The Job: Volume One (The Job #1) Read online

  Time for bed, I think to myself as I pick up my nearly empty glass of wine, close my laptop and make my way for the kitchen. The entire walk I debate on pouring out that last sip or just going for it. Airing on the side of caution, I dump the mouthful before I live to regret the choice of chugging it in the morning and make my way to bed.

  At a quarter after ten on Saturday morning, I am awakened by my phone ringing. Beyonce rings through my hung over head as I pry my eyes open in my bright bedroom and silently curse myself for drinking that last glass of wine. Peering at the caller ID, I can see my best friend Cindy calling. Probably looking to drag my ass out of bed and go eat something since I am positive her children are with her ex-husband Ken for the weekend. Something about Disney World and annual passes. All I know is it sent her into a fucking tizzy because she couldn’t afford to do it and now Daddy looks like savior of the year to the boys.

  “Hello?” I whisper into the phone and struggle to clear my throat.

  “Up and at ‘em, Sleeping Beauty! Time to go stuff our faces!” Yup, I was right on the money. “Why are you still in bed anyway? Shouldn’t you be up crafting or blogging some new dinner recipe?” She sasses me, but the truth is she knows me so much better than anyone in the world. Even my own mother.

  “I had a late night. I stayed up filling out job applications and e-mailing my resume to anyone that would accept it.” Desperation is a disgusting feeling. It’s dirty and I hate feeling so helpless. Especially when it is all the fault of someone else.

  “Whatever. Get up, wash your crusty ass and meet me at The Cracked Egg in forty five minutes. I’m timing you.” She laughs knowing there are some days my hair alone takes that long to dry. Not that I could remember a time I cared enough to make myself look as nice as I used to.

  “Give me an hour.” I say, throwing the covers off and swinging my legs off of the side of the bed. My feet hang like a child’s from the high sleigh bed. With a little hop, I make contact with the floor and hang the phone up tossing it onto the bed. I make quick work of my shower, and instead of throwing my hair back in a wet, high, messy bun, I actually leave it down. Brushing and drying it ever so slightly before adding a little eyeliner and lip gloss. Yes, lip gloss. Victoria Secret not only makes a bombshell of a bra, but they can also make my lips look like I paid for them.

  Looking in the mirror at my reflection, I already feel so much better about myself than when I caught a scary glimpse of what I’ve been becoming last night. Maybe the extra time in the morning will be worth it in the long run. Let’s be honest, half the battle when looking for a job as a woman is looking attractive. No one wants to look at a tired and washed up old woman everyday when they could be looking at someone their daughter’s age. Repulsive, but so damn true.

  Before I leave the house I go searching for my phone. If I had a dime for every time I lost it somewhere I put it down I’d be rich. A millionaire! I wouldn’t need a damn job! Thankfully, I remember I tossed it on the bed, so I can finally hit the road. I’m already late, but I don’t think Cindy is really going to give a shit. Sliding my home screen open, I look down and see an obscene amount of emails.

  “YES!” I scream while I fist pump in the air, assuming they are all replies to my resume. Completely forgetting the personal ad I put up. Tapping my finger on the e-mail icon I realize the vast majority of the e-mails are replies to the ad. My mood goes from insanely high to abysmal in an instant. What am I doing so wrong?

  I want to lecture myself, but I wait for the car ride to do that.

  Why didn’t I get any replies to my resume? Because it was a Friday night and no one wants to be working on a Saturday morning. I hold out hope that come Monday morning my e-mail will be chock full of inquiries and interviews.

  Why did my ad get so much attention? Because it was Friday night and I am willing to bet most of those men were banking on a cheap fuck. Isn’t that what most guys do on Friday night? Except now it’s not trolling bars, it’s trolling the internet for fresh meat. Don’t even have to leave their houses anymore to try and get laid. Ain’t technology some shit?

  “You’re late,” Cindy says as I join her in the back corner booth of our favorite mom and pop breakfast spot. “I ordered you a coffee, but I’m pretty sure it’s cold by now.” She smiles while winking at me. Like always, Cindy looks perfectly put together. Her long brown hair is braided in one of those fancy Pinterest pictures that make us all victims of burning ourselves with a curling iron trying to accomplish perfection. Her black-framed glasses sit on the bridge of the nose her husband paid to have fixed once upon a time, and her blue eyes are bright.

  “I actually took the time to make myself look somewhat presentable. Aren’t you happy you don’t have to be seen with frumpy Maddie today?” I laugh as I poke fun at myself. Something that isn’t rare by any means.

  “What climbed up your ass? Got a man sniffing around?” Cindy questions me while popping a piece of a homemade apple fritter in her mouth.

  “I think I am finally ready to get back on the horse. Maybe…” I admit in a moment of weakness. Cindy is my confidant in so many ways, but I am still an extremely private person. I don’t like sharing certain details of my life. Cindy and many of the women we are friends with think it is no big deal to talk about sucking dick or how their husband wanted them to stick a butt plug in their ass. Me on the other hand? I just like to keep some things private. I know there are women I’ll never look at the same again for their bedroom tales. I couldn’t imagine being on the other end of that.

  “So I found this article I wanted to show you. It’s from a woman in Manhattan, but I couldn’t put it down last night.” She hands her cellphone over and I start to read.

  “How I Became a Craigslist Hooker.” I almost choke on my coffee when I read the title. My memories from all the ads the night before flash through my memory. I’m trying to keep a straight face as I skim the article I am definitely going to have to Google when I get home.

  “Ain’t that some shit?” Cindy says and turns up her nose. Nothing unusual because she’s never had to be poor. If it wasn’t a rich husband, it was rich parents. I’d be lying if I said there were some days when being her friend was trying. Especially being such a working class woman.

  “It certainly is an interesting read.” I say, and thankfully we are interrupted by the waitress coming to take my order.

  An hour later we are both still picking at our leftover meals and shooting the shit when Cindy starts to purge everything in her head. I know when it begins because it wouldn’t be the first time it has happened over one of our Saturday morning brunch sessions.

  “Ken is getting re-married. He knocked her up, so she has her claws stuck in him now. She is only twenty-five! I can’t believe he would go for someone so young. I can’t believe he would be so stupid! He should have gotten that vasectomy I told him to all those years ago after Riley was born. But nooooooo! No one was coming near his dick with a scalpel. Well, he might as well cut it off and hand it over to this girl! I can’t believe how stupid he would be to even put himself or our children in this position! The worst part… he didn’t even tell me himself! Jaxon did! He came home from his visit on Wednesday night and told me all about how Daddy brought his fat girlfriend out to dinner with them, and then get this: He told them they are going to be big brothers!!”

  Her perfectly made up face is red, and if I didn’t know any better I would think she was about to explode. Literally explode. Her words flew from her mouth so fast I almost didn’t pick up on what she was saying or where this conversation was going.

  “Well, Cindy. You can’t be mad about it. He has to get on with his life, and if you think about it, the boys are going to be big brothers. He is still their father.” I try and talk some reason into her. I have to be her voice of reason most of the time because, if not, she would be on that OWN Network show Snapped by now. “It’s time to get back on the horse yourself, find a hot young kid… the pool boy, something! Make him jealous too
. It’s a two way street, love.”

  The words I am speaking should be advice I take myself. I should have gotten back at Drew the only way I really know I could, by moving on. But instead, I decided to drive the crazy train into lonely single mother town and park it there. No way. Not anymore.

  I’m not sure if I needed to see my best friend meltdown like Britney Spears, but the astonishing amount of clarity her own disaster of a life has brought me is exactly what I needed right now.

  “I don’t know what to do, Maddie.” I can see tears pooling in her eyes and I don’t want her to cry. All those times she talked me down from the verge of tears? I owe her my strength to see her through her own problems.

  “Cindy, all you can do is accept that life is changing, and move on. Tears aren’t going to help. I can promise you that because I’ve spent the last year with the salty taste of rejection on my own lips. It’s time for us to do this together; move on and make our lives fabulous. We deserve it!”

  Not sure if my pep talk worked or not. I round the table and give my partner in crime the biggest squeeze I can muster up and pray life works out for the both of us.

  I’m not sure if I’m ashamed of the fact that I put up a personal ad or if I just don’t want anyone to know much about my personal life, but I wait hours until I am back in the safety of my own home to read through my email replies. Right off the bat, I can weed out any without pictures. I’m not sure if I am being a snob or not, but something about conversing with someone and not knowing what they look like, or even if they are in good shape, is a huge no-no for me. Maybe I just want to know that they are real? But, then again, that whole Catfish show is proof enough that anyone can be anything on the internet.

  Halfway through my massive e-mail deleting project, I think about the news article Cindy showed me over our brunch. My wheels begin to turn. Opening up Google, I type in the title and pray I can find it easily. Two quick searches and I am lost in the tale of a twenty something college student and how she accidentally became a prostitute. Now, I guess from the perspective of most people, it sounds like a tall tale. A whole bunch of bullshit. But, the more I read, the more I understand exactly where she is coming from. The desperation to live. The hopelessness of rejection after rejection for good paying jobs. The lost feeling of not really knowing where exactly to turn.

  And the feeling of being wanted and desired after so many people have turned their back on you. Hell, we could be one in the same. I never in a million years would have thought that at my age I could relate to this young girl and her account of sucking dick to make ends meet, but I do. I do so much more than a woman like myself should.

  It just goes to prove that you can’t take most people at face value. It wouldn’t take much for me to go on CL and ask for donations like she did, which is apparently the right way to ask for someone to pay you for your services - or your body for the night. It doesn’t sound as dirty. Donations make you into a charity case, a cause for someone to assist.

  The author’s mix of loneliness and general disappointment with her love life is something that I can beyond relate to. My love life is nonexistent. The last time I could say I actually dated was over a decade ago. Pre-kids, pre-husband, pre-internet dating. Pre-everything modern we know of today. I know I shouldn’t be thinking about even considering this, but the mounting bills, and the fact that our cable got turned off a few days ago, is enough for me to do anything to make a couple bucks. Especially before my kids decide to tell their dad about it. Drew would never let me hear the end of it. Not in a million damn years.

  He’d gloat at my failure. Just like he always did over the years. A bad dinner recipe or a burnt tray of cookies was enough to put a smile on his face. Yeah, I shouldn’t have put up the front that I was perfect since I am so far from it, but in my heart of hearts it was all for him. Ungrateful piece of shit.

  Closing out the article, I return to my mass of e-mails wondering who else I can kick off the island before I actually start to reply to a couple of these men. The second batch to go is the old fat men who are surely as old as my own father, if not older. Then go the straight dick pictures. You can’t reply with anything more than a picture of your penis? Yikes! Last are the married men. Married but searching. Looking for passion. Something on the side. Yeah, no thank you. If they only realized I had been on the other end of that kind of cheating they would run for the hills. For a split second I think about reeling these men in for the sole purpose of turning them over to their wives. Or their wives’ divorce attorneys. Wouldn’t that be some shit?

  Out of fifty-six e-mails, I am left with ten. Ten possible men to consider an actual date with. In the back of my mind I can’t ditch the idea of placing a personal ad with the sole purpose of making money. The e-mails I open in hopes of an actual date, I find myself wondering if these men would pay me simply for my company? Are these the kind of men that go onto that website looking for a hooker? Am I the kind of woman that could even be a hooker?

  Holy shit, Christ on a cracker! Am I actually… seriously… considering this? Could I ever bring myself to really be one of those kind of women? Could I do this as a temporary thing to support my children until I can find a real job that will pay me a real salary?

  It all sounds a bit outlandish, but I’ve never felt so hopeless or cornered in all my life. It isn’t a good feeling. However, at the same time, the mere thought of a man paying me to have sex with him, or even just watching me in some sort of solo sexual act, is exhilarating. It turns me on and makes me feel wanted. It makes me feel desired, craved, yearned for. It makes me feel the way that most women want to.

  I type out a couple innocent replies to these men, who really seem to have their shit together and are looking for a genuine connection and then I open up the website again. It is time to place a new ad, but tonight this isn’t going to be able finding love or even trying to take my mind off the marriage I once wanted more than anything in this world.

  Tonight it is about finding a way to support my children. Tonight is about feeling sexy. Tonight is about feeling like I am in control of my life. Like I have some kind of power in the situation. I make the rules. I set the prices. I pick and choose what men I will consider. God damn it Maddie, when did life come to this? I should be disgusted by the thought, but I’m thrilled. I want this more than I want the money that will go along with this sham.

  Before I lose my courage, which is surprisingly not fueled by alcohol tonight, I start to type my ad out, wording it ever so carefully. Between the fear of the law and Craigslist diligently removing these kinds of ads, I need to word it perfectly.

  Single Mom Looking 4 Help

  Thirty something mom, in excellent shape looking for companionship.

  Short term, or long term with mutual understanding.

  Protection is a must.

  Clean men only.

  Pictures are a must. (E-mails without pictures will be ignored)

  Open for all different kinds of stuff.

  Vanilla to Kinky.

  Thinking of ways to make my ad stand out, I decide to include a picture. Nothing too revealing and definitely nothing with my face. That would be a public death sentence right there. I could hear the rumor mill churning already. Did you hear about that Atlantic Elementary PTA mom who got busted for being a whore? PTA by day, red light district by night. I’d never live that down and Drew would take custody of the kids so fast my head would spin.

  I opt for a picture of myself in my bra and panties. Picking one of the fancy sets I bought trying to seduce my husband even though he was already screwing that little girl. The cream and black set make my lightly tanned body look good for a change. Cropping my face out of the picture, I attach it to the ad and hit publish before I have a chance to actually wimp out.

  This is me finally taking charge of my life and making choices I want to make. In the long run it may not be a good choice, but this is what I need to do for now so I can get some money in the bank and give my children ev
erything they deserve.

  The first few e-mail replies I receive are men looking to meet up tonight. As in a couple hours from now. I’m not sure if it is nerves or what, but I want nothing to do with any of it. Then comes the e-mail I never expected.

  Dear Desperation,

  I am sure you have had a lot of replies to your ad this evening. I’m not going

  to be like those men and ask how much for a blow job or whatever crass wants

  they have tonight. I’ve been in your position once upon a time and I want

  nothing more than companionship. Can I pay you to come have a drink with

  me on the beach and see what goes from there?

  I’m a 45 year old widow. My wife passed away from cancer nearly a year ago

  and I have this big home to myself. It gets lonely and night after night I

  cruise through these ads hoping to find a genuinely good person. Someone

  real with a good head on their shoulders. Would this be you?

  No sex. Nothing creepy. $300 for a few hours of your time tonight.

  If we hit it off, and want to take it to another level, I’ll compensate you generously.

  Signed,

  Lonely on the Beach

  Also known as Brian

  I re-read the email a number of times wondering if something like this could actually be for real. Everything about it seems like a scam. The picture attached is an older gentleman with the beginnings of grey around his sideburns. His dark hair is neatly trimmed and he is wearing a light button down shirt. He had the perfect smile and everything about him screams professional. This is the part where my own judgment is a problem because I feel like Lonely on the Beach is just too much of a good guy. I’m not that lucky by any means.