ONE
Thalia
“HERE'S YOUR UNIFORM.” Cassidy, my overseer this fine morning, holds out a pleated white skirt and a beige polo shirt.
Although neither is made of enough material to class them as clothing. The skirt could pass for a fabric offcut used in crafting, not part of a work uniform. Unless your job is stripping, then sure. Why not.
“What’s your shoe size? Five?”
Funny... she didn’t ask what my dress size is. Either one-size-fits-all or she ventured a guess. Not a good one if she thinks I’ll fit in a size zero. Considering the skimpy polo shirt and lewdly short skirt she wears and an identical set I’m now holding, it might be—onemustfit all, or you can’t work here.
“Six,” I say.
Cass grabs brand-new white canvas sneakers and a beige baseball cap off the shelf. “Go get changed. The changing room is over there.” She gestures at the door across the employee common area, pulling a small key out of her polo shirt’s breast pocket. “Locker fourteen is yours. We should be out on the course in fifteen minutes, so hurry up.”
My shoes sink into the plush, brown carpet as I cross the stuffy room. Pushing the door open, I peek inside, frowning. I expected something more discreet—little booths with drapes like those in boutiques, but no. The changing room is an open space with lockers scattered around the perimeter and wooden benches bunched in the middle.
An older lady, scrubbing dusty-pink tiles in an adjacent shower area, peers up when I enter. She dabs at the beads of sweat glistening along her hairline with a handkerchief, sending me a small smile as she tucks gray hair behind her ears.
I offer her a smile in return, stopping at my locker. I’m not shy, but stripping to my underwear while any other female employee can walk in here is a touch nerve-wracking. I squeeze into the short-short skirt that ends half an inch below my ass, then tug on the polo shirt, groaning at my reflection in a long mirror hanging on the wall. The button-less V-neck ends low on my sternum, exposing my boobs, firmly pressed together courtesy of the skin-tight fit. Pole dancers at the club I worked a few years ago wore more clothes writhing around the poles than I’m wearing now, getting ready to sell beer, water, and sodas at the poshest place in Newport Beach.
I leave the baseball cap behind, turn the key, and head back to the common room. The temperature outside is in the eighty degrees range, but clouds gathered over Newport Beach early morning, obscuring the sunshine.
Bummer.
I chose California mainly for the weather, and what do you know? Two days of living the American Dream and zero sunshine so far. Figures. I’d have more chance at a pretty, golden tan in Greece.
“You look cute.” Cassidy beams while I tame my long, dark curls into a high ponytail. “You’ll be the center of attention for the next few days before everyone gets to know you.” She readjusts her platinum-blonde ponytail, sliding a cap over it, and leads me outside through the French doors. “This one will be yours.” She points at one of five identical beverage carts parked in a neat line. “I’ll get you started today, but tomorrow you’ll be unsupervised, girl, so pay attention. We’re busiest Friday through Sunday...”
My mouth curves into a blissful smile as my head spins from left to right. The golf course is picture-perfect—eighteen holes stretched over one hundred acres of lush greenery, a throw-of-a-hat away from the beach. The pictures featured on the website hardly do this place justice.
Several A-list actors and celebrities are among the club’s members. Considering the luxury cars parked outside, it’s safe to assume everyone who golfs here rolls around in cash.
Back home, I’ve only seen a Ferrari once, on a school trip to Athens. Here, not one buttwoFerraris are parked out front, both red. Richie-rich golfers fill me with hope. Maybe they tip as well as the“Confessions of a Cart Girl”blog I read implied.
Newport Beach should not be the destination for anyone trying to start a new life. The living cost here is triple the national average, but the pay is higher than in most places, so I chose to write a new chapter of my life right here.
I need every penny to survive in America. After I won the Green Card Lottery last year, I spent endless hours researching different locations. California was my first choice from the start, but Orange County or Newport Beach, to be precise, won me over because wherever I called asking about possible job openings, everyone said they always needed staff.
If I can earn money, I can stay afloat.
Hospitality flourishes in California all year round, but it’s extra busy during summer when tourists visit the breath-taking resorts, and trust fund kids return home from Ivy League colleges eager to unwind, party, and spend their parents’ money.
Four days ago, I packed my life into three large suitcases and boarded a long-haul flight from Thessaloniki in Greece to Los Angeles, with layovers in Zurich and Munich. Choosing a twenty-nine-hour trip over seventeen saved me four hundred dollars. It would’ve been cheaper if I traveled off-season, but I wouldn’t find work this fast.
Once I was officially admitted to the United States at Los Angeles International Airport, I was on my last legs, not looking forward to a three-hour bus ride to Newport Beach, but I made it. Yay.
With no friends or family who could help me by offering a space on their couch for a few weeks, I checked into the cheapest motel, with no more than eight hundred dollars to my name.
So far, so good.
I have a job and a roof over my head. A stinky, filthy roof, but I’m nothing if not adaptable. I’ve slept in worse places than a wet dog-smelling motel room.
A prison cell, for example.
“Can you work weekends?” Jared, the general manager, joins us outside. The aviators pushed up to the bridge of his long nose, hide a set of striking dusty-blue eyes that scrutinized me yesterday during my interview. His ash-blond hair is swept to one side, completing the preppy look dictated by his clothes—beige chinos, a white top, and a thin gray sweater draped over his neck. Surely, it’s a fashion statement because the temperature does not warrant a sweater.
“I’ll work every shift you’ll give me,” I assure. How on earth did a man in his mid-twenties land a job managing the poshest Golf Club in the OC? “Sixteen hours a day, seven days a week if that’s an option.”