He pushes the shades to his head, messing up his perfect hairstyle. “Nine hours a day, five days a week, Friday through Tuesday. We might occasionally consider you for bar work when were understaffed. Though, if you’re really interested, you could cover Cassidy’s shifts when she’sincapacitated,” he stresses the last word with a smirk.
It doesn’t take a genius to decipher the code. By the sound of that, Cassidy sufferers from chronic hangovers. She’s twenty-three, a year younger than me, and does seem like the party type with her electric personality. During our short meet and greet, she relayed a condensed life story—she majored in photography, moved to Newport Beach at eighteen, and dreams of owning a photography studio. She also mentioned she goes by Cass, not Cassidy, most of the time.
I look back at Jared. “Whenever you need me, I’ll be here.”
“Good. That’s what I like to hear.” His eyes are fixed on the screen of his iPad. “I need a few more details from you. We’ll sort it out after your shift.” He sizes me up, but it hardly looks sexual. More like he’s appraising a product, wondering if it’ll sell. “Keep your hair up, smile, and if you want to make good tips, don’t let them know you’re smart.”
“Why can’t they know I’m smart?”
“Most golfers expect the cart girls to be pretty, dumb and to laugh at their crude, sexist jokes. You’ll get tipped well if they like you, and whatever they give you is yours to keep.”
The blog I read about the ABCs of working as a cart girl mentioned obnoxious golfers, but until now, I thought the scandalous posts were poor attempts at driving more traffic to the website.
Apparently not.
Whatever. If cute, broad smiles equal higher tips, then so be it. After two days in Newport Beach, my wallet’s contents officially shrunk to four hundred and ninety dollars. The cheapest place I found advertised in Newport Gazette is fourteen hundred dollars for a tiny, claustrophobic studio eight miles from the golf course.
To move out of the motel, I’ll need to save at least double the monthly rent, so I better practice a convincing smile.
“Any questions?” Jared asks, glancing at a silver watch adorning his wrist.
“None so far.”
“Good. Come find me once you’re done today. We’ll finish the paperwork.” He strolls back inside, his steps rushed as if he’s running late for a meeting.
“Right, let’s start. We don’t have much time.” Cassidy rounds the cart, running her fingers along the display shelves and fridges where different beverages are stored, and starts her monologue, filling my head with information. “On a typical weekend, you’ll go through six cases of Bud Light, four cases of Coors Light, and two cases of Corona.” She uses her fingers to show the numbers as if she’s worried my English is lacking and I won’t understand if she foregoes visual aids.
The monologue continues while she points out important details, explains how the cart works and describes which golfers I should not flirt with if I don’t want to be groped. I soak in every detail like a dry sponge, making mental notes until seven o’clock sharp when Cassidy fires up the cart. We head toward the first hole, where four middle-aged men have already teed off.
“Morning, Cass,” one says. He’s not looking at her, though. His eyes are on me, roving my frame, one eyebrow raised. “Who’s the new girl?”
I inhale a deep breath, smile wide and jump out of the cart, smoothing the narrow fabric surrounding my hips—a skirt by definition but it wouldn’t pass for a belt in my granny’s eyes.
“Hey, Jerry,” Cassidy chirps, batting her long eyelashes as she pinches a lock of blonde hair between her fingers, her voice artificially sweet. “This is Thalia. She’s a trainee.”
She’s got the innocent flirtatious look right on the money. Maybe she’d be willing to take on an apprentice? I could do with a few tricks up my sleeve.
“Thalia,” Jerry repeats, testing the word, eyes focused on my boobs playing peek-a-boo out of my V-neck. “What do you do, beautiful? College?”
I arch a questioning eyebrow. It’s one thing to expect flirting and a different thing entirely being ogled by a man who could easily pass for my father. Or for the first sentence spoken toward me to contain an endearment.
“Not anymore,” I say, practicing a convincing American accent. Not that it works. Anyone with a half-decent hearing can tell I’m not from around here. “I’m new in town.”
A row of snow-white, immaculate teeth peer between Jerry’s chapped lips. “That’s an interesting accent you’ve got there. Let me guess...” He sizes me up again with narrowed-eye scrutiny, stopping at my boobs as if their size will betray my nationality. “Spain?”
“No, Greece.”
Cassidy serves one of the men, popping a cap off a bottle of Corona with undeniable ease. Jerry’s friends stop by his side, their hungry eyes looking me over from the ground up as if I’m a mail-order bride awaiting her groom.
As shameful as it sounds, I had, for a split second, considered registering on one of those websites. Thankfully, I chose the Green Card Lottery instead. And good thing I won or I probably would’ve married a man like Jerry, desperate to escape my homeland. Greece is a lovely country, full of spirited people... the same people who wish I’d rot in jail or die a slow, painful death, burned at the stake.
“How old are you?” Jerry’s friend, a balding man in his forties, asks, scratching his long beard.
“Twenty-four. What can I get you? Soda? Beer? Water?”
“A bottle of Coors Light, dear.”
At seven in the morning?I bite my tongue before the question escapes my lips. His drinking habits are none of my business, so I fetch the beer, mimicking Cassidy’s cap popping with less ease. Another golfer approaches, equally curious to know who I am and where I came from. By the time Cassidy and I head to the common room for a break at ten, I’ve been asked about my accent by every person I served.