Page 61 of The Nanny Game Plan
Just like I’m not strong enough to play bass full-time. Even if my audition for the band Beatrice’s producer friend is putting together this spring goes perfectly, and I land the gig, will I be strong enough to keep up with the rest of my bandmates? March is only a month away, and February is a short-ass month.
And it’s not like I’ve had many chances to practice playing for an actual audience recently, either. Last week, I had to bow out of playing Saturday night to take the girls to the game, and tonight, Victoria, The Dirt Bag’s usual bassist, is rocking out on stage while I man the bar.
If I strain a little, I can hear her through the loading dock door, nailing a Stevie Wonder cover…
She doesn’t sound like a woman who’s ready to leave the rock ‘n roll life behind, no matter how many times she’s insisted that juggling a nursing career, a two-year-old, and band life is too much for her overloaded nervous system.
The Dirt Bags have promised I’m first in line to take over for Victoria on bass if I don’t land another gig first but waiting for that to happen has become depressing.
I’m growing increasingly desperate for my “real grown-up life” to begin. Between moving to New Orleans and starting over in a new city, then getting catastrophically injured right as my life was coming together, it feels like I keep drawing the Gingerbread card in Candy Land and getting sent back to the beginning.
But in better news, Candy Land is still as much fun as I remember. I look forward to playing with the girls on rainy days, when we can’t get outside to kick balls in the yard or bike down to the playground.
“I guess we should get back to it,” Tully says with a sigh. “Even though it’s dead as hell, and Emilio has been driving me fucking crazy.”
“Aw, he’s not so bad.” I have a soft spot for our cranky old boss. Probably because he reminds me of Mario from the video games I loved as a kid, both his name and his bushy moustache.
“Oh yeah?” Tully challenges. “I caught him picking his nose near the garnish station last night. As soon as he left, I replacedeverything. Just in case. I refuse to serve my patrons booger cherries.”
I flick my toothpick into the ashtray by the door with a gagging sound. “Gross. Oh my God. Then yeah, we definitely need to get inside and guard the garnish.” I glance at my cell before tucking it into my pocket. “He comes in at ten, right?’
Tully drops her toothpick into the bin along with mine. “Yes. Though I don’t know why. It’s not like he does anything except get in the way and make more work. If he gets anywhere near my Bloody Mary mix, you have to help me fight him off, Clover. Seriously. Last time he put so much jalapeño juice in there, he made the happy hour ladies cry.” She heaves a tortured sigh as she drags a hand through her hair. “You’re so lucky you only work here once a week. Any more, and you’d be anti-Emilio, too. And I swear, the tips have been so shitty lately.”
Humming sympathetically as we head inside, I make a mental note of yet another reason I want to keep my nanny job.
I’m really enjoying no longer being at the mercy of the feast and famine cycle of the tip-reliant American worker. I get a paycheck every Friday—a very generous one, especially on weeks when Dean has an away game, or I have to work on Saturday or Sunday. The overtime pay is sweet, the girls and I have a great time during “Clover night” sleepovers, and I’m healing so much better now that I’m able to give my body more grace and not be on my feet as much.
One would think that all that goodness would be more than enough to make up for the sexual-tension-induced awkwardness with Dean.
And it is…
Usually.
And surely, it will get easier with time.
Ithasto get easier, or I’m going to have to seek out anti-horniness therapy to keep from losing my mind.
As we slide back behind the bar, The Dirt Bags launch into the last song in their set with their original banger, “Matriarchy Now, Motherfuckers.” We relieve Faye, the cocktail waitress who’s been guarding the liquor in our absence, and refill the beers of two regulars, before lifting our arms in the air and dancing along.
At the end of the song, the crowd breaks into applause loud and long enough to make the band run back onstage for another bow before the DJ takes over.
It’s a slow night, but at least the patrons who are here are enthusiastic.
Especially the woman at the far end of the bar, tears shining in her eyes as she shouts, “That’s right, Dirt Bags! Matriarchy now, motherfuckers!”
The handsome, oddly familiar man beside her winces, patting her back before leaning in to whisper in her ear.
She turns to him, her expression pinched as she murmurs something I can’t make out from six feet away. He lifts his hands in surrender and shakes his head, clearly pleading his innocence, but she continues to glare at him, her bottom lip trembling.
Hoping to head a couple fight off at the pass, I make my way over, smiling as I ask, “Hey there, is there anything else I can get you two? Another beer? Or the appetizer menu? We’ve got some great quesadilla specials right now. The goat cheese and sweet chili pepper is incredible.”
The woman turns, blinking sad blue eyes my way.
I realize she looks familiar, too, but before I can pinpoint where I’ve seen her before, she says, “I went to a goat cheese farm once with my ex. On our honeymoon in Hawaii.” Her lip begins to tremble again as she adds, “Their logo was a goat on a surfboard. I thought it was so cute, but I couldn’t justify paying forty dollars for a T-shirt after all the wedding expenses and everything, so Zack and I headed back to our rental car. But then, he pretended he forgot his phone inside, and ran back to buy me the shirt as a surprise.” Her eyes narrow as she turns to the man beside her, “So, see? Hedidlove me. At least, at one point. A man doesn’t buy a woman a forty-dollar surfing goat T-shirt unless he’s in love.” She glances back at me, her eyes widening. “Right?”
Realizing I’m in over my head, I try to think of a graceful way to exit the conversation when her friend—date?—cuts in, “I never said he didn’t love you, Keely. I’m sure he did, in whatever way douchebags like that love people. I said a man who knows what lovereally iswouldn’t bring his side piece to your house or cheat on you with herin your bed. That’s what I said. And I stand by that.”
I wince, regretting heading this way, as I suddenly realize why these two look familiar. The man is Capo, one of Dean’s teammates, and the woman has to be the head of public relations for the Voodoo.
