“Mami, I’ll call you again. For now, I won’t give you my phone number, por si acaso Massimo calls you again, or goes back to your house. If you don’t know how to reach me, it’ll be easier for you when you speak to him. This way, you don’t have to lie.”
“Bueno, Nena. Te amo,” she says.
“I love you too, Mami.” I press End.
The next call I have to make is to Luci. This one will not be as easy as my mother’s because Luci will give me an earful. I dial her number, and when I get her voicemail, relief rushes through me. I hang up without leaving a message. I’ll call her again later. My fingers hover over the keypad, itching to dial Massimo’s number. Should I call him? What will I say? I start punching his number in but flip the phone closed before finishing. I can’t. Hearing his voice will decimate me.
Instead, I fight the urge and grab my bag off the bed, looking for the several slips of paper I removed from the community board. I call each of them, someone answering each time, and I schedule a time to look at the apartments the next morning.
The event flyer from the community board advertised live music at a bar named The Last Drop starting at 9:30 p.m., just a few blocks from the hotel. At 7:00 p.m. I leave for the venue. I hope there are a few decent items on the menu—I’m hungry.
I notice there are a few bars along the way. This will be a good place for me to look for a bartending job. I’m hopeful that I’ll find a job quickly. I have enough money to get me by for a few months, but would rather not have to use it all.
As I am walking, a gust of wind blows and chills me. I stuff my hands in my pockets and pick up the pace to The Last Drop. When I arrive, I catch a glimpse of a “Help Wanted” sign in the window. I make a mental note to ask someone about that later tonight.
The inside of The Last Drop is beautiful. It’s all wood throughout, nestled in a renovated old building, yet the owner kept many of its original features—high ceilings and wood beams. The bar is long and made of dark wood.
I find a stool, two stools down from a guy wearing a White Sox hat, take off my jacket, and hang it on the back before sitting. A woman with braided blonde hair resting on her shoulders says “Hello,” a slight twang when she does.
“Grey Goose and soda with two limes and a food menu as well, please,” I say.
She pulls a menu out from under the bar and drops it in front of me before leaving to make my drink.
While waiting for the bartender to return, I look around. There are several TVs in various spots around the place, all playing one sporting event or another. The stage is medium-sized, and the restaurant has about thirty tables. Right now, the place is a little over half full, which means it probably gets busy in here. Most of the people in this place are wearing jeans and baseball hats or team jerseys. It’s a laid-back atmosphere and family-friendly, as is evident from the few tables with kids using crayons to color their kid menus. Three Doors Down’s “When I’m Gone” is playing over the speakers. It’s loud, but patrons are still conversing. Local memorabilia adorn the walls—old street signs, license plates, and framed pictures and newspaper clippings. It’s a very local place, and I like the vibe of it.
“Are you ready to order food?” the bartender asks, placing my drink onto a cocktail napkin.
“I’ll have the wings and fries basket, with mild sauce, please.”
“Sure thing, sweetie,” she says, taking the menu from me and spinning away to input the order into her computer.
When the bartender returns, I introduce myself and ask her name. “Stevie,” she tells me.
“Stevie, I saw the ‘Help Wanted’ sign in the window. Do you know what position they’re hiring for?” I ask.
“We need another bartender,” she says. “One of the guys gave his notice. His last day is next week, Friday. Why, you looking?” she asks.
“As a matter of fact, I am,” I say. “I just arrived in Des Moines and am looking for a job. I bartended while in Boston. Bartending is my thing,” I finish.
“Well, sweetie, Hank, our manager, should be here soon. When I see him, I’ll have him come over so you two can talk,” she says before shuffling down the bar to help someone.
When I finish my wings and fries, an older man sits next to me and says, “Hi, my name’s Hank. Stevie here tells me you’re looking for a bartending job.” He has a receding hairline with salt and pepper hair and a cleft chin that accentuates his oblong jawline.
“Hello,” I say. I grab the napkin and wipe my hands. “I’m sorry, my hands are a bit sticky right now, but it’s nice to meet you. I’m Lena,” I tell him, and with my knuckles, push my glasses up.
He and I chat for several minutes about where I’m from, my bartending experience, and how long I plan on being in town. He gets up to walk away, but before leaving, he asks me to fill out an application before I go, which is precisely what I do.
Back at the hotel room, I pull my phone from my pockabook to call Luci again. Let’s hope she answers her phone this time.
I dial *67 and her number, and she answers on the first ring. “Hello.”
“Hi, Luci.”
“Lena! Where are you? I’ve been friggin’ worried about you! Massimo is freaking the fuck out! And why are you calling me from a blocked number? What’s going on?” she spews.
“I’m okay. I’m calling from a blocked number because I don’t want Massimo coming for me, which is exactly what he’ll do if he finds out where I am,” I tell her while I’m pacing back and forth in the room.
“I don’t understand. Why did you leave?”
“I can’t tell you that right now, but it’s something I had to do. I promise I’m not in trouble or anything. I had to do this for Massimo.”
“For Massimo? What does that even mean, Lena? This is really fucked up! You know that, right?”
“Yeah, I know. I’d probably be having a meltdown if the tables were turned. Someday you’ll all understand. But for now, this is how it is.”
“When are you coming back?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
“You don’t know? So you left, and that’s it?”
“For now, yes.”
“Geez, Lena, you’re scaring me.”
“Please don’t be. I’m fine, I promise. I’m in another city, thousands of miles away. Just know that I love you. I’ll check in occasionally, okay?”
“It’s not like I have a choice. You’re making everyone’s decisions for them. How fucking gracious of you!”
“I’m sorry, Luci, but this is the best way. The less you know, the less you have to lie to Massimo. I gotta go. I love you,” I say and hit the End button before she can say anything else. I can practically hear her bitching me out.
I toss my phone across the bed and lie back onto the pillows. What a mess I’ve created. I hope it’s all worth it in the end.
I stand from the bed and peel my shirt off, tossing it on the floor, unbuckle my jeans, letting them drop, and finish pushing them off with my feet, one leg at a time. I walk to the shower and turn on the water, letting it warm up as I unfasten my bra and hang it on the doorknob. I reach down, pull my socks off, and remove my undies. I place my frames onto the vanity then extend my hand to gauge the water temp. When it’s hot enough, I slide the lever to run the shower. The last few days have been overwhelming, and that phone call with Luci was the culmination of it all.