Page 3 of The Toy Maker

I wiped the yogurt off on a nearby napkin and typed the numbers on my phone. The tone ringed several times before the other line picked up.

“Hello?” a man answered, his irritated voice indicating he probably didn’t want to be talking to me.

I cleared my throat, attempting to sound friendly. “Good afternoon. My name is Tara Holloway, and I saw your ad in the paper.”

The other line crackled, and a loud bang echoed through the receiver before the voice returned. “Are you interested?”

Obviously. “I am.”

I listened for a response, and a few moments later, someone new picked up the phone. “Hi, Tara. I’m Kat, and I handle new employees.” The man had passed the phone to a perky-sounding woman with a southern accent.

“Is the job still open?” I asked, biting my lip in anticipation.

“It sure is. Just come down to the store, and we’ll figure out if you’re a good fit.”

The sense of impending doom lifted, and I clung to the sliver of hope I had. “Does tomorrow work?” I decided to be persistent so another person couldn’t swoop in and steal my salvation.

“How about tonight? Swing by and I’ll get the interview out of the way.”

I scanned my food-covered clothing and loathed the idea of stepping in front of a mirror.

I didn’t have much of a choice, though. “Works for me.”

“See you then, darlin’.” I heard the soft crackle of her finger pressing against the end callbutton.

“Wait!” I shouted through the receiver, and she paused. “I know this is stupid, but can you give me the name of the store?” I peered down at the soggy mess in front of me. “My newspaper has seen better days.”

Kat’s voice returned, “It’s Pink Cherrie.”

My eyebrows pinched together, and I reread the description. “I thought this was a department store.”

Kat giggled, and so did a few other voices on her side of the conversation, “It is.”

“But I—” The call cut off before I could finish my sentence, and I was left standing alone in my kitchen with yogurt-covered hands and an interview to get ready for.

I hit rock bottom within a few years of being on my own, wondering when I was going to get my life together. The good thing, however, was there was nowhere to go but up.

TWO

Overcrowded streets packedwith tourists and families out for a night of glamor and fun made the walk to the interview significantly longer. I missed my car on behalf of being allergic to all forms of cardio, but also because of the privacy it allotted.

With a sigh, I hustled around the clusters of people and hauled ass down the sidewalk.

Pink Cherrie didn’t strike me as the name of a family-friendly establishment, and the address only further confirmed my original assumption. When I turned the final corner and came face to face with the more ‘pleasurable’ side of the city, I froze.

I processed what decisions led up to applying for a job on the side of town that made parents shield their children’s eyes as they walked by. Desperation? That was the word of the day. But I wasn’t altogether unfamiliar with it. Life was hard. And I clawed my way through by couch surfing, paying my way through half a college degree, and moving into the city.

And all that hard work was dismantled in an afternoon by some horny fifty-year old man.

Sullenly, I pushed myself down the street as the sunlight started to fade and neon lights flickered on, glancing over eachstorefront in search of Pink Cherrie. The other stores and bars seemed to attract a vast crowd, one already more than ready for the night to begin.

A river of people headed in the same direction as me. Mostly men out on the town with the boys or a few women who already looked too drunk to walk. Yet they continued to stumble along, and so did I.

I weaved through the throng, trying not to step on someone’s toes with my heels but not apologizing when I did. I couldn’t afford to miss this job opportunity.

If I stayed unemployed any longer, there would be no choice but to move home to Florida with my mother and her new husband, Walter. I shook the memory of walking in on them in the shower at Christmas out of my head, suppressing a cringe.

Mom would love to rub my face in my latest failure. She insisted that college was a mistake, a waste of time, and when I had to drop out because I caught Mono, she wouldn’t let me live it down. Even before I was discharged from the hospital. I barely had enough credits to graduate with an associate’s degree, and by then, I had decided to move far away.