Bridge Tender

Carrie sat across from Blythe, the owner of The Upper Deck, and listened as the woman rattled on about what she expected from her employees.

“Clean white shirt, black skirt—not too short, or slacks. Black shoes—no opened toes, and you must pull your hair away from your face—none hanging in your eyes.” She paused, pursed her lips and tapped the pencil in her hand against the wooden table.

“Normally,” the woman continued in her strong New Jersey accent, “I wouldn’t hire anyone without checking them thoroughly, but Tillie says she’s known you a long time and that you’re a good worker…and I need someone now.” Blythe Goodfellow again drummed the pencil eraser rapidly on the wooden table. Slowly eyeing Carrie’s appearance, she added, “I’ll give you a chance. You’ll make good tips here, but you’d better be on your toes. I know you girls down here in the South don’t move too fast…” Blythe’s grin faded as quickly as it had appeared, “…and I don’t put up with any sitting around, there’s always something to clean, put away or wash.”

     Inhaling deeply she laid the pencil on the table, rolled it back and forth a few times then placed it behind her left ear. “Be here tomorrow at three.”