Musings of a Minimum Wage Deadbeat

Liam Serwin

The third day of my new job was so slow I had to dry-swallow my Adderall to keep myself from ripping all the skin off my body. Like so slow.

Like, absolutely stagnant.

My eyes glazed over standing behind the wobbling podium, longing for anything of substance.

Instead I filled in empty reservation spots with fake names.

Fincy Fortle.

She’d ask for a new chair—hers was too soft, she’d say. My job, my life, and the hotel’s shareholders would be threatened as I fluffed up the seat for her hard ass expectations.

Lynda Nop.

She’d be meeting her son for brunch. She’d order him a lukewarm Diet A&W on account of his “temperature issues”. Her son could suck on his thumb and stick in the cup if he so pleased, I’d want to tell her. I’d warm the can with my hands instead.

Bill Wingsy.

He’d be a big tech guy. All the way on the penthouse floor, if I had to guess. Here on business. He’d be taken aback as I’d lead him to his table.

He’d slide me a business card while shaking my hand, thanking me for my hospitality.

Emphasis on hospitality.

I’d call him after work—right after. When my eyes were sullen and my mouth was dry.

Through phone static he'd whisper me his room number.

It’d be on the penthouse floor, just like I’d guessed.

He’d open the door with an erring grin—and a glass of wine, he’d offer me a glass of wine.

He’d wave me in. He’d bolt the door behind.

He’d talk about business, why he wasn’t here for pleasure. When the last word would leave his tongue he’d force eye contact and grab his dick.

I’d ask him about his family. He’d talk about his wife. I’d interrupt to rant about my Mom. He’d say his wife doesn’t satisfy him. He’d try to get in close but I’d push him away. I’d talk about how I’d replaced the hole she left with my new Pomeranian. His name was Clancy, I’d say.

He’d try to unbutton his shirt and I’d say not yet. He’d ask me why such a beautiful face and ass was working such a boring wait job. I’d say for the Pomeranian.

I’d walk over to the desk, pour ourselves some more of the Château Monton--comped by the company, he’d say, and finer than any other wine my lips would graze. I’d slip something in his glass, and focus really hard on which one was mine.

I’d ask him about business. I facilitate assets you couldn’t begin to comprehend, he’d say. Real adult stuff.

I am an adult, I’d say. I’d hand him his drink.

He’d say that my ears were still wet. That I was too young and fragile from faulty parenting, that if I wasn’t, he wouldn’t like me. I’d take his hand off my cheek.

He’d ask me to come closer, to stop being such a tease. I’d ask if his wife was a tease, if that was why he liked young restaurant hosts who didn’t know any better. He’d stammer his excuses. His voice would get stern. I’d kiss him.

He’d try to grab my ass and I’d tip toe across the room, to the glass wall that laid out the view that cost more than eight times my day rate. I never get to see this high up, I’d say.

He’d be loopy at this point. Slapping the bed he’d ask for my boy dick to come over.

I’d tell him I wasn’t a boy. He’d scoff and ask me just what exactly I thought I was. Not looking away from the view, my reflection stagnant peering back at me—beyond his comprehension, I’d say.

He’d wear a face of violence.

I own you, he’d say. I have money and power and everything you will never have.

I’d tell him that I stole his credit card information from his bill.

Looked him up. Called his wife.

She sobbed on the phone, I’d say.

His voice would sound like cotton balls by now. You don’t have the guts, he’d say.

All I’d do is smile.

His limbs would start to soften into the duvet, against his will.

You’re begging for some young ass around your limp dick, I’d say. To have some semblance of control. Away from the job he needed. The wife he hated. The life he couldn’t escape.

He’d run at me, jerking like an epileptic.

He wouldn’t see me duck. He wouldn't feel the glass shatter.

I wouldn't watch him fall, all the way to the bottom floor.

Liam Serwin is an author studying in Oregon. Their works have been featured in Unbound Literary Journal, The Kidd Anthology and ONEA Mag. You can reach them on Instagram @iwishsummerwasafourletterword.