Page 5 of Cakes for the Grump
By contrast, the exterior is a big lie. Manicured lawns, groomed trees, and perfectly aligned stonework hide the broken disarray hidden inside the actual apartments. I still remember how fast soaring hopes crashed into despair on my first night here.
Since then, it’s all gotten worse.
I had assumed that outside my meal-prep job, I would have all this time to try to get my foot in the door at a Spanish restaurant, to find a chef willing to take me under their wing and help me with my career, but it hasn’t happened. Even if I didn’t need them to sponsor my work visa, and I spoke fluent Spanish or Catalan, there’s still the issue of free time.
I’ve got none of it.
All the tenants that live in my building are expected to pitch in and help maintain the property like a secret part-time job you didn’t know you were signing up for. Evenings and weekends are full of manual labor, which is why I go straight to the courtyard because our “shift” is about to start.
Mr. Albo is a sweet retiree with a bad back who often wears a bucket hat, Mrs. Milla is a widow with arthritis in her joints who loves a red lip, and Ms. Baghdadi is an older refugee who wistfully talks about being a famous painter back home before civil war changed her country.
When I see them, they whisper Janice is in a bad mood and to be careful. I sigh, bracing myself. Our building manager, Janice Dorian, is always in a bad mood. Right now she’s on a high chair, hawking on her cellphone. She is a hefty sort of woman, who has a bit of a mustache. The tops of her hair are oiled down in a slick middle part, and her favorite fabric must be Spandex considering how many leggings she’s got in that material.
As quickly as possible, I share news of how Luke Abbot offered me a job. They gasp and fuss around me. Why didn’t I take it? Shouldn’t I be jumping at the chance? Aren’t I stressed out because I’m so close to draining all my savings?
I’ve got no answers for them because standing outside in the welcoming heat of daylight, away from the lush richness of his office and away from the general air of his suffocating arrogance, it’s clear. I’ve skewered myself with my own pride and dignity. I’m poor. And that means I can’t be picky.
With a clearing of her throat, Janice gets off the phone—and we all tense.
“Good evening,” she says.
“Good evening,” we echo back in reply, as we’ve been trained to do.
“Hopefully, you will apply yourself to tonight’s chores,” says Janice, smiling sweetly. “Start by plucking weeds, and then we’ll be washing the courtyard, and perhaps if you do a good job, I’ll try to get the lawnmower working.”
Looks are exchanged between us; Janice never thinks we do well enough.
Regardless, arguing is futile and the quicker we start doing the work, the sooner it ends.
Muscle aches and sweat rivulets mark the next hour. I work as quickly as I can, stepping in to assist Mr. Albo when his back becomes sore, and Mrs. Milla when her hands won’t close properly around the weeds, and Ms. Baghdadi when she starts to feel faint and needs a break.
“The weeds won’t be cleared if we work at this rate,” observes Janice, still sitting on her chair drinking from one of those mega-gallon water bottles.
“I’ll do their portion,” I beg her. “Let them retire early today. The sun is very hot.”
“The sun is good for your health,” she retorts, ignoring the fact that she is sitting in the shade while everyone else is not. “Keep going.”
There is no point asking for Janice to hire a landscaper. Or to argue that if we pay rent, we shouldn’t be responsible for the upkeep of the property. That’s because there is nowhere else to go. Everyone needs this building’s low rent, and Janice knows we can’t afford to complain and risk eviction. She takes advantage of it.
Another half an hour passes.
By now Mr. Albo is half-crouched over and breathing hard.
I go back to Janice to plead his case.
“Very well,” she says, smiling sweetly. “I need to go now, so however you get the rest of this finished is your choice.” She folds her chair and waves at the group. “Don’t ever say I don’t do anything considerate for my wonderful tenants. You have no idea how much worse it is out there for people like us.”
As soon as she leaves, murmured cheers erupt. Water is passed around and we meet under the shade, sitting beside a tree.
“I’ll finish the rest,” I insist.
“No, I will help too,” says Ms. Baghdadi. “Just give me a bit of a break first.”
Mr. Albo puts a fist against his chest. “I’m slow, but I’m not leaving any of you alone.”
Ripping out a fistful of grass out of the lawn, I swear. “I hate we’ve got no choice but to listen to her!”
Mrs. Milla lays a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t think about her. We need to figure out your next move. I know you haven’t been happy in Barcelona, so are you finally thinking about moving back?”
