Page 9 of The Beautiful Collision
Maya Hayes, daughter of Boston’s medical dynasty, owner of more La Perla than a boutique, is about to be catastrophically, undeniably, living-in-a-box homeless. My legs give their two weeks’ notice at the thought, and I slide down the cabinet until my ass meets carpet.
Last night I was invincible. Determined to piss off my parents and orchestrate hedonistic chaos for my friends. The one who could help them escape their ramen-for-dinner reality and their terror about residencies for just one night. And I accomplished the mission.
But, this morning, I’m just another broke grad student with a hickey.
three
MAINE
Forty-seven hours.That’s how many hours I work in this cesspool to make rent.
The calculation rattles around in my head as I plunge elbow-deep into the sink, excavating cigarette butts and what might’ve been lime wedges in a previous life so they don’t clog the drain. Something solid grazes my knuckles, definitely organic, possibly sentient, absolutely don’t want to know.
The stench assaults me—fermented hops breeding with whatever primordial soup thrives in bar drains after midnight—and my stomach, fuelled by half a PowerBar and pure spite, clenches like I’ve got the overtime penalty shot to win the Stanley Cup.
Someone alert SportsCenter—Maine Hamilton’s glamorous Tuesday night.
The clock glares 2:17 a.m. and the day’s plan stretches out before me. One more hour here, then five hours of unconsciousness (if I’m lucky), then morning skate where I’ll try not to vomit, then three classes I’ll try not to sleep through while professors drone about crisis management, then Pizza Plus for dinner rush.
At this rate, the Grim Reaper’s got better odds of making it to spring break.
“Yo, Ivy League!” Derek’s fingers snap like firecrackers. “Are those glasses going to wash themselves while you’re having deep thoughts?”
The words arrange themselves—Blow me sideways, Derek—but I swallow them with the rest of my pride. Because, right now, I can’t afford principles. I can’t affordanythingexcept this constant algebra of humiliation accrued versus rent money earned.
“Living the dream,” I mutter, giving up on the sink for now and hefting another rack of pint glasses.
The industrial dishwasher belches steam like a dragon with indigestion. My eyes stream from heat and exhaustion meeting in the middle. My PBU Hockey shirt—the one I wear like armor, reminding myself I’m somebody—plasters to my chest with sweat.
Eight-fifty an hour. No tips for the help while Derek pockets everything.
A crash explodes from the main floor. Through the service window, I see some jackass in a Patriots jersey standing over a constellation of broken glass. Of course it’s a Patriots fan, because the universe has a script, and this guy is playing his part perfectly.
“Ivy League!” Derek barks. “Cleanup!”
I grab the mop bucket and head out. “I’ll get that cleaned right up,” I say.
Forty-seven hours of eating shit with a smile per month. Four hundred bucks from bar work. About the same each from pizzas and my scholarship. And I might be able to cover rent, utilities, and feed myself some instant ramen.
As I mop, three more disasters bloom. A bachelor party downing shots like soda. A couple by the pool tables conductinga whisper-fight that’s basically free entertainment for the bar. And, from the women’s bathroom, I hear that special symphony of booze meeting porcelain.
I retreat to my dishwater fortress, hands raw from industrial-strength degreaser. The cracks between my fingers leak pink into the suds. And, when I’m done with that and get to work on the trash, the bag weighs enough to test my hockey conditioning as I haul it to the dumpster.
Where it detonates like a garbage grenade as I try to lift it in.
The contents cascade everywhere—old garnishes, cigarette butts, mysteries the health department doesn’t need to know about—and cold, viscous liquid penetrates my jeans and soaks my shoes... the ones that need to last through to spring because new ones aren’t happening.
“Jesus fucking—“ My voice ricochets off alley walls. A one-eyed cat materializes from behind the dumpster, hissing. “Sorry, Cyclops. Didn’t mean to interrupt your Michelin-star dining experience. Save room for dessert, because I think there’s half a mozzarella stick in here somewhere.”
The cat blinks its one eye, unimpressed with my attempt at conversation.
With a sigh, I head back inside, where Derek waves me over. “Need the kegs changed downstairs. Bud Light’s dead.”
“That’s a two-person job,” I point out, knowing it’s useless. “You know, spinal injuries, worker’s comp…”
He snorts. “You play hockey. All those muscles gotta be good for something besides taking up space.”
“Sure thing, boss,” I say, as cheerfully as I can muster, because I need the paycheck. “I’ll just use my NHL-ready spine as a forklift.”
