Chapter 3 Coffee, Chaos and a Chance encounter

From the coffee shop, it was a short walk through the grove to the hospice center where I worked. Half a dozen obese pigeons crowded around me, and as is my morning habit, I tipped my change into the hands of the elderly homeless man who had taken up residence beneath one of the palms.

By the time I walked through the door, I felt pretty damn good about myself.

"Morning, Sharon." My overworked supervisor, Ella, flashed me a worn smile as I swept up to the front counter to sign in. "You look...peppy?"

I gave her an overly animated smile. "Just made a virtual citizen's arrest at our local coffee shop. "You know, keeping the city safe."

"Uh huh," she replied faintly, hearing but not listening as she thumbed through some documents. "Okay, here we go. Mr. Henry in 308 requires a blood glucose reading." Yeah, I was trained to do part of what nurses do."Mrs. Caldwell refuses to take a shower, while Mrs. Montoya in 207 maintains that her family is currently driving across the nation to see her. She's spent the entire morning crafting a Welcome banner.

Ella handed me a stack of task assignments to complete before I left, and she clocked out with a big smile.

"Um...thanks."

She winked. "Good luck." Then she was gone.

Needless to say, my adrenaline rush was gone by 10:05. I moved from room to room, drawing familiar circles and recognizing familiar faces. I like my job, don't get me wrong. It's only... I had been at the same institution for about three years and hoped to have landed an acting job by now. Hospice was not a permanent employment. Patients were divided into two groups: those who had been rejected by the health-care system and were temporarily utilizing us as a recovery center owing to budget cuts, and those who came here not to recuperate but to die.

In any case, no matter how many individuals you met, you wouldn't spend much time with them.

Sophia kept asking me about it. She didn't comprehend how I could devote my entire life to death and dying. I was the person in the patient's life who would see them through to the end, offering palliative end-of-life treatment. And I wanted to make their final days comfortable. I want to be that trusted and compassionate adviser who helped patients and families find peace and dignity. But no matter how many ways I tried to describe it, she'd always say it sounded like a Stephen King movie and insist we talk about something else.

I pushed open a door, and Mrs. Montoya, a woman I'd spoken with every day for the previous eight months, asked me my name. I closed it behind me with a groan.

This was going to be a long day.

When I eventually arrived home and pushed the apartment door shut, Sophia jumped up to meet me as if she hadn't been impersonating The Walking Dead all morning.

"How was work?" she inquired brightly.

I removed my scarf and let my purse fall on the floor. I handed her the bag containing the items she had instructed me to purchase. "Work was fine." I felt as if I'd been answering the same question for the past thousand years. It was clearly time for a change. "I got thrown up on."

"That's awesome!" she shouted, clearly blocking out anything I was about to say as she waited excitedly for her turn to speak.

I restrained a chuckle as she bounced her foot up and down, her deeply charcoaled eyes brimming with anticipation. "Why, Sophia, how was your day?"

"I got a callback!" she said.

My mouth dropped open, and she moved from side to side like a possessed bobblehead.

"I understand! It was for the dystopian Western thing. I'm going to be..." She stopped for dramatic effect. "Hot Ranch Chick Number Seven." She removed the tequila from the bag and smiled. "I am going to celebrate with this! I cannot believe I got this job!"

"That's amazing," I exclaimed, my mind racing with possibilities. "And to think, I could have been number eight."

"No, their quota for white girls was filled," she responded practically. "To be number eight, you'd have to be Asian."

"Oh." I thought about this for a second before adding, "Congratulations! "I am so proud of you!"

"Thanks! Thank you for stopping by the store."

"No issue. "Oh my goodness!" I suddenly remembered. "I saw a fight today!"

"Wow," she said, raising her eyebrows in admiration. "Your first real fisticuffs. What was it about? "Was it gang related?"

"It was over a parking spot," I stated confidently. "Well, actually I stopped it before they came to blows...but I'm sure it was headed that way."

She shot me a long look. "So you finally see the makings of a fight, a long-standing life ambition, but you stop it before it can actually get there?"

I felt as though I literally deflated. "...yeah, I guess so."

She touched me kindly on the shoulder. "Come on, I ordered Chinese."

Thank you. "I am starving!"

I followed her into the kitchen and was astounded to find an elaborate setup. She had brought out our nicest silverware, and for once, we weren't dining from paper plates. There were even a few chipped tea lights to provide ambiance.

"What the-"

She pressed a button, and Florence and the Machine began screeching in the background.

My eyes furrowed and I looked at her suspiciously. "All this for Hot Ranch Chick Number Seven?"

"Well, not exactly." Anxious and delighted, she dragged out a chair and shoved me down in an adorable manner. "The issue is, Shay... I actually secured both of us a job. However, it has nothing to do with hot ranch girls.

"Really? That is wonderful."

"It is, and it isn't."

I cocked one brow. "What do you mean?"

"Well, we don't get paid like normal." She smiled while I grimaced. "But it's fantastic for our image. And we have the opportunity to meet some major names. We might also earn a significant bonus simply by mentioning the agency. If we bring in work, we get a hefty bonus. Think of this as enjoyable work. We're heading to a party! And it is tonight!"

"A party?"

"Who wouldn't want to party on a Friday night? "I'll tell you more in the salon," she said. "They're getting us all fixed up!"

"Who?"

"You simply need to trust me. Come on now, girl. It's time to get primped! Of course, when we finish this delicious supper, I got us."

I laughed. "We're not eating on paper plates, so that's five star dining to me."

"Not to mention, we're not using plastic forks."