She worked six hours, trying to keep pans and plates and forks washed fast enough to supply the busy kitchen. Her clothes got soaked from all the water spraying in her face from the huge pans. Hog n Taters did a brisk business, and she stank of grease and mesquite when she finally went home. She took a shower that did nothing but make her smell like wet mesquite and went to bed.
Her alarm went off early, and she started her cashier shift at the quick pick. She sold cigarettes and vape refills and six for three dollar donut deals and gas fill-ups. It was boring, and the loud country music that appealed to the customers grated on her nerves, but the hours would help her bridge the gap between jobs.
As soon as her shift ended there, she went back to Hog n Taters for another evening of dish duty. She had already worked out a system to make the washing more efficient by snagging a plastic dishpan from a shelf and filling it with soapy water, sorting all utensils to soak in there while she washed plates first, then pans, then silverware last. It eliminated a lot of searching in the grimy water for all the forks and made things seem more orderly to her efficiency-oriented brain.
After another six hours of scrubbing, she was given her wages for the week. Twelve hours of dishwashing by hand got her thirty-six dollars. She gaped at the manager and asked why it wasn’t minimum wage. He gave her a routine about how they pay less because they pay in cash and also that she’s in a tip-intensive occupation, so the base pay is lower.
“No one gave me a tip. No one gave me a cut from a nightly tip jar. I just got three bucks and hour for scrubbing congealed pig fat off of pans. This is ridiculous!” she said.
“Okay, you’re done here. Turn in your apron,” the manager said, “I don’t see why it’s so hard to keep a decent dishwasher around here.”
“Probably because you’re a crook,” she said and stormed out.
Desperate, Bella checked her bank balance, tallied up the bills she’d get in the next few weeks and come up with a plan that didn’t involve lying about her ability to install hardwood flooring. The numbers weren’t good. They weren’t get-evicted bad, but they were discouraging. She could cover her bills for about a month if nothing went wrong. If she didn’t lose her bus pass or need allergy medicine or have any other unexpected expenses that would bottom out the last of her reserves. When the main source of income, the full-time job cleaning at the motel, was gone, all she had left was her side hustle working a cash register and that wasn’t very profitable. She scanned the job ads online and kept coming back to the one for the live-in maid in Phoenix.
She was ready to see the last of Arkansas and this was as good a reason as any. Bella could live in a nicer climate, on what was no doubt a very fancy estate and clean. She knew how to clean, and she knew how to present herself to a prospective employer. Despite her lack of a degree, despite her history of doing menial labor, she knew she was a fast learner, and she probably would have filled out the creeper’s vinyl cat suit nicely since those measurements were close to her own.
She frowned.
Please don’t let this maid job be like that one.
She replied to the ad and then stared at her phone screen, waiting for a response. It made her feel better that this employer, unlike smarmy Batman cosplayer, was too busy to answer his phone instantly. When she did get a call, it was from a woman.
“Hello, this is Greta from Harvey Carlson’s office. You applied for the maid’s position, correct?”
“Yes, I did. Hi, Greta. I’m Bella James. I appreciate your consideration for this job. It sounds like my skills are exactly what you need.”
“Tell me about your work history, then, Bella,” Greta said.
“Well, I’ve been in the workforce since my first food service job at sixteen. The last two years I’ve been employed in the housekeeping department of the Golden Oaks Motel. My successful experience there is coming to an end as the business has been sold to a developer who wants to take it in another direction. Outside the hospitality industry.”
“Oh, I see. Will it be converted to a homeless shelter? I’ve heard of that being done with great success in California.”
“No, I’m afraid not. It will be a for-profit entertainment venue and novelty store.”
“Strip club?” Greta said sagely.
“Yes, I was trying not to say it,” Bella laughed.
“You did an excellent job of trying to spin it. Still, I see why you need a new occupation.”
“I’m sure my current employer could provide a good reference. Especially since he offered to audition me for an opening act. In his office. Alone.”
“He sounds like a total prince. If I weren’t engaged I’d be begging you for his name,” Greta said, and Bella laughed again.
“Will I be working for you? Please say yes.”
“No, I’m only Harvey’s assistant. You’d be living at his estate, and it’s pretty spectacular. You should Google it. It’s been in a lot of the home magazines, too. He’s got a housekeeper who takes care of the staff of three maids, the cook, and the gardener and groundskeepers. You’d only be responsible for the main house, pool house, and guest houses. You wouldn’t have to go near the stables or the conservatory.”
“This is seriously one guy’s home?”
“Yes. One guy. Not even a wife and kids. He was one of Forbes Magazine’s top 30 under 30 a few years ago. I had to hire extra help just to field the emails and letters from beautiful women who wanted to marry him. It went on for six months—there was a gold digger’s frenzy over the man. He didn’t take any of them up on it. He was too busy. That was at his last job. He’s a fixer—changes corporations every two or three years, once he’s implemented a strong plan. Right now he’s at the helm of Bellingford Finance Group.”
“If he was too busy to take his pick of golddiggers, is he ever even home to admire all the houses and grounds and horses?”
“Sometimes. He does travel some, but he’s based in Phoenix. So he’ll be around to appreciate your cleaning. I can promise you he’s not the kind to harass the staff or anything. So you don’t have to worry about him cornering you while you dust the artwork.”
“Thanks. That would be a nice change from Mr. Come Into My Office at the motel. I’ll send you over a copy of my resume if you like, and I hope you’ll consider my application.”