? Wequassett Resort? Diamond Excelsior?” She grins. “I know. I was hooking up with a guy who did spa deliveries for the company that makes them. He was able to score me a bank of these lockers when they were ‘damaged’ in packaging by a rogue Sharpie marker. The guys at the factory designated them for the garbage. Evidently, no one ever told those fools that a little rubbing alcohol can take Sharpie marker off most non-porous surfaces.”

I render myself surprised by this anecdote, partially because I was unaware of that nugget of knowledge about rubbing alcohol, and partially because it sounds rather intelligent, and the speaker of this information is wearing little more than a sparkle panty.

The adagedon’t judge a book by its covercomes to mind. I shake it off, willing myself to be present. “They’re nice – um – the lockers. And yeah. I used to work at the Diamond Excelsior.”

“Well, good. Then, I don’t have to teach you how to program the code. So, you’ll lock up your personal belongings when you come in. Cosmo-pole-itan is not responsible for any of your stuff going missing.”

“Got it.” I nod.

“Put your phone in there, too. None of us have phones during parties. That way, we can’t be blamed for sensitive material ending up on the internet.”

“Understood.” I toss my keys, cell phone, and wristlet into the locker, program my code (9-1-9-9, my birth date) and follow Arrow past a garment rack through a doorway that leads to a cramped office space. It houses an old metal desk with some post-its, pens, an oversized toaster oven, a Maglite flashlight, and a pair of fuzzy handcuffs strewn about – because that makes perfect sense – alongside a shelving unit packed to the brim with oversized shoeboxes. Against the wall rests a broom and dustpan, a tall stack of large, cardboard boxes, and a handful of serving trays. But the centerpiece of the tiny space is a black refrigerator covered in penis magnets and a lone photograph of Arrow (but with brown hair instead of blonde) standing with her arms around a little girl.

“Aw, she’s a cutie,” I offer, wondering if that’s her daughter in the picture.

“Yup,” Arrow says. I wait to see if she’ll say anything else, but she just lets the unfinished answer hang in the air between us. “This will be your staging area,” she continues, clearly not one to discuss anything of a remotely personal nature with a new hire. “Your job is to keep the patrons safe and happy and to monitor the party vibe.”

“Uh huh,” I nod.

“So, the name of the game is Jell-O shots,” she explains, opening up the refrigerator and gesturing to its contents. That’s all that’s in there – just layers upon layers of Rubbermaid baking boxes filled with red and pink Jell-O in little, plastic shot glasses. It looks like a peculiar advertisement for children’s Benadryl.

Oh, wait. There’s also one Oikos yogurt.

I chuckle, trying to seem worldly in my Jell-O consumption. “People still drink these?” I ask, in an attempt to look like one of those party girls who regularly consumed alcohol prior to meeting the legal age requirement.

“You have no idea,” Arrow replies. “Even people who come in all virtuous like, ‘I’m good, I’m not drinking,’ can be swayed to partake in a Jell-O shot.”

“Pssh. Right?” I interject, hoping she can’t see right through me.

She nods. “They’re arranged by color based on how the party’s going. The red ones mean we need to turn up the heat and get people to loosen up. They’re made with Absolut 100. Those have to cook for longer because of the elevated alcohol content.”

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