Borrow-A-Bridesmaid by Anne Wagener Read Free Book Online

things make waves in the music world. You look like you need a drink, buddy.”
    While Charlie meanders to the bar, Sam fills me in on his latest musical exploits and his frustrations with his day job (most recently, spilling an entire plate of chicken Parmesan on his pants, “though it did make my crotch smell quite tasty”).
    Sam asks some friendly questions about where I went to school, jobs I’ve had since then. He used to work at JFK, and his airport horror stories make my Dulles experiences pale in comparison.
    Charlie returns to deposit a green glass bottle for Sam and a water for me on our table.
    â€œSo what do you do when you’re not shelving our country’s finest literature for airport clientele?” Sam asks me.
    â€œPiper’s a writer, too,” Charlie says. His lips form a crescent-moon smile.
    â€œWhat kind of stuff?” Sam asks.
    I tell them about “The Melting Girl,” a short story collection I was working on the last year of school. I describe the first story in the collection, involving a disgruntled employee who does a sword-swallowing stunt for the corporate talent show before having a quarter-life crisis and joining the circus. “Sort of a surrealist, existentialist mishmash.”
    â€œWicked,” says Sam. “I like my surrealism with some existentialism. Mmm-mmm.” He mimes patting his belly.
    I sneak a glance at Charlie to gauge his reaction. “The sword-swallowing bit would make a cool short film,” he says. “There’s this festival in L.A. every summer that I think would be right up your alley. You should come out and see it.”
    â€œI meant to ask you, dude.” Sam turns to Charlie. “How’s your job going?”
    A cloud crosses Charlie’s face. “Not great. Right before I left to come out here, someone threw a drink at me.”
    â€œSomeone threw a drink at you?” I ask in disbelief.
    â€œYeah, these movie-set types think they can treat other people like crap. They show up to get like thirty drinks for everyone on set. Then they come back a few minutes later with the do-overs. I apparently gave George Clooney one pump too few of vanilla in his macchiato.”
    Sam shakes his head. “The restaurant I work at, people like that come in all the time. Send food back for all sorts of ridiculous shit. I guess that’s how you know you’ve arrived in life. You have the right to say shit like ‘My goose is undercooked.’ ”
    Charlie smirks. “Your goose is undercooked.”
    Sam picks up his bottle and arcs his arm back as if to lob it at Charlie. “Don’t make me hurt you.”
    â€œYou know, I once sent back an order of Denny’s hash browns because there was a cockroach in them,” Charlie says. “Does that count? As having arrived in life?”
    Sam laughs. “Not exactly, dude, but nice try, nice try.” He blows into the top of his bottle, making a low note like the horn of an ocean liner echoing across water, then sets it back on the table.
    Charlie runs a hand through his hair. “You know, it doesn’t bother me as much as I thought, doing this kind of work. I sneak in the writing when I can, you know? Behind the counter, even in the bathroom.” He runs his finger around the rim of his glass. “I heard Steven Spielberg worked as an unpaid intern seven days a week when he first got to Hollywood. You gotta start somewhere. It will make the glory that much more worth it.”
    Sam straightens his back, lifts his bottle, and clinks it against Charlie’s empty glass. “Hells to the yeah.”
    They both turn to me, and I raise my glass to meet theirs. As I do, an ocean liner horn of hope sounds somewhere deep within me. One day the airport job will be the little harbored dinghy I gaze at nostalgically as my ship sails toward the horizon, the setting sun drizzling a trail of yellow-pink across the salt