Preview: “A Simple Revenge”
Here’s a story about a simple revenge:
When I came home after my first year of college, my father announced he found me a summer job. This was great news. After a year of stretching my work study earnings, taking odd jobs on Craigslist, and collecting cans for cash with my friends, I was eager to make some money. I asked him, “What’s the job?”
“You’re going to be a hostess at a restaurant on Newbury Street.”
This was not the job I had in mind. I pictured myself slinging cappuccinos or making vegetarian panini, hanging clothes at a thrift store, or sorting books at the library. My parents’ kung fu school was on Newbury Street, and I grew up aware of the distinct worlds in the Back Bay. As a pre-teen, my Saturdays were spent browsing Newbury Comics for nail polish and CDs, the Fairy Shop for candles to go with my tarot cards, and the dusty, tall shelves at the Victor Hugo Bookstore. I knew not to bother window-shopping at designer boutiques. Not only was I not able to afford the clothes and accessories, but I could never fit the image of that kind of woman. I was an alternative girl, more likely to wear Doc Martens and a studded leather belt than haute couture. When my father mentioned the name of the restaurant, I told him, “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
But, two of the managers were his students, and they guaranteed my father they would hire me. All I needed to do was meet with the General Manager.
I went to the restaurant at 10pm, after the dinner rush slowed and the restaurant wasn’t bustling. Conversations in the dining room were soft, punctuated by silverware tapping on plates. Voices and laughter carried louder from the bar. I sat in the waiting area, perched on a leather arm chair next to a gentle fire in the fireplace, confident that I wouldn’t get the job.
The General Manager greeted me and led me to an empty booth with rounded banquette seating. I didn’t need to express, I don’t really belong here. It was obvious. I had spent the past year at a radical liberal arts college in Western Massachussetts, making art and scheming the fall of capitalism with a cohort of hippies and hipsters. My hair had become a gentle tangle with a few dreads and braids framing my face, and more than once I tried to become vegan. The General Manager could see it, too. We had a mutual understanding that I didn’t belong at the hostess stand with the conventionally hot girls they hired. I didn’t take it personally. We shook hands.
I told my dad I didn’t get the job.
He couldn’t believe it.
“I’ll find something else,” I tried to assure him. “I really didn’t belong there.”
“They told you that?” He asked, his brow forming a familiar knot, ready for a fight.
“Not specifically,” I said. “But it was obvious.”
“I’ll call them and get it sorted out.”
“Please don’t,” I asked. “It’s really okay.”
“No,” he said. “You need to get a job.”
A few days later, I was standing in a black dress and tall heels, training to be a hostess.
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