The call I’ve been waiting for all week long finally comes in at quarter after three on Friday afternoon. Figures. I’m backing out the screen door leading out of the supply room of the Henrico Diner, the grease trap from the grill balanced precariously on a pair of spatulas in my hands, when the iPhone in my pocket vibrates. It startles me so much, I almost drop the trap and stumble down the back step, the hot grease sloshing dangerously close to my dirty apron.
“Shit!” I lean my upper body forward as I jump back, then carefully set the trap down on the ground at my feet. The grease rolls like a brown wave but doesn’t overflow the metal sides of the trap. Thank God, or I’d be here after my shift hosing down the concrete in the late afternoon sun.
Still bent over, I dig my phone out of my pocket to answer it. Sweat drips down the back of my neck, trickles around my ears, and stings my eyes. “‘Lo?”
“Daniel Masterson?” a woman asks.
There’s something in her voice that tells me she’s sitting in a comfortably cool, air conditioned room miles away from the heat and the grease and the noise of a burger joint on a Friday after the lunch crowd has left. I straighten up and push my hair out of my face, wincing in the humid heat outside. It presses against me like a wet sponge, sopping my skin with sweat, taking my breath away. Even though I’m standing still, the back of my T-shirt is soaked through in seconds, as if I’ve been running in place. Heat this bad makes me want to die. “Yeah? Who’s this?”
I hear distaste curl through her words. “Shonda at Ginter Manor,” she tells me. “You applied for a garden apartment last week? Were you still interested in the property?”
All I hear is apartment. Excitement rises in me, chasing away the heat and the sweat. “Hell, yeah! Did I get it?”
“Your application was approved—”
“Woo!” I let out a loud whoop and punch the side of the building, which causes my co-workers inside the kitchen to glance at me.
Turning my back to them, I step away from the door and out into the parking lot. The door doesn’t slam shut, though—the grease trap still rests on the top step and props the door open. “So when can I move in?”
I almost hear Shonda checking the clock. “Well, there’s a lot of paperwork to get through. The lease needs to be typed up and signed, I’ll need your first month’s rent and security deposit, we’ll have to do a walk-through…”
It sounds to me like she’s trying to push me off until next week. But Monday is the Fourth of July, which means the management office will be closed, so I wouldn’t be able to get any of that stuff done until Tuesday at the earliest. Henrico Diner is a small, mom-and-pop type of place, and I have the whole weekend off for the holiday. If I can get the key to my new apartment tonight, I can start moving in now and be done by Tuesday, easily. Rob will help me move in—he’s already said he would, and it’s his fault I’m moving out, anyway. He owes me.
Before Shonda can tell me I have to wait the weekend, I ask, “Can I come by today?”
She heaves a tremendous sigh, as if I’m the biggest inconvenience ever. I’m bracing myself for the word no; it’s coming, I just know it is. But she surprises me when she says, “Give me a half hour to get the paperwork together. But we’re only open until five, Mr. Masterson, and it’s going to take a good forty-five minutes to go over everything. If you can’t get here by four, we’ll have to wait until—”
“I’ll be there,” I say, untying my apron strings. I’m supposed to clock out at 3:30, but if I dump the grease and scrub the grill clean, I can probably beg off early. My boss knows I’m waiting to hear on a new apartment, so I know he’ll let me go. If I don’t hit any red lights on the way home, I can shower real quick, change into something that doesn’t smell like a deli, stop by the bank to get out the money I’ll need, then rush over to Ginter Manor in time to sign my life away on a new lease.
As I end the call, it hits me. I’m finally getting a place of my own. My first apartment, all mine. I can’t wait.
* * * *
Shonda said to arrive by four, and I make it to the management office of Ginter Manor with seconds to spare. My tires squeal to a stop in front of the building, and I slam the car door shut as I sprint around the back of my beat up Honda Civic, heading for the sidewalk. Through the panes of glass on the front door of the office, I see her seated at a desk in front of a computer, studiously ignoring me. When I almost barrel through the door in my haste to get inside in time, she glances up and gives me a look of pure loathing. I can almost feelher glaring at me, willing me to turn around and leave.
