Interconnected: The Way We Were and What’s to Come.
My sophomore year I decided that Marcy had a nice ring to it. On the first day of school I blended right in with the crowd, the new girl on the new campus. Mom and I moved into the top floor a nice place at the end of the summer. It was the second time my mothers neckline determined the rent, something about her boobs turned men to putty. I wasn’t quite as showy as she was, not in front of her at least. After she dropped me at the front door I adjusted my outfit to stand out before my first class began. Mr. Johnson sat me right up front and didn’t seem to mind when I turned in classwork with Marcy at the top instead of my real name. Eventually it just stuck.
The day I turned 16 Marcy needed a job. Our creepy landlord was tired of my mother leading him around and the harder she played him the steeper the rent went up. Mom was a shrewd negotiator but, as far as I knew, not a whore. On my first interview the manager made a wise crack about the Peanuts that I didn’t like. At 14 you don’t associate cartoons like that with sexual orientation but owner of the diner had a heck of a laugh when he offered me a Peppermint Patty. I ended up at his competitor and my uniform was embroidered Emma, short, easy to remember, and recognizable. Turns out Emma was a good bus person, quickly moved up to server, and eventually a waitress.
The tips didn’t seem like much at the time but I learned a valuable lesson in February of that year. Emma got her W2’s and I didn’t. Mr. Anderson gave me a few tips on filling out an easy form so I listened while he went over it. I felt bad playing on his pity but he took me under his wing when I told him my father had passed away. He had a way of really teaching me things, practical things. Dad wasn’t dead, he was a project manager living in Saudi Arabia, but that is a story in and of it’s self.
When I graduated Lincoln High my GPA was 4.25 because of advanced placement classes and I had already completed a semesters worth of college classes. Emma was one smart cookie. Unfortunately I was a bit greedy. I used my real name to apply for financial aid because I had no official income and Mom surely didn’t claim more than she had to. Mr. Anderson had introduced me as Emma and it took a long time for me to explain the discrepancy. I kept up work at the diner but Mr. Anderson and I had an agreement, he paid cash so I could go to school on the Feds dime, and I did all of the accounting so he could keep more of the profits for himself.
I skipped graduation. Mom couldn’t make it and I didn’t feel right dragging Mr. Anderson along. Instead I went to the credit union and put 3 years worth of savings and CD’s into a retirement bundle that wouldn’t lose a penny due to some creative hedging. I also pulled out a tidy sum for myself. I was able to roll my tax-free tips into $100,000 in cash. There was only one catch, if the IRS ever had a look at the books the diner would go under to cover the fees. I left that bit out when I gave Mr. Anderson his retirement package and my resignation. Emma was moving on.
Corporate America is particular monster and it chewed me up for almost a year. I tried to get by on as little as possible so the cash would last but real jobs always needed real information. Social Security numbers, copies of birth certificates, tangible identities. One thing I didn’t have. Mom probably kept track of things like that but she was living it up on the gulf coast of Mississippi and I was doing my best in downtown Manhattan.
It took 6 months for me to hit the bottom. Instead of a nine-to-five and a corner office I had second shift at Sidewinder’s. Who knew a pretty good waitress in New York would end up on stage not in charge of accounting. I tried to chase interviews as Emma during the day but ended up as Precious at night. Damn club owner picked the stage names and I was one of the lucky ones. I could have been Lexus or Mercedes or even Porsche. Seemed Uncle Larry had a thing for cars. The girls weren’t the only one’s using fake names in this business.
I had it pretty good. The money was all cash, the clients were all high end, and Uncle Larry had a thing for blondes. I was a brunette. Business was business and pleasure was someone else’s problem. That all changed in March. Uncle Larry needed a harem of girls to escort him to Georgia and he hand picked me and three others for the trip. I didn’t have much so I brought it all with me in a single duffle bag. Emma and Precious were leaving for the South less than a year after we left it all behind.
We landed in Braselton Georgia three days before a huge event was scheduled at Road Atlanta. For the next 5 days I had the chance to explore Uncle Larry’s passion. Cars. We took a ride along in a 17 passenger van and the other girls pretended to be interested in a couple of the other passengers. I was more interested in why the thing didn’t tip over around the turns. Uncle Larry used my curiosity as a gimmick for the weekend. He rented us a fancy little sports car and let me drive with one condition. I had to wear a bikini under the driving suit and be escorted to the starting line by the other girls. Boy did I feel ridiculous but there was a huge crowd waiting for us.
I really don’t think Uncle Larry expected me to drive the car but I had other plans. After I held up my end of the bargain I zipped up the suit and slid into a helmet. The car fit me like a set of stockings, nice and snug, and I made five laps in the Panoz before pulling back into the pits. Uncle Larry was clapping and patting the back of someone I figured was just another client. Little did I know I was in for another adventure.
Uncle Larry helped me out of the car and the other girls held up umbrellas and leaned on the hood. We all smiled and had a laugh before our presence was requested, well purchased, at the trackside motel that evening. The guest list paired up the other girls with the guys they had set hooks into on the ride along and I was to escort a C. Montgomery.
By the end of the weekend I had fallen head over heels for the guy. I don’t know if it was the smell of race fuel, the promise of more seat time, or an actual attraction but I ended up leaving Braselton with Chet and Uncle Larry left with enough new connections to consider opening up another Sidewinders.
Long story short Chet turned out to be no better than my old landlord. He was all about gifts and good times as long as I was on display for him but if I mentioned getting back behind the wheel he brushed it off. He wanted an employee with benefits and I wanted what he promised. We were both disappointed in the outcome of that arrangement. The most I got from him was a 30 year old wanna-be Mustang and some spending cash when I would be his arm candy.
It didn’t take long for me to want out. I quit working at the track with him. I quit living with him. I quit taking his crap and he let me go with a slap in the face and the slam of his front door. I shacked up at a hotel for a few days until I could decide what to do next. The diner across the street took me on to cover the early shift and it meant I had a couple good meals each day. I even got to pick out my own nametag. Kris seemed appropriate, short, easy to remember and recognizable.
That was a month ago. Last night I sold the crappy Mustang for $5,000 to a guy who may hate Chet as much as I do. I could make $5,000 last a while in a town like this. I could bet it at the track and double it this weekend. One thing Chet did wrong was let me have a look at the way he runs things. It’s so predictable the way her looks out for his friends, how the rules don’t always apply to them as strictly as the others. The new guy doesn’t stand a chance. Betting against him can’t lose.
