Page 9 of Identify
“Is it different from a regular dishwasher?”
“Not by much.”
“Great!”
She shows me that along with a few other things and then we head back to the bar so I can fill out the employment paperwork. I’m giddy with excitement over finally having a job which is clear to Daria.
“You understand this is the shit job, right? The kind that no one wants?”
“That’s fine.”
“Okay.”
“So, if one of the girls call in sick, can I cover for them as a bartender?”
“Probably not.”
“What about as a waitress?”
“Definitely not.”
“Hired killer?”
“Please stop talking.”
“Well, I need some incentive to work hard. You know, like knowing there’s potential for growth and promotion.”
“Working hard for the sake of working hard isn’t incentive enough?”
“No. This is America, land of reward and external motivation. We need to know we’re getting something out of it.” I wink at her.
She laughs in response. “How about a paycheck?”
“That’s not enough. How about a cute uniform?”
“You can wear jeans and a tank top like everyone else.”
“Fine, you talked me into it.”
“I’m so glad,” she says drily.
“When can I start?”
“What’s wrong with now?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. You are absolutely the best, you know that?” I lean over the bar to hug her.
“Great,” she says. “You can start by grabbing a tank from my office to change into, then clean the men’s restroom.”
Gross.
“Hmm, are you sure you want me to start right now?”
She points a finger toward the rear of the building instead of responding.
“Okay.” I hold my hands up in surrender and set off to do her dirty work. Pun intended.
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