“You got it,” the adorable guy serving the java answered with a winning smile.

I flashed one back and tried not to die a little inside. This was hardly the type of employment I should be pursuing. As I shuffled back to my best friend Andrew, I picked up a newspaper fully intending to scour the classifieds.

“Still looking for a job?” Andrew asked.

“I will be until I have a house in Malibu with a couple of Mercedes parked in the driveway,” I responded.

“In that case, I think you better have a heartier breakfast.”

“Have you noticed we’re in LA? My size six goal from back home has shrunk down to a size two. I feel like a behemoth.”

“I thought you had abs.”

“I do.”

He gave me a look.

“But I have love handles!”

He grabbed my side. “I better have a bigger breakfast. I might be searching all day.”

“Oh please,” I snorted as I slapped his hand away. “I hardly need health advice from someone who only consumes what? Four or is it now five items?”

“I’ve expanded to five.”

“Let me guess.” I counted with my fingers. “Hamburger, hot dog, grilled cheese, fries…”

“Pizza.” He sat there thoughtfully. “You think I should get checked for scurvy?”

“At a minimum.”

“I’ll consider it.” He gathered his stuff. “I’m heading out.”

“Later.”

I gave his departing slender figure a look of scorn. A trans fat diet and not an ounce of body fat to show for it. Made me sick. I opened the paper right to the sports section and combed the box scores for the Los Angeles Celebrities or Celebs, as the professional basketball team was more commonly known. My responsible self tapped me on the shoulder and reminded me that I had watched the game in its entirety the night before. I grudgingly turned to the want ads.

Andrew and I were recent graduates of UCLA—both philosophy majors without a sense of direction. Andrew was considering law school to become a public defender. We’d had a major disagreement on ethics junior year with me touting Ayn Rand’s virtue of selfishness and him extolling the virtues of Marx’s communism while lamenting our species’ inability to live up to its moral standards. I’d come to appreciate his propensity toward goodness. Still I was looking for riches with a bit of fame thrown in. I also wanted to know that my intelligence was being used for something unique and important. And lately I’d become attached to the idea of a villa with an ocean view.

This is why I chose to continue living in LA upon graduation. It wasn’t necessarily a wise choice. Real estate prices had skyrocketed and living in Westwood for four years had put it in my head that I had to live according to a certain lifestyle.

Andrew moved back in with his mom in Brentwood so he wasn’t experiencing the housing crunch like I was. In the end I chose style over substance and moved into a small room in a house in Pacific Palisades, just north of Santa Monica and south of Malibu. Utilitarian Andrew couldn’t appreciate this sacrifice at all.

I scanned the ads looking for opportunities in or near my neighborhood. It was becoming more evident the more I looked that I wasn’t going to find a job that paid like I wanted, at least to start. On the one hand that was fine because I didn’t want a job. I’d learned through various college gigs that I don’t like working. On the other hand, a future of infinite debt wasn’t going to work out either.

Currently my only income was from a position as an instructor at LA Fitness. That was a sporadic enough endeavor to keep me below the poverty line. I was definitely going to need some type of employment. Then I thought of Sasha.

Sasha was a girl I knew in college. Her mom ran a high-end house cleaning service. Sasha had told me that her employees raked it in. This was partially made possible by a great deal of the clients simply having no concept of how much house cleaning should cost. I gave her a call.

“Sasha! What’s up?” I asked enthusiastically.

“Hey, girl. I’m just walking around Rodeo,” she answered with a yawn. “I heard they’re filming something with Brad Pitt over here. I thought I’d give it a whirl.”

Sasha’s hobby was stargazing—LA style.

“Give him a slap on the ass for me if you see him,” I told her. “Listen, I was thinking about your mom’s business.”

“Uh huh.”

“I was wondering if she had any openings.”

“For who?”

“For me.”

Sasha hooted. “You want to clean houses?”

“Come on. I don’t want to clean houses. I want to make some money.”

“Didn’t you say you had a maid growing up? Do you even know how to clean?” she asked skeptically.

“Of course I know how to clean. Who doesn’t know how to clean?”

“I have to say, I was surprised at how many kids didn’t know how to do their own laundry in college.”

Touché. I was in that group. “Well, that’s not me. I can clean with the best of them.” Can being the operative word.

“Right.”

I thought I sensed sarcasm—must press on.

“So, could you talk to your mom about me? I think it could really work out. I mean, not forever, of course, but for now, definitely.”

“All right. I’ll mention you to her tonight. I’m having dinner with the family at Benihana.”

“Sweet! So call me tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks so much. I owe you.”

“You really do,” she said seriously.

Aw, crap. I hoped I didn’t owe her a pair of D&G shades or something.

We exchanged goodbyes and hung up. I sighed heavily. I better learn how to clean—and fast.



“Well, dear, there’s really not that much to it. You see dirt, you get rid of it,” my mother disinterestedly told me over the phone. “I even saw a commercial for something called a Dirt Devil.”

I wrote Dirt Devil down on my notepad and stretched out on my bed. I heard slight cheering and then intense booing in the background. “What’s that noise?” I asked.

“That’s your father. He has money on a football game and he’s pretty excited.”

I could picture my parents in their suburban, Mediterranean-style home enjoying a lazy Sunday afternoon. My dad had probably tossed his newspaper aside to yell at a referee and my mom was most likely in between reading a magazine and deciding on dinner.

“So you’re saying that I can figure this out no problem?”

“Absolutely!” my mom responded loyally. “You’re such a smart girl, I have no doubt you can clean houses.”

“I hope I can put you down as a reference,” I muttered as she went on.

“Honey, don’t you have a degree from UCLA now?”

I walked into the trap. “Uh huh.”

“And didn’t that piece of paper cost an awful lot of money?”

“Uh huh.”

“And doesn’t it prove to the world that you’re brilliant?”

“Well, I don’t know about that, Mom.”

She refused to adhere to the Socratic Method and overrode me. “So wouldn’t you be able to get a job that would involve someone cleaning up after you?”

“I don’t know, Mom. The world’s changed. People are looking for experience in addition to academics.”

“Maybe you should get some then,” she suggested brightly but with a veil of urgency that only a daughter could detect.

“I’ll think about that. I have to go. Andrew and I are going out.”

“Where to?”

“I’m not sure yet. All I can say is we’re definitely not staying in.”

“So are you two…” She trailed off.

“No. And we never will be. We’re just friends. It works well because for some reason we both find each other slightly repulsive.”

“Okay,” she said hesitantly. “I don’t necessarily think you’re right about his view—”

“Trust me,” I interrupted. “He saw my fat days, we’re all set.”

“Oh honey.”

“Talk to you later, Mom. Tell Dad I wish him luck.”

Copyright 2008 by Rachel Bird