submission.

      I need to find a new job.


      And, fast.  My cell phone has been cut off due to lack of payment, my fridge is empty except for the condiments, and I can't afford the coin laundry in my building, so I'm hand washing all my clothes in the bathtub.  My dog thinks I'm crazy.  He's the only thing in this closet-sized apartment not being completely and utterly neglected.  Not to mention the most obvious sign that I'm completely broke; I'm behind on three months of rent.  I've been throwing out the late notices I get in the mail before the words have a chance to sink into my subconscious, and wreck my positive outlook on the universe.  It'll work out.  It always does.

      I got fired from my last job, due to a variety of unlucky circumstances.  One time, my dog kept me up all night because of a thunderstorm, and would only quiet when I slept with him in the bathtub.  Well, I forgot to bring my alarm clock into the bathroom, and was so tired I slept through the entire shift, not to mention a dozen phone calls from my boss.  Another time, I dropped a glass of water on the floor, right before I was going to leave for work.  I had to clean it up, making sure I didn't leave any glass anywhere for my dog to cut himself on.  Or ingest.  It took almost an hour to clean up while simultaneously trying to keep him away from the shards on the floor.  Can you imagine if he got hurt from it?  I would die!  He's my best friend, and the only thing in my life that makes me truly happy.  Lastly, and probably more importantly, I just wasn't their best employee.  I rarely am.

      There's also something else I can't quite put my finger on.  My boss was nice, don't get me wrong, but there was something about the way she treated me.  Like I was a pity case.  She always took my side and tried to help me out, even when I was in the wrong.  There was nothing I could do that would make her angry towards me.  The odd time she was passive aggressive, and sometimes she was clearly frustrated, but still wouldn't say so.  Maybe I need someone that will be more direct with me.  Maybe I just play better with guys.

      So, I hand out some resumes, and begin my journey towards the land of employment!  I know I shouldn't bother restaurants with resumes during lunch or dinner (also, it shows a lack of experience in the industry), but unfortunately those are the only times my dog naps comfortably at home.  I only submit resumes to those restaurants that, after a brief look around, are a complete madhouse during these hours.  I operate well in chaos.

      There's a hostess, but I see a better opportunity walking behind her. "Excuse me!"  I say past her, to a distressed manager, that looks like he's on his way to yell at the kitchen for a certain table's appetizer.
      "Yeah?" He answers skeptically, slowing down slightly, but making a point not to stop and talk to me.  Usually, you can spot someone dropping off a resume a mile away; the business casual clothing, overly cheery disposition, folder in hand.  Luckily, I didn't brush my hair today, I'm wearing something I found on the floor of my apartment, and my resumes are in a crinkly ball in the bottom of my bag.  I probably smell like dog pee.

      "Are you hiring?"  I shout through the din.  
      "Leave it with the hostess," he answers, shaking his head in distain, continuing his beeline to the kitchen.  I wait; I have nowhere to be.  My dog is napping.  The hostess looks at me expectantly, and I smile funnily, trying to sway her to my cause.  She rolls her eyes.  When the manager comes back out, hurriedly stomping past the hostess stand and balancing three plates on his arms, I yell behind him, "Are you though?!  Hiring?!"  He glances back with a confused and annoyed look on his face, but pays me no mind.  The hostess' face changes as she professionally greets an older couple with a reservation, and turns to take them to their seats.  I decide here and now, that not only is this the job for me, but that man is the boss for me.  I make my move.

     I discreetly grab a pepper mill from the server station, and run to catch up.  "Fresh ground pepper?" I say after he delivers each plate.  His jaw drops to say something, his eyes narrow in skepticism.  I grind the pepper with a flourish, and finish with an enthusiastic, "Bon appetite!"  He pulls me into the hallway.

      "What are you, crazy?!"  He says, bewildered.
      "It's debatable," I answer honestly.  "But, I can start right now.  Looks like your food runner didn't show up."  He thinks it over, then takes off his suit jacket, and throws it to me.
       "The seating chart's in the kitchen.  But, do something about your hair," he adds.  "You look homeless."

      My new friend and I get along famously.  Rick; Richard for long, but I call him Dick.  He hires me as a busser, the least profitable floor position.  I do my best for a couple weeks, ensuring that I keep the job, but then I get bored with the consistency.  Making less money than everyone else doesn't bother me.  In fact, I see it as an invitation to depart from the cookie cutter of conformity, and offer my particular brand of creative and quirky service.  Also, it attracts Rick.  He sees me doing a tap dance to entertain one of the tables, and yanks me into the hallway.  "Traditionally, it's done with a cane," I joke.    
       "If you're bored, I'll give you something to do," he threatens.  I know he means something like cleaning the crust off the mustard bottles, but I prefer to think that he's coming on to me.  I give him a dramatic salute.
       "Aye, aye, Dick!"
       "I'm serious," he counters.  "And next time, wear deodorant!  Or take a shower.  One or the other."  I've pushed him.  I thrive on our flirting.  

      The next shift, Rick considers my appearance too offensive to remain in front of house.  Dry cleaning my uniform became too expensive considering what I make, and I forgot my dress shoes at home.  Having already hired me as the lowest possible position on the serving staff, he announces at the morning meeting, in front of everyone, that I will not be on the floor at all today.  "Jill will be exclusively helping with the servers' side duties.  From the kitchen.  Now, you can act like as much of a retard as you like, Jill!"  The servers snicker, but I don't feel embarrassed.  In fact, I feel oddly alright with this.  He must be hurting inside to behave with so much bravado.  I feel closer to him, recognizing that.  I stare at Rick as he finishes the rest of the meeting, feeling the corner of my mouth form an affectionate smile.

      I don a hair net, and get to work.  I wrap cutlery in paper napkins, I fill ramekins with condiments, I fold cloth napkins, I polish glasses.  I stock the server stations, I brew coffee, I make runs down to the storage room.  The work isn't too hard, and I spend the shift singing loudly to anyone who'll listen.  After I'm done my duties, I knock on Rick's office door.  It's immediately attached to the kitchen.

      "What now?"  He whines.
      "I'm done everything.  Maybe I could reorganize the stations?  Unless you had something else for me to do..."  I wink dramatically.  He shakes his head, almost as if he's trying to shoo the image from his mind.
       "No.  I mean, yes.  Do the stations.  Just don't fuck it up.  Ask the dishwasher for gloves and cleaner."  He seems nervous with me, in the small room.  I linger for a little too long, feeling something in me stir.  "Are you deaf, too?  Go!"

      The server stations have deep shelves, low to the ground, so it's no wonder they never get cleaned.  I get on my knees, apron covering them, with yellow rubber gloves in hand.  I take everything off the shelf, and put it all on trays for easy removal next time.  I think about Rick.  Dick, ha ha!  He sure puts up a nasty front.  But, I feel that there's something good in him, deep down.  Not only that, but I feel something between us.  An energy.  Something beneath the role play, that maybe he's afraid to explore?  The lowest shelf eats up most of my torso as I clean towards the back of it.  I picture Rick watching me do this menial task, and I notice my back arch and my ass stick out.  I hum a tune, and the echo in the small space is pleasing.  "Crazy, crazy for feelin' so lonelyyyyyy!"  My hips sway, and I feel sexy, not despite my garb, but because of it.  I picture Rick standing over me, ordering me to scrub the very back.  I picture him watching my bobbing ass in this ridiculous outfit, getting pleasure from the sight of me at his feet.  "I'm craaaazy for trying, craaaaazy for lying, and crazy for loving yoooouuuu," I croon.
      "Jill!"  His voice booms.  I bump my head, and retract my upper half back into the real world.
      "Ow.  Good acoustics in there!"  I remark, remaining on my knees, looking up at him.
      "I need you to..."  He hesitates.  "Stay late."
      "Sure, boss!  More cleaning?"
      "Yes.  The dishwasher is going home sick."  He looks behind him, paranoid that someone might see him speaking civilly to me.  "I'd appreciate your help."
      "Ok," I say, for once not willing or able to come up with a smart ass remark.  "No problem."  He nods, awkwardly ending the first real conversation we've ever had.

      The dish pit is a mess, and servers give me condescending looks as they add to it.  I scrape, rinse, wash, and sanitize for what seems like hours, but the only thing that really bothers me is the harsh chemicals on my hands.  I remain in my jovial mood, looking forward to the moment Rick and I are alone.  I bring the pads of my fingers closer to inspect the damage, but I hear the squeak of his shoe, and look up to see him standing there.
      "The look is becoming, don't you think?!" I quip.    He looks me up and down, from hairnet, to soaked apron, to smelly running shoes.
      "It suits you," he responds, looking oddly serious.  I laugh.
      "Ok... I assume you mean that as an insult!"
      "Uh... Yes.  Yeah."  He stands there awkwardly.
      "Time to go?  Or is there something else you would like me to do?" I say the last part not as obvious or jokey as I usually do, but as an honest offer.  I would do anything he asks.
      "You'll have to do the floors, too," he responds, and I swear I can see a bulge in his pants.  "There's a mop, but you'll have to hand wash some parts."  He retreats back into his office.

      I fill the mop bucket at the hose, which is right outside the office door.  The door is only half closed, and I try to peer past it, for a candid glimpse of Rick.  I only see his elbow, moving as if writing very quickly.  I turn off the water, and bend to lift the bucket.  Then, I hear it.  Soft grunts, and the vigorous sound of material rubbing against itself.  My eyes widen, but I avert my eyes.  He's jerking off.  Oh my god.  It's almost as if he wants me to see it, the way he absentmindedly left the door open.
      Not able to pull myself away, I dip the scrub brush in the soapy water, and get on my knees right outside the office.  I begin to wash the floor, careful not to make so much noise as to overpower his sweet moaning.  I can feel myself getting very turned on listening to him, and try to think of why he would do such a thing.  He must want me to hear him; the fact that he's touching himself is so obvious at this point.  He's such a particular man, he can't be doing this by mistake.  He wants to do this in front of me.  Oh god.  Yes!  And I want him to do it.  So badly.  I feel my pussy getting wet, but I don't allow myself the pleasure of touching it.  I close my eyes for a moment, wanting to concentrate on my desperate need.  But, I hear the door creak open behind me, and I turn to see him standing there.

      Oh.  My.  God.  Rick stands over me, with his dick in his hand.  His face in very stern, but he doesn't say a word.  I am so shocked, that my breath catches, and I feel my jaw drop.  My heart accelerates, and eyes dance around, anywhere but on his cock.  My mouth is dry, but my pussy must be dripping down my leg by now.
      "Keep scrubbing," he says, eyes locked onto me.  But, I'm so excited and nervous, I barely can bring myself to do it.  My hands won't work; I just sit there, feeling like I'm melting into the floor.   I want to please him so badly, that I take a much needed breath, hand on the wall to steady myself, and reach for the brush.  I dip it into the water, wetting it liberally, feeling the warmth of the suds.  It drips down my arm as I lift it out, and I get an almost orgasmic pleasure from it.  Every part of me wants to be touched, but I want to show him that I can deny it, and do as he says.
      I get back down on my hands and knees, scrubbing the tiles at his feet.  I look up at him; his hard cock, his hand moving methodically over it.  I'm still breathless with anticipation.  I'm so close to his erection, that I can see its veins bulging.  The tip is getting slightly wet, secreting the faintest bit of moisture every time he squeezes it.  I picture myself at his feet, from his perspective, nervously looking up at him, barely able to contain myself.  I feel my lips part with desire.  The sweat evaporates off my skin, leaving it cool and begging for his touch.   But, I press on.
      Just then, his hand slows, and I recognize the signs of an impending orgasm.  I make no move to get out of the way, in fact, I do the opposite.  I sit back on my haunches, ready for it.  I don't even open my mouth, letting his come messily hit my face and hair.  His eyes roll back, and he moans like he hasn't had an orgasm in months.

      We stand there, staring and heaving breath; mouths open in shock. "I..."  He starts, but instead breaks into a run for the washroom.  I wipe my face with the apron, and throw it into the hamper.  I take a moment, feeling a smile spread across my face at the realization of a perfect partnership.
      "See you tomorrow, Dick!!"  I cheerily yell to him, through the washroom door.  Surprisingly, he emerges.
      "Wait, I have something for you," he says, pushing past me to the office.  He gives me a small bottle of moisturizer.  "For your hands."  Do I still have come in my hair?


      I skip all the way home.  I blare music, and dance with my dog in my apartment.  He humps me for dominance.