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A Romantic Occupation

By: LeeScarlet



"I'm sorry, Helen. The holiday season wasn't as good as we'd hoped. The economy is still in the dumps. Sales were down. We're going to have to let you go."

She looked at Bill in shock. "Let me go? You mean fire me?"

"Not fire you. Lay you off. It's not the same thing. We'll be happy to give you a good reference when you're looking for another job."

"But what about rent? I have to pay my rent. It's due tomorrow." She hated that she felt tears welling in her eyes.

"We've prepared a package that explains your benefits." He pushed a thin manila envelope across the desk. Her name was written on it in black felt tip. It was the only envelop on his desk. "You can take this home and read it carefully." He stood up. "I'll show you out."

She shook her head dumbly. Did he think that she couldn't find her way out of the store after working there for almost five years?

She stayed seated. "What about Angela? Is she being laid off, too?"

"I'm not going to discuss our other employees." He walked around the desk. "Come along now."

"She's not, is she? She hasn't been here long enough to earn her seniority raise so she gets a dollar fifty an hour less than me, right? After working here for five years, you're firing me for earning a lousy buck fifty over minimum wage."

"Let's not make this more difficult than it has to be." He put his hand on her arm and began to pull her gently to her feet.

"Get your hands off me," she said. "You have no right to touch me."

He pulled his hand back as though he had been burned. "Come along, then. We don't want security to escort you out of the store, do we?"

"I have rights," she said. But she stood of her own volition.

"You do. As a part time employee, you have the rights that are explained to you in this package." He pushed the envelope into her hands, being careful not to touch her again.

"I can find my own way out," she said.

She left the store with her head held high. But tears were rolling down her cheeks.

The other employees, her friends, did not meet her eyes when she walked past.

* * *

The contents of the envelope could be summarized as: "You were a part-time employee so we can lay you off anytime we want without explanation. And we don't have to pay you another cent. Good luck, sucker."

Helen looked around her room. This was where failure lived -- in a one-room basement apartment next to the laundry room. The building management called it a bachelor suite but she thought of it as a loser lair.

This was what she had at the age of twenty-four. One room with a lumpy bed, a handful of mismatched dishes, and a closet filled with sweat pants, work clothes, and one dress that she could wear out in the evening.

The only thing in the room that was worth anything was the high-definition, flat-screen television. She remembered buying it. For twenty minutes, she had stood in the store, staring at it, walking away, coming back, and staring some more. When she finally found a salesman and told him that she wanted it, her blouse was half-soaked with sweat and her hands were shaking.

Never before had she spent so much on anything for herself. She had not been able to afford it, but, in the end, she told herself that she needed to have something to prove that she wasn't working for nothing.

She couldn't afford cable so she had bought a little antenna from the Salvation Army store for two dollars. It could pull in only a few snowy channels. There was half-decent sound on a couple of them. Sometimes.

She had hoped that soon she would get hired full-time at the store so that she could get the cable turned on.

That sure hadn't worked out.

She stared at the papers on the kitchen counter. The letter from the store ended with upbeat assurances that, with the aid of their glowing reference, some other company would surely be happy to give her a job that was just as crappy as the one that she had lost.

In other words, Good luck, sucker.

Next month's rent was due tomorrow, her bank account was a joke, and her fridge was mostly empty.

The envelope included her last paycheck. It would cover the rent but leave her short of food before the month was over. Or she could fill her fridge and eat well until she was evicted. It was a hard choice.

Her cell phone buzzed. The phone was essential. Though she had only worked part time, the store had insisted that she be available for work any time they called. She would have taken a second part-time job but the store would have fired her for being unavailable and she couldn't afford to lose the one job that she had.

Now, she'd lost it, anyway.

Lost it? The store had taken it away so that it could save a lousy buck-fifty an hour. Forty-five dollars a week. That's what she had not been worth to them. An extra forty-five dollars a week.

Now she needed her cell phone more than ever because she had to have a phone number to write on job applications. She couldn't be hired if nobody could call her to offer her a job.

Maybe she should let herself be evicted and beg for food at the food bank so that she could keep paying her cell phone bills for as long as possible.

This was the modern American dream: a supermodel-thin woman walking down the avenue with a cell phone in her pocket. Thin because she had no food. Walking down the avenue because she had no home. Cell phone because that was the only way that an unemployed, homeless, starving woman could hope to find a job.

Her hands were shaking when she picked up her phone but she couldn't tell if that was from anger or fear.

The text message from Suzie said, "Barneys at 9?"

That was another option. Meet her best friend at their favorite bar and spend her last paycheck on drinks until she was sad no more.

She replied, "OK."

* * *

"I got laid," Suzie said.

"I got laid off," Helen replied.

"That's too bad."

"I'd rather get laid." Helen tried to hide her fear behind a smile but failed.

Suzie smiled at the memory of her successful night, and then frowned in distress at her friend's predicament. "What are you going to do?"

"Look for a handsome, charming man."

"I mean about getting laid off."

"Look for a rich, generous, handsome, charming man."

Suzie laughed. "I guess that's a plan."

"In this economy, it's as good a plan as any."

"Don't worry about it tonight," she said. "Drinks are on me."

"You can't afford as much as I'm going to drink."

"I don't have to afford it. I've got a new American Express card. It's too new to be maxed out yet."

"Oooh. I've got a rich friend."

"A rich, happy friend. I got laid last night. And this morning."

"You mentioned that. Anyone I know?"

"Ew, no. I wouldn't sleep with any of those guys. You've never met Seth."

"Seth? The Seth?"

"I only know one."

"He's your boss."

"Technically, he's my boss's boss. But bossness trickles down, so I guess he's kind of my boss, too. But he's hot. I didn't spend the night with him for his bossness. I did it for his hotness."

"How old is he?"

"About forty, I think. But he's a hot forty. He knows how to tickle the right parts in the right way."

"Wait a minute. He's married, isn't he? A couple of weeks ago, you told me about that woman who came into the office and threw a big fit. That was Seth's wife, right? The one you keep calling the unholy bitch."

"He's only a little bit married."

"Only a little bit married?" Helen had to laugh. "How does that work?"

"They're almost separated."

"Almost? Not actually separated."

"Right."

"Kids?"

"Two. That's why they're not completely separated yet. For the kids. But he says that they haven't slept together for months. You can't really be married if you're not sleeping with your husband. If you do that, you're just roommates. Right?"

"He's roommates with the mother of his kids. The woman who owns all his property jointly. That's a little more than just roommates."

"He's going to get a divorce. He just has to wait until the time is right for the kids."

"That would be after they graduate from college. How old is the youngest one?"

"I don't know. Two or three, maybe. I never met them. I'm not going to meet them. That's not happening ever."

"So he'll be ready to divorce the unholy bitch in about fifteen years. You'll be forty."

"At least I don't have to wait that long to get laid. Woo-hoo!"

"We both need to find a decent man."

"We both need to find a decent drink. Where is that waiter, anyway? We need our vodka-crans." She looked around. "It's not that busy tonight. Not for a Friday night."

"They tell me the economy's bad."

"So, it shouldn't be this hard to get a drink." She stood up. "To hell with the waitress. I'll get our drinks, myself." She walked toward the bar, leaving Helen sitting at the table.

Barney's Water Hole was a good place. The drinks were moderately priced, the furniture was comfortable, and the music was soft enough to chat without shouting. It was popular with professional men who were climbing the corporate ladder. Those men, in turn, attracted women who hoped for a relationship.

Two kinds of women looked for relationships in Barney's: dreamy-eyed romantics who were so naive that they believed that good men come to bars to look for a life-long partner; and cynical realists who knew that the only long-term relationships that any of these men would offer was coming over a couple of evenings a week when he could find an excuse to duck out on his wife.

Suzie, though no older than Helen, fell into the second camp. Helen couldn't tell if her friend's cynicism was heartfelt or a shell that she had grown to protect her heart from being broken one more time. Suzie claimed that she liked her freedom and never wanted to be tied down with a husband and children. But Helen thought that she said that a little too often and a little too loudly to be sincere.

While Helen waited for Suzie to return with drinks, she watched the other people in the room. One man caught her eye. He was handsome, but not devastating. Maybe eight out of ten. Tall. In his mid-thirties. He looked a little like a young Tim Robbins with blond hair.

He was talking to a woman sitting alone at the bar. She laughed and shook her head. He flashed an expression of comic disappointment, and then said something else and handed her a business card. She wrote something on it and handed it back to him. They chatted for another minute, and then he took his drink to an empty table. A minute later, he gestured to another woman who was returning from the lady's room. She approached his table and he began chatting with her. A moment later she was laughing at something that he said.

"The bartender was changing a tank of some kind," Suzie said, setting an old fashioned glass of cranberry and vodka on the table, "so it took forever to get served."

"Thanks. So tell me how you got down and dirty with your boss's boss." Suzie obviously wanted to talk about it -- she had mentioned it twice already.

"I told him that he was a saint."

"You got laid by a saint?"

"Exactly. He took it as an affront to his macho ego and had to prove to me that he was no saint. He took me home and we sinned all night long. It was wonderful."

"Why did you call him a saint?"

"I was dropping a report in his office -- Cheever wanted it hand delivered -- and Seth's wife was there, giving him holy hell about some problem with his kids. I had to wait for her to finish and storm away before I could take the report in and explain what Cheever wanted. Seth apologized for his wife's behavior and I told him that he was a saint and he said that he wasn't and I said that he'd have to prove that to me and the rest is history."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that. When I told him that Cheever wanted his comments on the report ASAP, he said that he'd read it right away because he was in no hurry to go home and I said that I didn't blame him and asked him if he wanted to take me to dinner. He never did get home. At least, not home to his house."

"And the rest is history."

"That man had a lot of pent-up frustration. It took a little coaxing, but once he got going, he was more enthusiastic than a guy half his age."

"Which would be about your age."

"Not quite. He's in his low forties. Nowhere near fifty."

"And married."

"Just a little bit. He says that he hasn't been laid since his last child was born and I believe it. I never saw such a horny man."

"You're awful."

"Awful good, according to Seth." Suzie had a naughty giggle. It drew men like flies. "Anyway, as far as I'm concerned, if a man isn't getting it at home, then he isn't really married and that makes him fair game."

She finished her drink. "Bottoms up. I'm getting refills and I expect your glass to be empty by the time I get back."

Helen's vodka-cran was still half full. Normally, she drank one for every two of Suzie's, but she decided that she was going to keep up tonight. She'd been fired. She hadn't had sex since her last boyfriend dumped her six months ago. She needed a change and the easiest thing to change was her propensity to drink in moderation.

She downed the rest of the glass.

The Tim-Robbins-looking guy was standing next to Suzie at the bar, saying something to her. She giggled her patented naughty giggle and he beamed at her.

They chatted for a few minutes before she giggled again and shook her head.

He gave her his card and moved on.

She brought their drinks back to the table.

"Who was that?" Helen asked.

"Some horndog," Suzie replied. "He thinks he's a pickup artist." She paused. "Actually, he's not bad at it. He has some good lines. Nothing too corny. Exactly the right balance of sarcasm and sincerity. It's practice, I guess. He'll hit on every woman in the place before the night is over. At least every woman who isn't with a man. And he'll hit on the ones with dates, too, if he can get them away from their men for long enough."

"Not every woman," Helen replied.

"What do you mean?"

"Not me. Men never hit on me."

"He will. Just wait."

"No, he won't. Watch him. When he looks around, he glances at me and then dismisses me."

"No, he doesn't."

"Sure he does."

Suzie watched the man for a minute. "I don't see it. I'll make a bet with you. Take your drink and go sit at the bar alone and he'll hit on you before ten minutes have passed as sure as sunshine."

Helen looked at her friend for a minute, and then said, "Okay. Watch."

She sat alone at the bar and nursed her drink.

While she was there, the man exchanged cards with one woman, approached another and chatted with her for ten minutes, and then started on a third prospect.

He walked right past Helen twice and didn't so much as nod at her.

After twenty minutes Helen felt sufficiently humiliated to rejoin Suzie at their table.

"Wow," Suzie said. "I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. What do you do? Wear garlic around your neck and wave invisible crosses at men? It's like you're surrounded by a no-pickup force field. It's like some kind of superpower."

"I'm kryptonite. It must be my green, lumpy face." She finished off her second vodka-cran and was feeling the effect of the two drinks.

"There's nothing wrong with your face."

"I'm no movie star."

"You're no dog. You might not be a supermodel, but you're prettier than most of the women in here. You're certainly prettier than most of the women that Mr. Horndog is chatting up."

"Flatterer." She stood up. "It's my turn to get the drinks."

"No," Suzie said. "Sit down. I lost the bet. The drinks are definitely on me tonight." She stood and Helen sat back down.

To get to yet another woman on the other side of the bar, the horndog walked passed Helen once more while she was sitting alone at the table.

By the time Suzie returned, Helen was feeling thoroughly unappreciated.

"Tell you what," Suzie said. "If Morten won't talk to you, then you should go talk to him. Take the bull by the horns. Be bold."

"Morten?"

"That's what his card says. Morten Miller."

"Mort. I couldn't go home with a man named Mort," Helen said. "Mort is a terrible name."

"It's a great name. I'll bet he overcompensates like mad. Does everything he can to prove that he's not a Mort in bed. Never underestimate the fun that you can have with a man who thinks he has something to prove."

Helen laughed. Suzie could always make her feel better.

"Besides, you don't want to go home with him. I might, but you don't. He's not your kind of man. You just want to flirt with him for the fun of flirting. Go for it. See what happens."

"I couldn't."

"I dare you. Now you have to do it. You can't refuse a dare."

"What would I say?"

"Anything. Be shocking. Ask him why he didn't hit on you. That'll give him something to explain."

Helen downed half of her third vodka-cran. She was drunk enough to be bold, but not quite drunk enough to be desperate. She smiled. "I've got a better idea. A much better idea. See that guy at that table with the beer. He looks more like my type. Watch this and be impressed."

The man that she had indicated looked like a thirty-five-year-old Brad Pitt, except that a larger nose and slightly weaker jaw line made him noticeably less handsome. He had been drinking with three friends earlier, but, they had left, leaving him to finish his beer alone.

"Excuse, me," she said. "I was wondering if you could help me with something."

"Sure."

"May I?" she gestured to an empty chair and then sat in it without waiting for an invitation.

"Sure," he said, belatedly. "What can I do for you?"

"You're a man and I need an insight into the male mind."

He smiled wryly. "We men are all different from one another, you know."

"I'm sure that you know more about men than I do so I'd appreciate any insight that you can give me."

"Okay. Insight about what? Cars? Football? Bear hunting?"

"Women, of course. Men and women. See that guy over there? The one chatting up that blonde with the mimosa?"

"The tall guy with the blond hair?"

"Right. I've been watching him all evening. He's been getting the phone number of every available woman in the place. By now, he must have exchanged cards with a dozen women."

"Yeah. He looks like a player."

"He's hit on every woman here except one. Me. So I was wondering if you could tell me what's wrong with me."

The man looked at Helen with a raised eyebrow. "I don't see anything wrong with you. Not a single thing."

"There must be something. He even hit on my friend. Why not me?"

"Maybe it's because you're sitting with your friend."

"No. I sat by myself at the bar for twenty minutes and he ignored me. No one else tried to hit on me when I was by myself, either. It's not very flattering."

The man laughed. "I don't think that it would be all that flattering to be hit on by a guy who's trying to do every woman in the bar. Not being hit on makes you the special woman here."

She frowned. "It may make me special, but not in a flattering way. It makes me feel unattractive."

"Let me assure you that most men would find you attractive. You look quite desirable to me."

"Really?"

"Really."

"That's hard to believe. You didn't try to hit on me, either."

"I didn't try to hit on anyone. I came here with a few business associates to wind down a bit after a long day of meetings. We didn't have romance on our minds, just spreadsheets. If I were the kind of guy that hits on girls in bars, I assure you that you'd be the first girl here that I'd try to seduce."

"Then that would make you unique. Men never try to pick me up. I must be doing something wrong. Is it the way I dress?"

He looked at her for a minute and then said, "Stand up."

She stood up and stepped to the side so that he could see her all the way down to her shoes.


A Romantic Occupation



He looked at her for a long time. "Maybe you could dress more trashy, but I wouldn't recommend it. The girl-next-door look suits you fine. It's pretty clear that you've got fun times in there, just waiting to be unwrapped by some lucky guy."

She blushed and sat back down. "So why don't I get hit on?"

He stood and held out his hand. "Will you come back to my place and spend the night making love with me?"

She felt her face flush. "No."

He sat back down. "See. That's why men don't hit on you."

"Because I won't jump into bed every man who asks?" Her eyes narrowed in ire.

"Not exactly. Most women will say 'no' to most men who hit on them. I didn't expect you to say 'yes,' but I wanted you to hear for yourself the way you say 'no.' You didn't pause to consider going to bed with me for even a second. Your answer was an automatic reflex. I ask and -- bang! -- a final 'no' and the game is over. Men don't hit on you because everything about you says that your answer will be an automatic refusal. It's the way you sit. The way you look at men. The expression on your face. You're saying 'no' as soon as you walk into the room. If you had a 'maybe' in your mind, you'd give off a completely different vibe. It doesn't have to be 'yes', just 'maybe'. Can you could look around this room and see one man, just one, who, if he asked you in the right way, you would be happy to drag him out of here and jump his bones?"

She looked around the room and thought about that.

"See?" he said. "You can't imagine yourself going home with even one man here. If you could then you'd be a different person."

She looked around the room again. He was right. There wasn't a single man in the bar that she would go home with, no matter how he asked her. She might go to dinner with a couple of them. Maybe even put out on a third date. But she wouldn't go straight from the bar to bed with anyone.

"What's wrong with being choosy?" she asked.

"There's nothing wrong with that. It's who you are. You're a great person and I'm sure that some day, you'll be a good wife for some guy. But you can't have your cake and eat it, too. You can't expect men to hit on you in a bar if you're not mentally in the game."

She looked at him for a minute, considering what he said. She decided that he was right.

"Yes," she said. Her voice was clear and strong.

"Yes? I'm right?"

"No. I've changed my mind. I'm saying 'yes' to your first question. I will go back to your place with you and make love to you all night." She stood up. "Let's go."

"Whoa," he said, raising his hand. "Sit down a minute. I just asked you that to show you that you what your reaction would be. I wasn't seriously asking you to come home with me."

"I'm seriously accepting your offer. Are you going to take me home and unwrap my package of fun or not?"

"I can't..." He stumbled. "You're only saying that because..." He stumbled again. Then he said, "What the hell. Why not? Let's go." He stood up, took her hand and began walking to the door.

"Wait," she said. "Do you have a business card?"

"Sure." He handed her a card. "My name is--"

"I don't care what your name is," she said as she took the card. "Don't move. I'll be back in a few seconds."

She walked back to her table, handed the card to Suzie, and said, "I'm going to get laid by this guy. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Good for you," Suzie said, and tucked the card into her purse.

Helen gave her a quick grin and sauntered back to the strange man who was going to make love to her all night.

* * *

The man must be doing all right. He lived in a penthouse apartment with a view over the city. His dining room was bigger than Helen's entire apartment and his living room was bigger yet. Only a few elegant pieces of furniture interrupted the wonderful expanse of blond hardwood floors and dusty-toned walls.

"Do you want a drink?" he asked.

"Which way is the bedroom?" she asked in reply.

She followed him through across the living room and down a short hallway at a brisk pace.

The bed was massive. When she pulled the comforter to the floor, the bare bed looked like someone had shrouded a wrestling ring in snow-white Egyptian cotton.

She began tearing at his clothes and he began tearing at hers. Shirt, blouse, pants, skirt, bra, shorts, and panties were thrown about the floor with abandon.

She pushed him down on the bed.

He scooted toward the center.

She jumped after him.

They needed no foreplay; they were both ready.

The coupling was immediate, but the act was languorous. After he settled himself deep inside her, he stopped, propped himself up on his elbows, and looked into her face. "You are beautiful," he said and began to move slowly, sliding almost out and then, with aching need, stroking as deeply into her as he could reach, pausing to feel the length of himself inside her. Then he did it again. And again and again, prolonging the act for as long as possible, savoring every moment of precious intimacy to its fullest.

That's when he kissed her for the first time. That's when he stroked her breasts. That's when he told her how wonderful she was.

He did not need to seduce her to get her to bed so he seduced her after he had penetrated her.

No boyfriend had ever made her feel as loved as this total stranger.

Gradually he increased his tempo and she responded, wrapping her legs about his, squeezing his body against hers and tilting her pelvis up to take as much of him into her as possible.

He groaned and she moaned. He shouted and she screamed.

They convulsed together in a paroxysm of shared ecstasy.

Afterward, she snuggled her head into his shoulder.

He held her and stroked her hair.

They said nothing, just listened to each other's breathing relax into a deep, steady rhythm as they fell asleep in each other's arms.

* * *

"Well?" Suzie said as she sat down.

"Well?" Helen smirked and sipped her venti half-caf.

"Come on. Tell all to Auntie Suzie. Did you get laid?"

"Like a fine Persian carpet."

"Was it good?"

"Fantastic. I didn't realize how badly I needed it."

Suzie sipped her tall double-shot. "So what's he like?"

"Nice. I guess. We didn't talk much."

"Where'd you go?"

"His place."

"Does he have a nice place?"

"Gorgeous. Huge penthouse overlooking the city. But it's kind of sterile. It must have been done by an interior decorator. There's not much personal stuff in it."

"He must have a good job."

"He has money, anyway. None of that comes cheap."

"Are you going to see him again?"

"I don't know. It depends on if he calls." Helen's eyes grew wide and her mouth fell open. "Oh, no!"

"What?"

"He can't call. I didn't give him my number. I didn't even tell him my name. He doesn't know who I am."

Suzie laughed. "You can carve a notch in your vibrator, for that."

"What?"

"Not only a one-night stand but an anonymous one at that. It's the ultimate pickup. You're a gunslinger now."

"I don't want to be a gunslinger. I want to see him again."

"Who?"

"Whoever he is."

Suzie laughed harder. "Men of Gotham, beware! A new heart-breakin', ball-bustin' woman is coming for you!"

"You know."

"I sure do."

"No, I mean, you know who he is. I gave you his card last night."

"Yup." Suzie dug through her purse and then handed Helen the card, now slightly worse for wear.

"Kenneth. Kenneth Kingford. Last night, I made love with Kenneth Kingford of Castle and Associates, Inc."

"Good for you. Are you going to call him?"

"No."

"Why not? I thought that you wanted to see him again."

"I do, but not like that. Not me calling him like I'm desperate."

"But he doesn't know who you are. If you don't call then you won't see him again."

"You can't get everything you want in life. Right now, a job is more important than a man. I need to buy food. I can't eat a man."

Suzie laughed. "You have a lot to learn about one-night stands, my dear." She arched an eyebrow. "It's not a hobby for vegetarians."

Helen blushed. After a minute, she said, "I've got to get out and start filling out job applications." She looked at her coffee. "I don't think I can afford to worship at the Church of Starbucks on Sunday mornings until I'm working again. Maybe I should go to a real church and pray to God for a job."

"But this is our tradition. If it's just money, then let me treat you until you're getting a paycheck again."

"I can't let you do that. If I can't pay my own way, I'm not going to sponge off you."

"Call it a loan. When you're working again, you can treat me for a while."

Helen didn't want to accept charity but Suzie had such a funny combination of distress and hope on her face that she couldn't refuse.

"Let's meet here next week and I'll let you know how the job search is going."

"It's a date," Suzie said.

* * *

Suzie set a beer in front of Helen. "Are you sure that you just want beer?" She took a sip of her own vodka-cran.

"I like beer," Helen said.

Suzie knew that she was lying. Helen asked for beer because she didn't like it. If she could tolerate only a small sip at a time, then she'd be able to nurse one drink all night. "Suit yourself," she said.

Helen sipped the beer and couldn't suppress a look of distaste. "The super gave me my eviction notice this morning. He could have left it in my mailbox or slipped it under my door but he knocked and made a big deal out of handing it to me in person. I asked him why and he said that he was legally obligated to make certain that I received it. That's bullshit. He just wanted to see my face when he humiliated me."

"Maybe he wanted to do it in person because he hoped that you'd offer to have sex with him if he'd forgive the rent."

"That would be even more humiliating. I'd sleep in the street first."

"That's an option."

"I've filled out a job application at every department store, boutique, and restaurant in walking distance. I've even applied at fast food places. I've got to get at least a little money coming in quick or I'm going to be homeless. I'll even take part-time work at McDonalds. Anything. But nobody's hiring." She looked around Barney's. "I even filled out an application here last week. That's how desperate I am."

"This wouldn't be such a bad place to work," Suzie said. "The hours are long but the clientele is quiet and polite. It's not some rowdy sports bar." She looked at Helen. "I'm guessing that you didn't apply at the Lady's Slipper."

Helen searched her friend's face. "Sometimes it's hard to tell when you're joking."

"I'm joking. I know you'd never work in a strip club." She smiled. "Of course, two weeks ago I knew that you'd never have a one night stand with a stranger, so what do I know?"

"That was a one-time deal."

"That's the definition of a one-night stand, isn't it?"

Helen sipped her beer, made a face again, and looked longingly at Suzie's vodka-cran.

Suzie laughed. "Let me get you one of these."

"No, really. No. It's all right. I'd rather have the beer."

"Would you also rather have a two-night stand?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your handsome, rich stranger just walked into the joint."

"What?" Helen sounded shrill. She started to turn, then thought better of it and hunched over with her face hidden in her hand. "Are you sure?"

"He's here. In the flesh."

"Has he seen me?" Helen's eyes peeked past her fingers, looking for a way out the back of the bar.

"Not yet." Suzie raised her hand and waved at Kenneth. "There. Now he has."

"You traitor," Helen said, leaning forward and speaking in a hushed voice.

"Hello," a familiar voice said behind her. "Remember me?"

She raised her head and looked around at him. "Yes."

"I've been looking for you."

"I need to go bother that guy who's sitting alone at the bar," Suzie said with a giggle. "You can have my seat."

He sat down as soon as she vacated her chair.

"I wanted to call but you left without giving me your number. I thought that you enjoyed my company but, if you don't want to see me again, I'll leave you alone. Just tell me and I'll go away and never bother you again."

"No. It's all right."

"Good. I'd like to see you again."

"Look all you want." As soon as the words came out of her mouth, she regretted saying them. Spoken aloud, they didn't sound the way she had imagined.

He looked at her.

"No," she said. "I didn't mean it like that. I meant that I'm happy to see you again. I enjoyed the night that I spent with you. It was good."

He relaxed. "I was hoping that I could take you out again some time, but I didn't have your number."

"Or my name," she smiled. "I forgot to tell you my name."

"That, too," he laughed.

"Helen. Helen Trolander."

"I'm Ken Kingford."

"Of Castle and Associates. I know. You gave me your business card."

"I thought that you might have thrown it away."

"No, I still have it."

He looked at her strangely but she didn't explain why she hadn't called him. That it wasn't seemly for Sleeping Beauty to call Prince Charming. That it was the prince's job to fight his way through the brambles to get to her. She knew how it had to be, but she couldn't explain it without sounding stupid.

Instead, she said, "What does Castle and Associates do?"

"That's kind of hard to explain," he said. "We introduce important people to each other. We help them understand what they want from each other."

"Like a dating service?"

He laughed. "That's one way to look at it. We're like a dating service for rich, powerful men. They don't want to screw each other but they definitely want to screw somebody out of something."

He was patronizing her and it stung to be talked down to.

"If you don't want to tell me, you could just say so," she said.

"It's not that I don't want to tell you, it's that I'm pretty sure that you wouldn't want to hear it. The short answer is that we find people who should be in business together and then we help them work out an arrangement. The long answer is very long and very boring."

"Is it like being some kind of lobbyist?" She wasn't sure what a lobbyist did, but she wanted to say something that sounded intelligent and she hoped that would be good enough.

"Sometimes that's part of it. If a politician is one of the people involved then we might have to lobby him. But mostly we work with private interests rather than the government. If you want, you can think of us as lobbying corporate insiders instead of politicians. But that's not really what we do, either. Like I said, it's subtle and complicated. Most people don't want to learn enough about corporate governance to understand how we insert ourselves in corporate operations." He shook his head. "Now look what you've done. You've got me boring both of us. I'd rather hear about you. What do you do?"

"Nothing. I got laid off two weeks ago, so I'm looking for a new job."

"What kind of job?"

"Anything."

"What did you do in your last job?"

"I sold small appliances in a department store. Coffee machines. Bread makers. Food processors. Stuff like that."

"That's interesting."

"No, it isn't. It was a dull job to work at and it's a dull job to talk about."

"You must have met a lot of different people in a day."

"Yeah. Yeah, the customers are okay. Some of them. A lot of them just complain about everything but some of them are nice. But it's not like you get a chance to know them. It's small appliances. Someone comes in once, buys something or doesn't buy something, goes away, and you never see him again. It's not like a coffee shop where the regulars come back every day."

"It sounds like you need a different kind of job."

"You know anyone who's hiring?"

"What are your skills?"

"I know how to work a cash register. I know about small appliances. That's pretty much it. I'm not a computer programmer or a mechanic or anything like that."

"Did you go to college?"

"I didn't like school much. I started work right after I graduated from high school."

"You could go back to college and learn new skills."

"And live on what? I don't have a job. Besides, my grades weren't so good in high school. Harvard isn't waiting for my application."

"What would be your ideal job?"

"Waitress. Some place that earns good tips. In the right restaurant, a waitress can earn enough to buy a car. I'd like a car. And cable television."

"Can I get you another beer?" he asked, even though her glass was still almost full.

"I'm not so fond of beer. I'd rather have a vodka-cran."

He gestured to the waitress and she came over immediately, as though she had been waiting for him, specifically. She recognized a good tipper when she saw one.

Two vodka-crans and a half-hour of small talk later, he said, "Would you like to come back to my place?"

"Only if you're going to spend the night making love to me again."

"Don't worry about that." He rose from the table, leaving a half pint of Boddingtons still in his glass.

* * *

Ken didn't touch her until they were in the elevator to his penthouse. Then he turned and pressed his lips to hers, gently but assertively.

She responded by wrapping her arms around his back and pulling his body against hers, pressing her breasts hard against his chest and parting her lips.

He squeezed back and licked the edges of her mouth with the tip of his tongue, not trying to fill her mouth but teasing her with promises of much more.

By the time the elevator had risen to the tenth floor, he had dropped to her neck just below the corner of her jaw where her pulse beat strong and fast.

She was caressing the small hairs at the base of his skull, urging him on.

By the time the elevator had risen to the fifteenth floor, he was holding her shoulder with his left hand while his right roughly massaged her breasts.

She began undoing buttons on her blouse to give him access. Not all the buttons, just enough to release the tension. Just enough to be not quite decent.

By the time the elevator doors opened on the twentieth floor, they were both panting like overheated huskies.

He swiped a keycard and dragged her into his entryway. Banging the door closed with his foot, he pulled her to the end of a bureau, turned her to face it, and whispered hoarsely in her ear, "Push your tits against the top."

She bent over the end of the bureau while he raised her skirt and pulled her panties down to her ankles.

"Spread your legs."

She stepped one foot out of her panties and spread wide.

He stroked her pussy with his left hand while he pushed his pants down with his right.

She was as wet as she could be when he thrust into her.

The sudden penetration made her gasp with shock.

He put his hands between her shoulder blades and pressed her down against the bureau while he thrust into her again and again.

She stretched her arms to grab the far edge and brace herself. The hard surface ground against her breasts and the edge dug into the tops of her thighs as he fucked her.

It was not comfortable. Nor did she get the direct stimulation that she needed to climax.

But knowing that she excited him so much that he couldn't wait to get to the bedroom gave her a different kind of satisfaction.

He came quickly. His groan echoed through the empty apartment.

When he stopped pulsing into her sex, he released her and stepped back. "Thank you," he said.

She gingerly pushed herself upright, letting her short skirt fall back over her hips. She didn't bother with the panties, just stepped out of them. She'd pick them up later.

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

"A little." She wasn't, but it would have sounded inhospitable to say that she was not.

"There's some Chinese takeout in the fridge," he said. "Why don't you nuke it and I'll join you in a few minutes."

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket as he walked into his apartment.




A Romantic Occupation



While she was warming the cardboard containers in the kitchen, she heard him talking on the phone in the other room. His voice was only a murmur that was too low for her to know what he was discussing, but he sounded intense.

When he came back to the kitchen, she had plates and forks on the table. The containers were steaming.

While they were eating, he said, "You're so hot, I want you again, already. Let's get to bed and we'll do it for you this time."

A half hour later, he took her into his bed and did her the way she liked to be done.

She came like a diesel locomotive: slow, powerful, and unstoppable.

* * *

"Look at that scruffy guy," Helen said, sliding her venti bold aside and leaning close to Suzie so that she could pitch her voice low and still be heard. "They let anybody in here now."

Suzie turned to look.

"No, don't look," Helen said. "He'll see you."

Suzie looked back at her. "Look? Don't look? What?"

"Look but not like you're looking. Be casual about it. Just look around at everybody."

"I need another napkin," Suzie said. She left her seat to walk to the counter and back.

"He's just a guy," she said when she sat down again. "Last night was Saturday night and he hasn't had his coffee yet. You don't look so hot yourself. Ken wear you out?"

Helen smiled. "I loved every minute of it. Ken knows how to treat a girl."

"He take you out to dinner some place fancy?"

"Not really. We went back to his place and...you know...right away. Afterward he was hungry and he had some leftover Chinese in his fridge so I ate some of that with him. You know what bachelors are like. Not a lot of provisions in the larder so I couldn't have cooked a meal for him if I'd wanted to."

"Hmm." Suzie looked at her for a minute.

"What?"

"I'm just trying to get a picture of this. He buys you a couple of drinks here, then takes you back to his place, right to bed. Then, after you're nice and relaxed, he sends you out to the kitchen to rustle up some dinner for him."

"Not exactly."

"What's not exactly?"

"We didn't exactly get right to bed. Like I said, we got right to it when we got back to his place."

"Not to bed?"

"He started kissing me in the elevator. As soon as we got inside and got the door closed, he bent me over a bureau. He has a bureau in his entryway. He was too excited to make it to the bedroom. He bent me over and ripped off my panties and did it right there."

"Doggie style?"

"Is that what they call it?"

"That's what they call it. How did you feel about that?"

"It was kind of exciting. He wanted me so bad that he couldn't wait."

"So you liked it?"

"Sure. I mean, it wasn't like I had much chance to respond. It was over pretty quick. But it was okay. Later we went to his bed and did it properly. I liked that a lot more."

"After the Chinese food."

"He was hungry." Suzie's tone made her feel defensive and she tried to explain. "The kitchen was on the way to the bedroom so we stopped there and ate a little."

Suzie smiled. "You're turning out to be a wild woman. Getting out there. Taking what you want. Just get fucked any time you feel like it, any way you want it. Slam, bam, all done. No big romance. No commitments."

Helen blushed at her friend's language. But she liked the image of herself as a sexual predator. Self-reliant. Savage. Taking what she wanted. Red of tooth and claw. "Ken better not fall in love with me," she said, "or I'll break his heart like it was glass."

"That's for him to worry about. Not you."

Helen frowned. "That scruffy guy keeps looking at me."

"Maybe he likes what he sees."

"I don't want some homeless guy hassling me. Maybe he's going to ask me for money."

Suzie turned and looked openly at him for a minute, then turned back. "He doesn't look homeless to me. He's not much older than we are. He looks like a university student. His clothes are dirty, but they fit properly. His hair is mussed but it's been cut and styled recently. He hasn't shaved this morning but it's just a two-day growth. He's not sleeping on the street, he's been at an all-night party."

"He's coming over here," Helen said, looking panicked.

"Are you a friend of Ken Kingford?" the man asked, looking at Helen.

"I guess," Helen said.

"What's it to you?" Suzie asked.

The man ignored Suzie. "You don't look like his usual type."

"What's his usual type?" Helen asked.

"Rich. Filthy rich. Like him."

"I think you should leave us alone," Suzie said.

"Why don't I look like his type?" Helen asked.

He shook his head. "You look... You look too real. Too honest. Not nearly slimy enough for him."

"You must know him pretty well," Helen said. "Are you his friend?"

The man laughed. "Not hardly. I wouldn't give him the time of day. I pay attention to the movers and shakers in this town. Ken Kingford is one of the puppet masters who sit behind the scenes and make things happen."

"Ken is a mover and shaker?" Suzie asked, suddenly interested in hearing what the man had to say.

"He's a sly man. A snake who slithers around arranging for rich men to get richer and the rest of us to get poorer. In the end, he's going to make himself the richest of all. That's all he cares about. Winning. And, to him, winning means making money. If you don't know what game he's playing, then you don't want to be sitting at the table with him."

"Why are you telling me this?" Helen asked.

"Like I said, I've made it my business to look into the shadows and see what lurks there. Somebody has to keep track of what's going on in this country and it sure isn't going to be the official media."

"You're a stalker," Suzie said.

"No. I'm just someone who notices when a man like Kingford starts keeping company with a store clerk. You notice when you see a cobra hanging around a bunny."

"How do you know that I was a clerk?" Helen asked. "Are you stalking me, too?"

He blushed. "Last month, I was writing a report on the loss of jobs in the American small appliance industry and went into a some local stores a few times to track what was on the shelves. I happened to remember your face. That's all."

"Well, I don't remember your face," she said.

"No reason why you would," he replied. But he looked slightly crestfallen that he had not been worthy of her notice.

"If Ken's all that important and I'm going with out him, then I guess I'm moving on up in the world," Helen said.

"I doubt it. The American dream is dead. America has the lowest rate of social mobility of any country in the industrialized world. And that's because of men like Kingford. Anything you think that he's giving you, I guarantee that he'll take tenfold away from you in return. He believes that everything he does should earn a profit. It's against his principles to give anyone a free ride."

"You can move along now," Suzie said. "I'm serious. We come here to perk ourselves up and you're a real downer. Get going."

The young man nodded. "Okay. But..." He shook his head. "Look," he said to Helen, "if you get into trouble with Kingford, let me know. You can find me down at Windsong Park. A bunch of us are occupying it in protest against the one percent. My name is Lawrence. Anyone down there can tell you who I am. Don't get in too deep with Kingford. He's not going to be looking out for you so you better look out for yourself."

"You just mind your own business, Larry," Suzie said.

"Lawrence," he said. "Bert Lawrence." He walked away.

"Now there's a guy who's full of himself," Suzie said to Helen. "You want to stay away from a guy like that."

"I don't like the idea of anybody keeping track of who I'm seeing," Helen said.

* * *

On Tuesday morning, Helen's cell phone rang. She didn't recognize the number.

"Helen Trolander?"

"That's me."

"I'm Harold Starr. I'm the manager of The Fisher House Restaurant. I was told that you were looking for work as a waitress. Is that correct?"

"Yes." Helen was too shocked to say anything more. The Fisher House was a seafood place down by the harbor. She hadn't bothered submitting an application there because everyone knew that a place like that didn't hire anyone unless they already had years of experience.

"Would you be available for an interview this afternoon? Say about two."

"Yes. Certainly. I'll be there at two."

"Just ask the maître d' for Mr. Starr. He'll tell you how to get to my office."

"Thank you."

The phone clicked in her ear.

She had no doubt about how this had happened. On Saturday night, she had told Ken that she'd like a job as a waitress and, two days later, she was being interviewed by one of the best restaurants in town.

It was good to have a powerful man on her side.

She wore her best work clothes to the interview.

The maître d' didn't look impressed when he saw her. Asking him where to find Mr. Starr did less to elevate his opinion of her than she'd hoped.

The interview was short. Mr. Starr looked at her, asked when she could start work, and then gave her a form to fill out and a photocopied page of work rules.

The first rule on the list was that she was to report to work fifteen minutes before her shift, dressed in a clean, pressed white blouse; a black skirt that was hemmed two inches above the knee; black, un-patterned pantyhose; and black low-heeled pumps. She was to wear a nude-colored bra and no jewelry except a single discreet stud in each ear if desired.

Mr. Starr also gave her a menu and instructed her to learn the restaurant's bill of fare.

When he bid her, "Good day," she had no doubt that she had been dismissed.

Nor did she doubt that she had a job, starting at eleven o'clock on Thursday. Just like that.

She was elated.

Her first order of business was to go shopping for a work outfit. Target had what she needed but her credit card was declined. She asked the store to hold the items until she returned with cash.

She called Suzie at work and asked for a loan. Suzie agreed to take a two hundred-dollar cash advance on her new American Express card.

Helen assured her that she could return the money before the end of the month.

Her next phone call was to Ken. He was working and she didn't have his cell number, only his home phone, so she left a voice message: "I've been hired at The Fisher House. I wanted to tell you how much I appreciate it. Thank you."

It was a short message, but her eyes were tearing and her voice cracked slightly at the end. She had not realized how afraid she had been for her future, nor how relieved she was to have a good job. Her best job since high school.

Her third task was to knock on the super's door and tell him that she had a job and would soon be able to pay her back rent.

"It doesn't matter," he said. "The eviction notice stands until I have the cash in my hands. If I cancel the notice and then you don't pay, I have to start all over again and I'll lose another month's rent. Then they'll fire me."

"I can give you a post-dated check," she said. "You'll be able to cash it before the end of the month. I'll let you know."

He laughed aloud. "Yeah. Right. Like I've never heard that before. You can't even give me a current-dated check. You're under eviction notice. The only payment that I can accept is cash money or a certified check. Come back when you've got one or the other. Or have your apartment vacated by the end of the month."

Her heart fell. It wasn't much of an apartment, but it was the only place that she had. If she couldn't make the rent here, she certainly couldn't pay first and last month's rent for another apartment before the end of the month.

She could only pray that she would get a paycheck from the restaurant in time. But she couldn't see how a paycheck for a few shifts could be big enough to cover a full month of rent.

* * *

It was the next day before Ken returned her phone call. But when he did, he sounded happy for her. "It's great that you got the job."

"You got it for me."

"I opened the door," he said, trying to keep his tone modest and failing.

"Thank you so much."

"Why don't you come over tonight?"

"What time?"

"Eight?"

"I'll be there."

A few hours later, when he opened his apartment door, she leapt into his arms and planted a big, wet kiss on his mouth.

He put both hands on her ass and pulled her crotch tight against him.

She could feel his manhood pressing hard against her lower belly.

"Mmm," he said when she let him speak again. "You have a wonderful mouth." He ground his crotch against her belly and drew his thumb across her lips. "A mouth that a man could die for." He slipped the tip of his thumb inside.

She didn't have to be psychic to know what he wanted.

Her face flushed. She had never taken a man into her mouth before. She was not certain that she could do it.

She was going to start work tomorrow. A waitress job at The Fisher House was a plum position. She owed Ken as much pleasure as she could give him.

She slid down to her knees and unbuckled his belt. Then she slid his pants and underwear to his ankles, leaving his rigid cock directly in her face.

He shuffled back to rest his ass against the entryway bureau.

She followed and thrust her tongue out to taste him.

A bit oaky with a citrus aftertaste, she thought. She had never tasted a man's sex before but decided to try to enjoy it as much as a true connoisseur would.

His breathing deepened and he put his hands on either side of her head. He did not push her, he was only touching her gently to feel how she moved.

She licked him again, around the shiny, purple head, and then along the length of his shaft. He bounced a little so she grabbed him at the base to steady him and lick him more firmly, again and again until he was wet.

Only then did she rise slightly on her knees and put her head over top of him to take him into her mouth.

She didn't have to be told that biting would be bad. She opened her mouth as wide as she could to keep her teeth out of the way and took him as far inside as she could fit. Once she got past the head, he hit the back of her throat and made her gag. She pulled off a little to keep from choking and closed her lips around him to create a bit of suction.

He was groaning continuously as she began to bob her head, pulling back until he was almost out of her mouth and then sliding down until he was near the back of her throat.

She had already licked all the taste off, so that the main sensation was of him feeling full and solid in her mouth. It was not as unpleasant as she had feared. She didn't especially like it, but didn't dislike it, either.

She loved hearing the joy that he expressed with his groans.

As her head bobbed over the head of his prick, she naturally began squeezing and stroking his shaft in long, fast strokes. It occurred to her that a blow job would be as much a hand job as anything else and worked her hand more conscientiously.

With a final loud groan, he came in her mouth, spurting thick, salty cream over her tongue.

She didn't know what to do. She couldn't pull off him because he was still coming and she didn't want to interrupt him. After all the effort she had put into this, she wanted to be sure that she gave him a full measure of pleasure.

But she didn't want all that cum in her mouth, either.

He kept coming for a long time. He would pause for a second and she thought he was done, then he would pulse weakly, a few more times, then pause again.

She had never realized how long a man could take to come.

Finally, she had no choice. Her mouth was overflowing. She mentally gritted her teeth and began swallowing everything that he had spurted into her.

A revelation. That was why a man treasured a woman who swallowed. Because, if she didn't have to interrupt him to spit, then she could prolong his pleasure for as long as possible.

He began to relax in her mouth. In for a penny, in for a pound, as her mother used to say. She sucked him dry and licked him clean.

He took her hands and helped her to her feet. Then he hugged her and whispered in her ear, "That was perfect. You are a treasure."

He held her for a long time. But he didn't kiss her.

She spent the night in his bed, in his arms, but they didn't make love.

It was the first night that she had spent with him without getting an orgasm of her own.

* * *

"My turn to buy your double-shot. Tall or venti?" Helen asked.

Suzie smiled happily. "If you're in a generous mood, let's make it a venti."

"Venti for both of us, then." Helen placed the order with the barista.

"You've only been working for a couple of days," Suzie said. "You can't have been paid yet."

"Tips. You get tips every shift. You don't have to wait for payday. And the tips are way bigger than the paycheck at a place like The Fisher House." Helen led her friend to an empty table.

"So you're going to make your rent this month after all?"

"No. My tips aren't that big. But a weird thing happened. I saw the super in the hallway yesterday and he said that the eviction order was rescinded. I still have to pay all the rent that I owe, but they aren't going to kick me out at the end of the month. I can have until the end of next month to pay two months rent."

"How did that happen?"

"I went down on a man of influence. He got me the job at The Fisher House for sure. I suspect that he did something about the eviction notice, too, but I'm not sure about that."

"He paid your rent, maybe?"

"No. I still owe the rent. But maybe he guaranteed it. Like guaranteeing a loan. Anyway, I'm going to pay it so it won't cost him anything. And I haven't forgotten that I owe you two hundred for the clothes, too. I'll pay you as soon as I clear last month's rent."

"My credit card bill will come in another couple of weeks."

"I should be able to pay you back before then. I'm scheduled for shifts at the restaurant almost every night next week." She sighed happily. "Everything is so much easier when you have money."

Suzie frowned. "Don't look now, but your knight in scruffy armor is back."

Helen turned to see Bert Lawrence approach the counter. He saw her look and nodded at her.

"God," Helen said to Suzie, "I looked him in the eye. Is he going to take that as an invitation?"

He did. A minute later, holding a tall something or other, he gestured to the empty chair at their table. "Mind if I join you?"

"I guess not," Helen said.

"Wait," Suzie said. "Only on the condition that you not be a downer like last time. Can you do that? Be a little upbeat?"

"I guess I can try," he said with a smile. "I'm sure that there's something in the world that we can be upbeat about."

"How's your occupation going?" Helen asked.

"Amazing. You managed to hit on the one thing that I'm the happiest about. It's going really well. Terrific. A bunch of us got pepper sprayed and taken off to jail on Friday night. You might have seen that on the news."

"I don't look at the news much," Helen said. Lawrence's eyes were bloodshot. She had assumed that he wasn't sleeping well, but it might be the pepper spray.

"Pity, that. We got great coverage."

Suzie shook her head. "Getting pepper sprayed and arrested doesn't sound like such a great accomplishment to me."

"There was a picture of us in the New York Times. That's an accomplishment."

"There are pictures of serial murderers and congressmen in the Times every day. That's some company to keep."

"Our message is a little different than theirs."

"The TV said that you don't have a message. You're just a bunch of disorganized homeless people clogging the streets, littering, and making the rest of us miserable."

"What else do you expect the lapdog lackeys of the filthy-rich media moguls to say? They're not going to tell you what we're really saying even if we say it as clear as day. They're not going to tell you that we're calling them a bunch of greedy, immoral, evil people who are going to hell on an express elevator."




A Romantic Occupation



"Is that your message?"

"That's the subtext. The direct message is that we need industry to create good jobs, we need banks to treat us fairly, and we need politicians to represent our interests. That's all. Jobs for Americans, banks for Americans, and government for Americans. It's what we've been saying from day one and it's not a hard thing to understand. The worst part for the billionaires is that we aren't saying anything that anyone would object to. They can't spin it their way, so they ignore it and say, over and over, that we have no message. That's just another lie from a media that tells almost nothing but lies."

"You're not being so upbeat, now," Suzie warned.

"I can be upbeat," Helen said. "I got a new job. A good one. A good American job from an American company. And I'm not being evicted from my home, either. It's a good week for me."

Lawrence looked at her. "A full time job?"

"No. Part time."

"Benefits?"

"Tips."

"Health insurance?"

"Tips."

"It's a service job."

"There's nothing wrong with being a waitress."

He smiled. "No. You're absolutely right. It's good, honest work that gives people something they want and need. It's a profession that you can be proud of. But you should be rewarded for it, not be given part-time shifts with no benefits and no security. There's nothing at all wrong with being a waitress but there's something very wrong with an employer who doesn't respect you for your contribution to his business."

"They respect me." But her voice said that she wasn't so sure about that. During her shifts, neither the maître d' nor Mr. Starr looked at her with much respect.

"Where, if you don't mind me asking?"

"The Fisher House, down by the harbor."

"I know it. It's owned by the Ocean Gold Group. They own a bunch of places along the coast. The CEO is Matt Oringen. His salary plus bonuses was more than ten million dollars last year. I'm afraid that he doesn't respect waitresses quite as much as I do." Lawrence shook his head. "Don't worry about that, though. You're never going to have to meet him. He's not the kind of guy who hangs out with the little people. I doubt that your restaurant manager has ever met him, either."

"Aren't you the walking Wikipedia," Suzie said.

"I told you last time, I try to keep track of what certain wealthy people are up to."

"Have you been spying on me and Ken?" Helen asked. She wondered if Ken's apartment was bugged. Did someone have a video of her giving oral sex to him?

"I never spied on you. I just happened to notice you in his company once. Are you still keeping company with him?"

"He got me the job at The Fisher House."

Lawrence frowned. "I warned you about that. He's going to burn you."

"He's been good to me. Nothing but good."

"When the bill comes due, and it will, look me up and I'll see if there's anything that I can do to help."

"You said that before," Helen said.

"I repeat myself because it's important," Lawrence replied.

* * *

Helen didn't see Ken until Wednesday. She was working an evening shift at The Fisher House when the maître d' seated him in her section.

Another man, considerably older than Ken and quite distinguished looking, sat with him.

She smiled and said, "Hi," but Ken didn't reply or look directly at her. The other man was warmer. He nodded and smiled at her.

She interpreted Ken's reaction as a signal that he wanted to keep their personal relationship private. That suited her. She said only, "Can I take your drink order, sir?"

He let the other man order a Manhattan, and then he said, "The same, please, miss."

"Yes, sir."

She maintained her professional demeanor when she brought their drinks, and took their order for oysters on the half shell, seared mahi mahi tuna for him, and a lobster for his associate. After paying the bill, he left a business card on the tray in addition to a generous tip.

On the back, a note said, "Call me on my cell as soon as your shift ends. It's important."

She called at eleven, as soon as she walked out of the restaurant.

"Wait on the sidewalk at the front of the restaurant. I'll be right over to pick you up," he said. True to his word, he was there in less than five minutes.

When she got into the passenger seat of his Corvette, he said, "Let's go to my place for a drink."

The drive was short and neither said much.

In his penthouse, he made a vodka-cran for her and served himself a beer.

She expected him to sit beside her on the sofa so that they could neck. She was tired after a full shift at the restaurant but was still willing to spend the night with him.

Instead, he sat by himself in a leather easy chair, facing her. "You noticed the man who ate with me tonight?"

"The distinguished looking man with the white hair?" she said.

"Right. Not just distinguished looking, but genuinely distinguished. He's the CEO of Pacific Gas and Electric, the biggest power generation and distribution company on the West Coast. Mr. Corrone is an important man, indeed. I need his help on a project that I'm putting together."

"I hope it goes well for you."

"It will. Especially if you help me out with him."

She frowned. "I can help?"

"You can. I need you to deliver a kind of message for me."

"What kind of message?"

"He's a long way from home. Business travel is no fun. He noticed you tonight. He thinks you're pretty. I'd like you to go out for drinks with him tomorrow afternoon."

"I don't understand. Drinks? What does that mean?"

"It means drinks. We're spending the afternoon planning strategy. We'll be done by four o'clock. He'll be flying back to Los Angeles later that night. I'd like you to spend a little time with him before he catches his flight. Take him to a decent bar. The Twin Pines would be perfect. Let him buy you a drink or two. Listen to what he says. Laugh at his jokes. Let him entertain you. He can be an entertaining fellow."

She didn't know what to say. "I have to work," she said at last. "I have a shift from three to closing tomorrow."

"No, you don't. Your shift has been cancelled. Someone else will be filling in for you. This is more important. Much more important."

She flushed. "You cancelled my shift?"

"Mr. Starr cancelled your shift. His boss told him to. Don't worry. Your job is safe. He understands our priorities."

"How dare you?" she snarled. "How dare you interfere with my job?"

He laughed. "What do you mean by that? You don't think that I've been interceding on your behalf from the start? How dare you object when I ask you for one little favor?"

"Little favor? You want me to sleep with some guy to seal a business deal! Like I'm his signing bonus! And you think that's a little favor?"

"No. I never said that you had to sleep with him. I said that you had to go out for drinks with him. If you want to sleep with him, you can, but that's between you and him. All I'm asking is that you go to a bar with him for an hour. I don't see where that's any big deal."

"And if I don't?"

"Don't have a drink with him? I would be very disappointed in you."

"I mean, if I don't sleep with him."

"I told you that you don't have to sleep with him. You just have to talk to him and laugh at his jokes. You're an adult. You can decide for yourself who you want to fuck."

"What if I do? What about you?"

"What do you mean?"

"What if I do fuck your business partner? Are you going to want to see me again?"

He laughed brightly. "Sure. I like you but we haven't made any commitment to each other. We better be clear about that. You and I are both free adults. Until I put a diamond ring on your finger, you better assume that I'm dating other women because I'm assuming that you're dating other men."

She froze and stared at him for a long time.

He met her gaze calmly.

Finally, she looked down at her drink. He was right. She had picked him up in a bar. In three weeks, they had spent exactly three nights together. They were essentially strangers. What did she expect? It was foolish for her to think that they had some kind of relationship.

She thought about her job. He had made tomorrow's shift disappear with a snap of his fingers. His word, disappointed, terrified her. He could make all her shifts disappear if she disappointed him. She had earned barely enough to pay Suzie for the clothes on her back. She still had to come up with two month's rent in the next five weeks or she would be turned out on the street.

She looked at him and said, "I'll have drinks with your friend. You said that you wanted me to deliver a message. What is it?"

"You are the message," he replied. "This is a case where the medium is the message. You don't have to say or do anything. Just be at the Twin Pines at four o'clock tomorrow afternoon. Dress nice. Classy, not trashy." He smiled. "His wife is a bitch. If you pretend to like him, pretend to respect him, that will be enough to make him a happy man. Like I said, sex is optional. I'm not asking you to do that. I'm not even recommending it. I do recommend that you pay attention to him. This is a chance for you to learn something about a powerful man. What he wants most is to keep company for an hour with a woman doesn't treat him like he's a contemptible bastard."

"What if he likes me? What if he asks me to come to Los Angeles and be his mistress?" She asked only to see if she could get a rise out of him.

Ken laughed again. "I'd advise you to decline. If you get to know him too well, you'd find out that he really is a contemptible bastard."

There was nothing more to say. "I'd better get home," she said.

"You can stay the night if you like," he replied.

"Do you want me to stay?"

"It's up to you."

She stayed.

They made love but the sex wasn't as good as before.

The last thing that he said to her was, "Call me as soon as you're finished with Mr. Corrone. This is business and I need to know where I stand."

* * *

Mr. Corrone was a charming raconteur. Helen found it easy to pay attention to him, to laugh at his jokes, and to encourage him to talk more.

After an hour and three vodka-crans, she asked, "What time is your flight?"

"Whenever I want it to be," he replied. "I'm taking a corporate jet."

"Oh." Helen had flown on commercial flights when she had taken vacations with her mother a couple of times. She could imagine that flying on a private jet would be an entirely different experience. No arriving at an airport hours early to wait for delayed flights. No standing in lines, waiting to suffer the humiliation of pat downs and body scanners. No one asking you to cough up cash so that you could bring your luggage with you. No spending hours crammed into a seat two sizes too small with some other passenger's seatback reclined in your face.

For the first time, she realized that a wealthy man lived in a different world than her. A much better world.

"You're a lucky fellow," she said.

He smiled indulgently. "Luck has nothing to do with it, dear. People who win lotteries are lucky. But luck only takes a person so far. You can't afford to ride around on private jets, even on lottery winnings. To be in my position takes a lot more than luck."

"You have to be smart, I guess."

He nodded. "Yes. Smart. But not the way you think. I have scientists and engineers with all kinds of education working in my company but they're no more important than the guys who climb poles and install wires. Less because the power goes off if the guys stop climbing poles. The power doesn't go off if the scientists stop doing their research. To get to the boardroom you have to have a special kind of smart. It's hard to explain exactly what board-room-smart is but not many people have it."

"You do."

"I do."

There was a pause. Helen looked at the older man with genuine respect. He understood things that she never knew existed.

She couldn't have what he had. She couldn't be what he was. But she could get close enough to get a taste of it. Close enough to try to absorb a bit by osmosis.

"Do you have a room in town?" she asked.

He raised an eyebrow. "Are you trying to seduce me, young lady?"

"No. You're the one who seduced me. When I came here, I had no intention of sleeping with you. In fact, I was determined that I would not." She spread her hands. "I've changed my mind and I don't know why."

He laughed. "It was an accidental seduction, then, because I had no intention of sleeping with you, either."

"So do you have a room?"

He looked at her shrewdly. "I suppose that I could get one but I'm not sure that I should. I don't know what you expect to get from me."

"I don't expect to get anything from you. I'm doing this because I..." She paused. She didn't know why she was doing this. She decided to admit it. "I don't know why I'm doing this. I guess it's just because it's an experience that I've never had. I don't pick up strange men. I don't have one-night stands. I've had a couple of boyfriends, but that's about all. You're older than the boys that I've dated. You're different. I guess that's what interests me. It's something different than I've ever done before so I want to try it."

He looked at her for a long moment.

She couldn't tell what was going through his mind. He looked like he was calculating complicated mathematics in his head.

Finally, he said, "You're younger than my daughters. You have no idea how flattering it is for an old man like me to be propositioned by a lovely young thing like yourself, but I'm going to exercise incredible self-restraint and put you in a cab. Do you mind?"

"I'm disappointed, but I'll get over it." She smiled wryly.

"Me too. Now, let's ask the bartender to call a cab before I lose my will and do something foolish."

When the bartender informed them that the cab had arrived, Mr. Corrone escorted her out, put a couple of twenties into the driver's hand and told him, "Take her wherever she needs to go."

She waited until she was home before she called Ken.

"What happened?" he asked.

"We spent an hour in the bar, talking, then he put me in a cab and sent me home."

"Did he try to seduce you?"

"He didn't try, but he did anyway. I offered to spend the night with him, but he didn't want to."

"What was his mood?"

"Happy."

"I mean when he declined your offer of sex."

"Happy."

"Exactly what did he say? What did you say? Tell me how the conversation about sex went."

She told him the whole truth. She was afraid to lie because, if Mr. Corrone told Ken a different story, it could cost her her job. She needed her job.

"Okay," he said when she was finished. "I think I have a good idea about what happened. It's good. You did a good job. Thank you."

He sounded like he was about to hang up.

"Wait," she said. "I don't understand what happened. Why did he turn me down? I thought that men always say 'yes' to sex."

"The boys you know might, but men like Mr. Corrone have a lot more to consider. It might have bothered him that you're younger than his daughters, but I doubt it. More likely he was afraid that you might be my agent. I was with him when he first saw you and I offered to act as the go-between. That would have made him suspicious. He might have feared that I was paying you. Corrone is very careful to know where people's loyalties lie before he commits himself to anything. That he couldn't see any reason for you to offer yourself to him would make him nervous. If you'd asked for a couple of hundred dollars cash in advance, he would have understood what you wanted and you'd probably be in a hotel room with him right now, getting rogered six ways from Christmas."

"I thought that maybe that he was too old to want sex."

Ken laughed. "I wouldn't count on that. He's only about sixty. Even if he had his prostate removed and was impotent, that wouldn't stop him. You'd be surprised at the ways a woman who is willing to follow instructions can pleasure an impotent man. You would have found yourself giving him a very imaginative performance."

Helen didn't like the sound of that. "Good night," she said.

Ken was still laughing when she pressed the red button on her cell phone.

* * *

Ken didn't call her that weekend but he brought business associates into The Fisher House twice during the following week. Both times, he was cordial in the restaurant but never gave any indication that he knew Helen personally.

She was happy with that. After the Corrone affair -- or non-affair -- she felt as though her relationship with Ken had changed. She was not so much his lover as his employee. He had the power to let her work or not at his whim and she needed to raise enough money to pay two months rent and keep buying food.

The first time that he came in with an associate that week, there was no follow-up. The second time was different.

She glanced at her tables while she was waiting for the bartender to pour a pair of brandies to serve as digestifs. She didn't look directly at Ken and his colleague, just watched from the corner of her eye to see what they were doing. The men were leaning close. Ken's colleague was looking at her while Ken grinned and talked to him.

She did not doubt that she was the topic of their discussion and was not surprised when Ken brought his credit card to her and said, in a low voice, "My friend, Carl, there, finds you very attractive. He'd like to spend a few minutes with you back in his room at the Marriot. I'll talk to your manager and arrange for you to get off your shift right away. It's late and there's not many customers left so I'm sure that the other waitresses can cover your last few tables for you."

She looked at Ken in disbelief. He wasn't suggesting a drink and conversation with a distinguished older man. He was ordering her to go to a hotel room with this bald, potbellied, fifty-year-old man wearing a wedding ring and fuck him.

"No," she said. "I'm not a hooker."

"That's right," Ken said. "You're not. No one is offering to pay you. I'm asking you to do a favor for a friend. My friend. I can vouch for Carl. He's a good guy. He's a lot better man than Erik Corrone and you were willing to put out for Corrone. Carl's having a bad time and he needs someone to help him through it. Someone who can build up his confidence in the bedroom a little. We both need you to do this favor for me. Please."

She glanced at the man again. There was nothing about him that she could find attractive. "I'm sorry," she told Ken. "I can't. Not like this. Not... Not like this."

"You're embarrassing me," he said. "What can I tell my friend? I made a promise. He's going to take this personally. He's already had too many rejections in the last couple of months."

"Tell him that I'm tired. I've been on my feet all day. I'm beat and feeling a little queasy and I couldn't give him ... that it wouldn't be good with me tonight."

Ken looked at her coldly. "You didn't look beat when you were serving us. You looked cheerful and fit. You wouldn't be too tired to finish the last two hours on your shift, but you're too tired to spend a half hour lying in bed? You think Carl's going to buy that story? He's an intelligent man. A really intelligent man. He has a Ph.D. in economics. He taught at Yale. He's not going to believe a cockamamie excuse like you've got a headache."

Helen was tired. She sighed. "The cheerful is an act. It's part of the job. I am tired and I am not going to let your friend fuck me tonight. I don't care what you tell him. You're as smart as he is. I'm sure that you can find a suitable way to tell him that I won't fall on my back just because he's a professor and I'm only a waitress."

Ken didn't say another word. A few minutes later he and his friend left the restaurant.

He didn't leave a tip.

At the end of her shift, Mr. Starr told her not to come to work tomorrow. He'd accidentally double booked the wait staff and needed to fix the schedule. She should call him tomorrow evening after nine to find out about her next shift. He promised to do what he could to get her another shift as soon as possible.




A Romantic Occupation



She knew what would make it possible. A half hour in a hotel room with Ken's friend, Carl.

When she woke up the next morning, the super served her with another eviction notice for non-payment of rent due.

* * *

"I've been filling out applications everywhere, but nobody's hiring. The economy is still in the toilet."

Suzie sipped her latté. She said that she was trying to cut back on her caffeine consumption but the venti made a joke of that resolution. At that size, even a latté would have as much coffee in it as a regular cup. "You're sure that you can't work something out with The Fisher House?"

"The manager won't talk to me. I mean, yeah, he talks to me. I call him every day. He tells me that he's trying. That maybe he'll have a shift tomorrow. That I'm a good waitress. That he doesn't want to lose me. Then he tells me to call back again tomorrow. He talks too much but he doesn't say what's important. He doesn't say how I can work again."

"You know how you can work again. Give up. Do that favor for Ken's friend and he'll do you the favor of letting you work again."

"I can't do that."

"Sure you can. His friend can't be that gross."

"It's not that. It's that I'd have to kiss Ken's ass."

"That's nothing. All you have to do is call him and say that you'd like his friend to phone you. Ask his friend to take you out for a drink and let it flow naturally from there."

"I'd be giving in. I'd have no self respect."

"You'll have less self respect if you have to beg for quarters on the street and sleep under an overpass."

"There's always welfare."

"I hear that getting welfare isn't so easy these days."

"They're destroying our social safety nets as quickly as they can," a male voice said.

Helen was not surprised to see Bert Lawrence when she turned around. He was making it a habit to come to Starbucks on Sunday mornings at the same time that she and Suzie had their standing date.

"Have a seat," Suzie said. She was beginning to warm up to Helen's knight in shabby armor.

"You don't need welfare," Lawrence said. "You need a good job. Good jobs, good banks, and good government. That's what the whole country needs. But we're not going to get it until we force them to give it to us. We have to make the filthy rich fall into line. Until we do that, this economy is going to keep killing us."

Helen frowned. "That's what I don't get."

"What?"

"You blame the rich for all the problems with the economy but they're Americans, too. A bad economy hurts them as much as it hurts us. If they could fix it, they would."

Lawrence stared at her for a minute. Finally he spoke. "You're right. You don't get it. Here's the question that you have to ask yourself. If you had a choice about who you'd rather be, would you choose to be one of the richest people in America in the seventies or one of the richest people in a third world country?"

"Why the seventies? I wasn't even born then."

"We can get into that in a minute. First, what is your answer? Rich in the old America or rich in a third world country?"

"America?"

"Bzzzt," he said, buzzing himself to a new low of obnoxiousness. "Wrong answer. The right answer is that you want to be rich in a third world country. Life for the rich in America in the seventies was great. No question. But life for the rich in the third world is limitless. They can have whatever they want; do whatever they want without question. Those countries are filled with people who are so desperately poor that they'll do almost anything in return for almost nothing. The police do what they're told. The courts are owned by the rich. The wealthy can literally get away with murder as long as they don't kill each other. In the seventies, a wealthy person in America could get away with a lot but he couldn't go that far."

"Why do you keep saying the seventies?" Helen asked.

"Because there were more differences between American and the typical third world country back then. America looks too much like a third world country today. The rich have been getting much richer and everyone else has been getting much poorer. Fewer of us who are born poor can work our way up into a higher class. More tax money is being spent on police and the military. More people are imprisoned. Social services are being eliminated. Health care is reserved for the upper class. I could go on and on about all the ways that the wealthy have changed America to their advantage and to the disadvantage of the rest--"

"God, no! Please don't," Suzie said. "Let us enjoy our coffee in peace."

Lawrence frowned. "The point that I'm trying to make is that the economy is not going to get better because the wealthiest people in the country don't want to make it better. They aren't getting poorer. They're getting richer. We're being made poor because they want us to be poor. The less money you and I have, the less power we have. The only way that the economy is going to get fixed is if we the people fix it ourselves."

"Enough, already," Suzie said. "Enough. If I wanted a lecture, I'd have taken a course."

Helen said nothing. She had stopped listening when he first started ranting because she had more important things to think about than the economy. She had to figure out how to get work and pay her rent.

This time, without Ken Kingford's help.

* * *

Mr. Starr surprised her. When Helen called, he said that he still didn't have a shift for her at The Fisher House but he said that something else had come up.

"What?"

"The company that owns us has other clubs and restaurants as well. One of their other clubs needs a waitress to serve drinks tomorrow. It's a six-hour shift and the tips are good. Better than here, to be honest. Waitresses there earn as much in six hours as our girls do during two eight-hour shifts."

Helen was desperate. Her rent was due. She was about to be thrown out of her apartment and she had nowhere to go. If she could make as much money in one day as she usually did in two, then she couldn't refuse.

"Okay. I'll take it," she said.

"Okay. Go to the Lady's Slipper at eleven tomorrow morning and ask for Dan Kosnov."

"Wait. The Lady's Slipper?"

"Right. It's over at Second and Highland."

"I know where it is. I know what it is. I'm not a stripper."

"No. I know that. This isn't a dancing job. You'd have to audition for that. This is strictly waitressing. Just like here. You wear clothes. You take drink orders. You deliver the drinks to the tables and you take the customers' money. That's all. There's no funny business with the wait staff. There're bouncers who make sure of that. I wouldn't have suggested it if it wasn't on the up and up. If you don't want to do it, that's okay. I can find another girl."

"Wait. Wait. Okay." She paused then said, "Okay. I'll be there. Eleven o'clock tomorrow. Dan Cos-something."

"Kosnov. Dan Kosnov. I'll tell him. He'll be expecting you."

"Okay." Before he could hang up on her, she said, "Mr. Starr?"

"Yes?"

"I still want to work at The Fisher House."

"I know. I'm still trying to fit you in. Call tomorrow after your shift at the Lady's Slipper and we'll see what we can do about getting you back in at The Fisher House."

Back in at The Fisher House? She didn't realize that she had left.

* * *

"You're Helen?" Dan Kosnov scrutinized her from face to flats, pausing to linger at her chest and belly for an uncomfortable amount of time.

She felt like he was a human body scanner who was looking through her clothes to examine her most intimate parts. "Yes," she said.

"I guess I can use you as a waitress. You'll never dance here, though. I can tell you that right now. You know how to tend bar? Mix drinks?"

"I can learn."

"Not at the Lady's Slipper, you can't. You can carry drinks. Period. Try not to spill them on the customers."

"I'm not clumsy," she said.

"I didn't think you were," he said. "I meant don't deliberately spill drinks on the customers."

"I wouldn't do that."

"You don't think so? Wait until some guy makes a comment about your looks when you've got a drink in your hand."

She flushed. "There's nothing wrong with my looks."

"You want me to make a list?" He shook his head. "Men come to the Lady's Slipper to appreciate the finest female faces and bodies in the city. Young women at the peak of perfection. You're not ugly per se, but you're ordinary, and in the Lady's Slipper, ordinary is the new ugly." He stared at her chest again. "You're lucky that our waitresses don't serve topless or I'd throw you out of here on your ass and let the chips fall as they may."

"There's nothing wrong with my top." Helen considered her breasts to be her best feature.

"Thirty-six cee. Big enough, but quality counts as much as quantity around here. Your left is noticeably larger than the right. You have visible stretch marks on both. They sag enough to let the nipples point somewhat south of the horizon. About standard for a woman of your age and weight. A long way short of what our customers deserve."

Helen looked at him in fury. "You're guessing," she said. "I'm wearing a bra. You can't tell how much they sag."

"I've seen more breasts than a mammography technician," he said. "I know what I know, and I know tits, whether they're inside bras or out. Yours are nothing special."

"My boyfriends think they're special."

"Your boyfriends know that they'd never get laid again if they told you what they really thought about your tits. Now stop wasting my time. Find Lilly Ann and tell her that she's got to get you set up for the four to ten shift tonight.

"Four to ten?"

"Lilly Ann. Don't let my door hit in the ass on your way out."

Dan's door didn't hit her on the ass because Helen left it open. If he wanted it closed, he could damn well close it himself.

Lilly Ann was pushing forty, both in age and in chest size. Helen might not know as much about breasts as Dan but she knew plastic when it was sticking in her face.

Silicone doesn't sag but that doesn't mean that it ages well, either.

"Dan's something, isn't he?" Lilly Ann said when Helen introduced herself.

"Something else."

Lilly Ann laughed. She had a great laugh. "Yeah. Something else entirely." She touched Helen on the arm. "I've only got a minute. Follow me and listen hard."

She walked to a table and began bussing glasses and bottles, talking while she worked.

"Waitresses wear colored leotards. Think flowers. Roses, daffodils, crocuses. Pretty flowers. No black. Nothing dingy. White if you must, but not often. Everyone wears dark green tights. Stems, right? Black leather pumps with stiletto heels. As high as you can stand for a six hour shift. If you don't normally wear heels, don't get too ambitious at first. Start with an inch and a half, or even an inch, and work your way up.

"No bra or panties. Dan'll send you home if he sees a panty line and he's got an eagle eye. You won't get away with even a thong."

Helen looked at Lilly Ann's pale orange leotard. She wasn't wearing a bra because every detail of her nipples and breasts was clearly defined under the tightly stretched material.

"That's right," she said, noting Helen's gaze. "You need a leotard made from light-weight material. Not the kind with the built-in shelf bra or underwiring. If the customer can't tell what your tits and ass look like, Dan'll send you home. You can get what you need at the dance store over on Nineteenth Avenue. It's called Miracle Rhythms. Tell them that you're waitressing here, and they'll make sure that you buy the right stuff. They stock special for us. Got that? Miracle Rhythms."

"On Nineteenth. I got it."

"Good. Arrive fifteen minutes early. Waitresses have a couple of tables in the dancers' change room in the back. Give yourself time to do your makeup right. If it's sloppy, Dan'll send you home for that, too.

"On the floor, if a customer touches you or makes an inappropriate comment, give a bouncer the nod. The customer will get chucked out right away. The bouncers don't give warnings or second chances."

"What's an inappropriate comment?"

"You don't know?"

"I mean, how bad does it have to be for me to call a bouncer?"

"Guys come here to have a good time. They get drunk. You have to give them the benefit of the doubt. We can't throw all the customers out. If a guy says you look beautiful, you say thanks. If he says that he wants to marry you, you laugh at the joke. If he tells you to crawl under the table and give him a blowjob for twenty bucks, you call the bouncer. If a guy pats your hand, it's up to you to decide if you want to call the bouncer or if you'd rather tell him to keep his hands off and give him a second chance. But if he grabs your tit, you call the bouncer for sure. They don't pay us enough to let the clientele play grab-ass with us. Even with tips."

"How do the tips work?"

"You keep your own tips, except that you give ten percent to the bartenders and another ten to the bouncers. Don't stiff them. They'll know if you do. The bartender will get you fired, which is bad enough, but the bouncers will do worse than that. We had a girl who tried stiffing the bouncers. One of the creeps who got thrown out of here got her home address. You can figure out how that happened. The creep was in her house, waiting for her to come home after her next late shift. The poor girl had a very long, very bad night. She never came back here again."

"What did the police say?"

"Police? What police? It's not like the creep killed her. When he left in the morning, she called Don and Don called someone. They patched her up and gave her a bus ticket to some little town on the other side of the country and that was the last anyone saw of her."

Helen's eyes grew wide. "Is this place owned by organized crime?"

Lilly Ann laughed. "This place is owned by a multinational corporation. That's way more organized than crime ever gets. But corporations don't have to break laws. It they're unhappy with the law, they just tell the government to make up new ones that they like better." She grimaced.

Helen was surprised. Lilly Ann didn't look like the kind of woman who knew anything about the government and big corporations.

"The bottom line is that you always, always give the bouncers and the bartender the full ten percent of your tips," Lilly Ann said.

Helen nodded solemnly.

"I assume that you know how to serve customers already," Lilly Ann said. "You can let a customer run a tab if you want, but most of us won't do it because you'll get stuck with a hefty check if the guy bolts on you."

She wiped down the table and picked up the tray of empties. "As you can see, we bus our own tables. Don't let a table stay dirty because it makes the whole place look bad. Any questions?"

"Why a six to midnight shift when you're open until three?"

"Oh, that. We have overlapping shifts. There's a double wait staff from nine until midnight."

Helen followed her into the back.

"Anything else?" Lilly Ann asked.

"What about food?"

"You don't do anything about food. If someone wants to eat, call a food runner. If you're being paid for drinks as you serve them, then food's not your problem. If you let someone run a tab, you have to let the food runner know so that she can add her bill to it. But then, if the customer dashes, you will be stuck for the food, too, because it's your tab. Like I said, most of us never let a guy run a tab." She began stacking glasses onto a dishwasher pallet. "You good to go?"

"Yes."

"Then go get your uniform. I'll see you at four. Make sure you look right or Dan won't let you on the floor."

* * *

Mr. Starr had said that waitresses at the Lady's Slipper wore clothes. Technically, he was right, but this costume was nothing like The Fisher House uniform.

Helen's new yellow leotard gave her no support at all. Her breasts hung in their natural position, heaving and bouncing every time she moved.

The scoop top was cut low enough that she would have presented generous cleavage if her breasts had been supported and pressed together. But, when they hung lose and separate, anyone looking would see halfway to her naval every time she bent over.

The material was opaque but fine enough that every bump on her areoles showed. Her nipples were sharply defined, especially the way they were sticking out. Helen had no idea why they were so determinedly erect. It wasn't from cold; the club was warm enough to ensure that nude, sweaty women wouldn't feel a chill.

The back of the leotard wasn't there. She was naked almost all the way down to the base of her spine.

The legs were cut high to show the sides of the fleshy cheeks of her buttocks but, thankfully, were not cut away so far as to form a thong.

The tights flattened her pubic hair enough that she could not see the outline of her thatch. As well, the fabric was stretched across her labia to obscure them. Had she not been wearing the tights, the contours of those intimate lips would have been revealed by the light, stretchy fabric of the leotard in as much detail as her nipples and naval.

Helen carried an average body mass and looked good enough in normal clothes, but this leotard made her look lumpy. Her hips bulged, her tummy sagged, and her ass flopped.

She would have to lose fifteen pounds and spend hours toning herself in the gym for months before she would look presentable.

She hated Don for being right when he said that she was not beautiful enough to serve drinks in this club.

"Stop admiring yourself in the mirror and get out on the floor," Don said. "Your shift starts now."

Helen whirled to look at him, at first confused by his silent appearance. It was as though her thoughts had conjured him forth like some demon summoned from Hell. As soon as she accepted his presence, she was shocked that a man would dare enter the lady's dressing room. Then she chided herself for that thought. Most of the women who dressed in this room undressed on a stage in front of a hundred strangers several times every night. Why would they care about one more man seeing them half naked?

She minced across the floor in her high heels. After trying on the leotard in the dance store, she had decided to buy the highest heels that she thought she could manage: three inches. She hoped that they might draw attention away from her errantly flopping boobs. She was less shy about her legs.

She didn't know how she was going to stay on her feet for six hours.

Maybe the men out there would see her suffering and compensate her with better tips. She had to raise enough to pay her rent in the next couple of days. No matter what it took, she had to do it.

When she stepped out onto the floor, she felt like every man in the house was looking at her. Of course they weren't. Most of them were looking at the dancer on the stage. That woman, about Helen's age, was naked but for a miniscule thong. More impressive than that, she was hanging upside down with her legs wrapped around a brass pole, waving her impressive breasts and long blond hair in time to the music.

Helen felt more inadequate than ever. She could feel her self esteem slide down another notch.

"Stop gawking and start waiting," Lilly Ann said. "You've got tables one through twelve. That's all the tables from the front door to the end of the stage on the left side. You're relieving Jacquie. I'll introduce you."

Because nobody was running a tab, the formalities of the hand-off were simple. A few minutes later, Helen was on her own. Eighty percent of the orders were for beer, and most of the rest divided equally between wine, some basic cocktails, and straight shots. The bar had the same taps as The Fisher House, probably because both had the same owner so the suppliers gave both establishments the same favorable quotes.