I put my economics degree at McGill on hold after doing a project on ecommerce in my second year. Something about the concept just wouldn’t let go of me, and the year after that was spent doing research and working up the guts to take the plunge while I saved what I could from my shifts at Taverne Toulouse. I made a few early attempts, but it’s only during the past year or so that I’ve really gotten serious.
I use a drop shipping system, which means I don’t make, store, or ship any of the products I sell. That’s all taken care by a wholesaler; what I do is the market research to find a niche and a product that fits it. I create a brand, build an online store, set up social media accounts, and start running ads. It’s straightforward in a sense, but getting it right is a one in a million shot in the dark. Ecommerce is about finding and acting on just the right combination of factors at just the right time.
I’ve had a lot of flops, and I’m still not making the kind of money to write home about, but I’ve gone from nothing to only needing to work part time at the bar, and things are picking up more speed by the day.
I have almost three hours before my shift tonight to finish some tasks I’ve been putting off for way too long. Ignoring the notifications for half a dozen Facebook meme groups, I check a few sales pages and reply to some emails before diving into the task of getting a new ad campaign set up.
My phone buzzes on the desk beside me just as I’m really getting into the zone. I know I shouldn’t look; this is business time, but it’s a big night at the bar, and it could be someone getting in touch with a desperate need for help.
I last about a minute before I pick the phone up to find a text from Monroe.
Do you think you could come in now? You can leave early as repayment. The beer order came in a day late, and I need bodies to move kegs.
I glance at my computer screen and consider telling her I’m busy with my other job. This stuff really can’t wait any longer, and I’ve already covered an extra shift this week, but what kind of person would I be if I left five-foot-nothing Monroe to cart kegs around by herself?
I send her the ‘As you wish’ meme from The Princess Bride and tell her I’ll be leaving in ten minutes.
“She’s so awesome!”
Monroe has to stand on the tips of her toes to shout in my ear. I pull away and follow her eyes to where Paige is stationed at the small raised DJ booth behind Taverne Toulouse’s tiny dance floor. It’s not enough space to hold everyone who wants to dance tonight; the whole room is a head-bobbing, hip-swaying, fist-pumping mass of booze-fueled bodies waiting for Paige to drop the beat.
It’s not my usual scene, or my usual music, but even I feel the tremors of anticipation gathering in my thoughts, blocking everything else out as the music increases in pitch, straining like a string pulled too tight until it finally snaps and the crowd goes nuts. I catch sight of Paige tossing her head back, eyes closed and mouth stretched wide in an expression of pure and utter joy that I’ve never seen on her before. It’s only a glimpse before the DJ booth is blocked from my view by people jumping around with their hands in the air while the bass continues to pulse and shake the floor under our feet.
“Yeah,” I agree. “She’s awesome.”
Monroe motions for me to bend closer so she can shout into my ear again. “I’m leaving now. Lisanne is on the late shift to help the closers. You, DeeDee, and anyone else who helped with the kegs should all punch out once you finish your orders. Can you spread the word?”
“You sure they’re okay without us?”
She nods. “We’ve got almost the whole staff on tonight.”
I say my goodbyes to her and her boyfriend, surprised they’re leaving so early until I check the clock on the POS system behind the bar and see it’s almost 1AM.
Time flies when you’re serving beer.
I make Monroe’s orders known to the staff. I’m too busy shouting over the noise to notice when DeeDee appears beside me. I turn and find her just inches away, an empty shot tray tucked under her arm and a crown of artificial pink roses framing her face.
She explained the accessory to me earlier, saying, “I was going to make something for April Showers, but what I was supposed to be? A rain cloud? Fuck no. I’m a May Flower, bitches!”
I blink at the sight of her so close to me and try to remember how to breathe.
She’s done something to make the makeup she wears to work even more stop-and-stare-worthy than usual, with black stuff that turns her eyes all cat-like and lipstick so deep red it’s almost purple. She’s got a gorgeous mouth, and the way the colour contrasts with her hair and the roses just makes it even harder to stop staring.
“What’s up, Zachy Zach?”
Her voice has a trace of tiredness to it, and her shoulders are slumped so slightly I’m sure no one else notices, but I do. Something’s been bothering her all night. It snaps me out of the black hole of workplace inappropriate fantasies her lipstick was pulling me into.
“Monroe says we’re good to go.”
“Oh, thank fuck.”
She lunges for the time clock and jabs her finger against the screen like it’s personally offended her before taking off into the back. I punch my own code in and follow after her.
“You, uh, okay?” I call out after spotting her in the corner of the kitchen where we all hang our coats and bags.
It’s marginally quieter back here, but we still have to speak in louder than average tones. Only one set of overhead lights is on, casting the empty kitchen in shadow.
DeeDee looks up from where her fingers are flying over the screen of her phone. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry, I just had to send a text.”
“You don’t have to be sorry. I was just...worried about you.”
It feels like an intimate thing to admit, and I stumble over the words.
DeeDee doesn’t seem to notice. She gives the screen a few final taps and then crosses her arms, letting out a few choice French curse words.
“Men are so frustrating.”
I force a chuckle. “I can’t help feeling a little attacked.”
She scoffs like I’ve said something ridiculous. “I meant men, as in like, men that I date or...”
I do my best to keep my internal flinch from becoming an external one. The brief flash of regret in her face tells me I might have failed.
“You know what?” She unfolds her arms and tucks her phone into her purse before I can embarrass myself any further. “It doesn’t matter. I did not put this flower crown on just so I could be sad about some maudit mec. Let’s dance.”
She marches forward, hooks her arm in mine, and drags us back into the front.
She doesn’t stop moving until we’re in the very center of the dance floor, weaving her way between bodies and leaving me to elbow out a path beside her. I dish out a few apologetic glances, but I’m caught in Hurricane DeeDee, and there doesn’t seem to be a way out.
The crowd is really getting sloppy now, and I’m glad I won’t have to be the one to announce last call. DeeDee turns to face me once she’s found her desired spot, and all the tension has drained right out of her. The frustration and fatigue are gone, like the music is a life force filling her up. Even with the flailing arms and fist-bumping undergrads jostling against us, even with the smell of spilt beer in the air and the throb of EDM beats pounding in my skull, looking at her with that grin on her face is like stepping into the sun.