Chapter 8

“Whatever. I think it’s cool,” Mara said. 

“Me too!” Melissa said. “You have to be excited. You can’t act too cool for this.”

Parth wore a smile he couldn’t take off, kept his head hung. He kept sipping his coffee, even though Mara suspected the cup was long empty. He’d look out the window quickly, then back at them, then back at the table. 

They were at the cafe where Melissa worked, finishing bagels and a coffee and reaming Parth out for waiting until minute 22 of Melissa’s half hour lunch break to tell them that WaveRace97 had asked Crystal Lake Counselors to open their upcoming show at Alewives. 

“It’s not like anything changes for us,” Parth said. “It’s not like we’re going on tour, it’s not like we suddenly have, whatever, a record deal or whatever.”

“Okay,” Mara said. “But they’re probably bringing a big audience of people that have never heard of you, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Okay, then,” Mara cut him off. “Take the W.”

“Seriously,” Melissa said. “It’s fucking thrilling for you guys. I’ll be enthusiastic if you won’t. Life’s all full of murder and death and depressing shit and you can’t be excited about booking a sick show? I’ll be excited. Speaking of murder, Mara? Where’s your first interview?”

“Speaking of murder?” Mara asked. 

“Without that murder, you wouldn’t be looking for a job, yeah?”

Mara rolled her eyes. “It’s just down the street. I need to go, though.”

“And I need to work,” Melissa said. “Mara, good luck. Parth, go get high and walk on the beach or something. Day drink. Celebrate.”

Down the street was the first of three interviews, somehow. Weeks of applications ignored, then three interviews on the same day. Job searching sucked. Parth walked her to the end of the block, then found the Crystal Lake Counselors’ van. 

“You about that van life now?” she asked. 

“Woman with no job judges my car, wow,” Parth said. 

Mara laughed at him and looked in his eyes, trying to gauge how real his flirting was. Tried to signal how real it was for her. 

A car slammed on its brakes, screeching to a stop. A chorus of horns broke out, then yelling. The air was made of horns and yelling, but Mara and Parth couldn’t see anyone hurt or any cars damaged. Then, as quickly as the chaos started, it disappeared. 

“Okay,” Mara said. “Wish me luck.”

—

At the first interview, a tryhard spot advertising “classic American farm-to-table fare” and furnished with a whole forest’s worth of glazed wood, Mara tried to focus on the front of house manager. She was pleasant and friendly, with cute glasses, but she gave the game away. She kept glancing over her shoulder at the bar. At the bar was a white-haired man in a bright blue polo shirt who looked like he golfed every brunch shift. He had books open, plus an adding machine, plus a glass of red wine that the bartender wouldn’t let him see the bottom of. The front of house manager said she’d be in touch, but Mara didn’t care. She knew a fiefdom when she saw one.

—

At the second interview, a not quite-sports bar, the GM kept slipping in and out of a phony high-class lilt, like he was putting on airs, but they were both in on the joke. None of this is that serious, he seemed to be saying, one time even doing a cringey British accent and calling her dahhhhhling. His real accent seemed to be a brassy Midwestern. He wore a black short-sleeved button down with gray chest hair peeking over the open second button and a gold stud in one ear. When Mara looked at the servers, there seemed to be no uniform, but everyone was in tight t-shirts or tanks and absurdly short shorts. On top of that, it was clear that Mara—at the ripe old age of 23—would be the oldest server there. 

Fun, flirty, Mara tried to command her body. 

Instead, images of blood and bodies and caution tape and the aura of police lights danced through her head. She thought about all the serial killers she’d learned about who had been outwardly upstanding business owners. She thought about all the serial killers she’d learned about who had been cops. Before she knew it, the aspiring silver fox said we’ll be in touch, and Mara felt her feet propelling her body out of the restaurant a little too fast. 

—

The third place, this diner called Olly’s, Mara couldn’t remember if she’d been there before or not. She walked in at 3:30 and the place was empty, save for an elderly man sipping coffee at a booth in the corner. Behind the host stand was a black-and-white framed photograph of a Black man and a young Latino man with a thick black mustache. OLLY & MARTÍN, read a hand-written caption under the picture. Something about the picture nudged Mara’s memory. She was certain now that she’d been here before, at least for breakfast.

A man who looked like a 30-years-older version of the Latino man in the photograph emerged from the kitchen. “Sit anywhere you like,” he smiled.

“Actually, are you Martín? I’m Mara, I have an interview.”

“Oh!” Martín wiped his brow and shook his head, faked a heart attack. “When did it become 3:40? Well. I guess you’re a little early. Have a seat here at Table 14, and I’ll be right back.” He smiled and disappeared into the kitchen.

After those first two interviews, Mara’s anxiety had evaporated. Shit was crazy out here. If she got a job, she got a job. If she didn’t, she and her sick mom would just become street punks. Whatever.

Martín started in on the usual get-to-know-you boilerplate, laying out the what we do here while listening along to the trials and travails of Mara’s previous employment. As it was happening, Mara felt herself relaxing, like she was catching up with a friendly uncle she hadn’t seen in years. Before long, Martín was rapping his manila folder on the table. 

“Well, listen,” Martín said. “To be honest, we need the help. You’ve got an excellent resumé. You’re the first person to apply with both hosting and serving experience.”

“That’s, wow.” Mara said.

“So I should have a longer interview with you, I should ask a bunch of detailed stuff. But look: can you handle busy shifts without getting all worked up? Are you gonna steal money?”

“Yes to the first one and no to the second one.”

“Great. Can you start Wednesday?”

Mara smiled with her whole body. Whatever fuck it attitude she’d felt about this interview melted. She had a good feeling about Olly’s. If Melissa were here, she’d say the universe is putting you in this diner for a reason. That’s what Melissa would say, because Melissa was silly, but in a way that Mara didn’t mind keeping in her back pocket. 

As she stood to leave, a white cook came out of the kitchen. He wore a skullcap over pushed-back hair and had that underfed young chef look. Lengthy neck, lanky but wire-muscled arms, slightly too-intense eyes. Mara wondered vaguely if whatever drugs he was into kept him skinny, or if he got so hyper-focused on cooking that he forgot to feed himself. Either could be possible. 

“Martín, man, these guys gotta be able to get the basics right,” the cook said. 

“I know, Tommy, I know,” Martín said. “Hey, I’m finishing up an interview. You wanna go get a smoke? Or you don’t smoke? I can never remember with you, guero!”

The cook said something that Mara couldn’t make out. He turned to walk down the hall back towards the kitchen, or maybe the back door, if he was smoking. Mara found she couldn’t help but watch him leave. Something about him had felt different than the rest of Olly’s. Different from Martín, different even from the energy that the walls gave off. The energy that the walls gave off. Now who sounds like Melissa? 

What was that phrase Melissa had said about Lilypad? Echo of evil? Mara wasn’t sure about all that—the vibes were good at Olly’s. That strung-out white cook, though. Was his name Tommy? She was pretty sure that’s what Martín said. Tommy seemed like he had something echoing around his head. 

“Thanks again,” she said to Martín. 

“See you Wednesday!” he called, looking even more like a dad now that Mara had witnessed him expertly redirecting a cook’s tantrum. 

—

It was barely after four when she stepped into the white light of the afternoon. She had a job, and started soon. Relief crept through her body like a teenager successfully sneaking home after curfew. It wasn’t like they’d be dining at Trencherman or Girl And The Goat or anything, but with her and her mom working? They could eat every day, have heat in the winter and AC in the summer. 

Mara got on a northbound bus, crossing the Uptown border into Andersonville. There was a sidewalk sale on Clark Street. The street was closed for four blocks, all the businesses spilling out onto the walkways and the people taking over the streets. Parth and Gareth were already there. Gareth showed off some zines he’d picked up, and told Mara what she wanted to hear: that the 7-inch bin at Rattleback Records was teeming. 

Parth said he wanted to keep hanging out, but he needed some caffeine. The three of them ducked into a café and ordered cortados. 

“Hey Gareth,” Mara said. “Will you admit that opening for WaveRace97 and having a bunch of people who’ve never heard your music before see you perform is a cool thing?”

“She thinks I’m not excited,” Parth said. “Obviously, it’s exciting.”

“Aw, is my guy bad at showing his feelings?” Gareth asked. “That’s the problem with us men. All we ever are is horny or raging, right? Or should I not talk about feelings and horniness around you two?”

Mara and Parth pretended they didn’t know what Gareth meant, each performing for the other. 

“So I got that job,” Mara said.