“HERE’S YOUR UNIFORM.” Cassidy, my overseer this fine morning, holds out a pleated white skirt and a beige polo shirt.
Although neither is made of enough material to class them as clothing. The skirt could pass for a fabric offcut used in crafting, not part of a work uniform. Unless your job is stripping, then sure. Why not.
“What’s your shoe size? Five?”
Funny… she didn’t ask what my dress size is. Either one-size-fits-all or she ventured a guess. Not a good one if she thinks I’ll fit in a size zero. Considering the skimpy polo shirt and lewdly short skirt she wears and an identical set I’m now holding, it might be—one must fit all, or you can’t work here.
“Six,” I say.
Cass grabs brand-new white canvas sneakers and a beige baseball cap off the shelf. “Go get changed. The changing room is over there.” She gestures at the door across the employee common area, pulling a small key out of her polo shirt’s breast pocket. “Locker fourteen is yours. We should be out on the course in fifteen minutes, so hurry up.”
My shoes sink into the plush, brown carpet as I cross the stuffy room. Pushing the door open, I peek inside, frowning. I expected something more discreet—little booths with drapes like those in boutiques, but no. The changing room is an open space with lockers scattered around the perimeter and wooden benches bunched in the middle.
An older lady, scrubbing dusty-pink tiles in an adjacent shower area, peers up when I enter. She dabs at the beads of sweat glistening along her hairline with a handkerchief, sending me a small smile as she tucks gray hair behind her ears.
I offer her a smile in return, stopping at my locker. I’m not shy, but stripping to my underwear while any other female employee can walk in here is a touch nerve-wracking. I squeeze into the short-short skirt that ends half an inch below my ass, then tug on the polo shirt, groaning at my reflection in a long mirror hanging on the wall. The button-less V-neck ends low on my sternum, exposing my boobs, firmly pressed together courtesy of the skin-tight fit. Pole dancers at the club I worked a few years ago wore more clothes writhing around the poles than I’m wearing now, getting ready to sell beer, water, and sodas at the poshest place in Newport Beach.
I leave the baseball cap behind, turn the key, and head back to the common room. The temperature outside is in the eighty degrees range, but clouds gathered over Newport Beach early morning, obscuring the sunshine.
Bummer.
I chose California mainly for the weather, and what do you know? Two days of living the American Dream and zero sunshine so far. Figures. I’d have more chance at a pretty, golden tan in Greece.
“You look cute.” Cassidy beams while I tame my long, dark curls into a high ponytail. “You’ll be the center of attention for the next few days before everyone gets to know you.” She readjusts her platinum-blonde ponytail, sliding a cap over it, and leads me outside through the French doors. “This one will be yours.” She points at one of five identical beverage carts parked in a neat line. “I’ll get you started today, but tomorrow you’ll be unsupervised, girl, so pay attention. We’re busiest Friday through Sunday…”
My mouth curves into a blissful smile as my head spins from left to right. The golf course is picture-perfect—eighteen holes stretched over one hundred acres of lush greenery, a throw-of-a-hat away from the beach. The pictures featured on the website hardly do this place justice.
Several A-list actors and celebrities are among the club’s members. Considering the luxury cars parked outside, it’s safe to assume everyone who golfs here rolls around in cash.
Back home, I’ve only seen a Ferrari once, on a school trip to Athens. Here, not one but two Ferraris are parked out front, both red. Richie-rich golfers fill me with hope. Maybe they tip as well as the “Confessions of a Cart Girl” blog I read implied.
Newport Beach should not be the destination for anyone trying to start a new life. The living cost here is triple the national average, but the pay is higher than in most places, so I chose to write a new chapter of my life right here.
I need every penny to survive in America. After I won the Green Card Lottery last year, I spent endless hours researching different locations. California was my first choice from the start, but Orange County or Newport Beach, to be precise, won me over because wherever I called asking about possible job openings, everyone said they always needed staff.
If I can earn money, I can stay afloat.
Hospitality flourishes in California all year round, but it’s extra busy during summer when tourists visit the breath-taking resorts, and trust fund kids return home from Ivy League colleges eager to unwind, party, and spend their parents’ money.
Four days ago, I packed my life into three large suitcases and boarded a long-haul flight from Thessaloniki in Greece to Los Angeles, with layovers in Zurich and Munich. Choosing a twenty-nine-hour trip over seventeen saved me four hundred dollars. It would’ve been cheaper if I traveled off-season, but I wouldn’t find work this fast.
Once I was officially admitted to the United States at Los Angeles International Airport, I was on my last legs, not looking forward to a three-hour bus ride to Newport Beach, but I made it. Yay.
With no friends or family who could help me by offering a space on their couch for a few weeks, I checked into the cheapest motel, with no more than eight hundred dollars to my name.
So far, so good.
I have a job and a roof over my head. A stinky, filthy roof, but I’m nothing if not adaptable. I’ve slept in worse places than a wet dog-smelling motel room.
A prison cell, for example.
“Can you work weekends?” Jared, the general manager, joins us outside. The aviators pushed up to the bridge of his long nose, hide a set of striking dusty-blue eyes that scrutinized me yesterday during my interview. His ash-blond hair is swept to one side, completing the preppy look dictated by his clothes—beige chinos, a white top, and a thin gray sweater draped over his neck. Surely, it’s a fashion statement because the temperature does not warrant a sweater.
“I’ll work every shift you’ll give me,” I assure. How on earth did a man in his mid-twenties land a job managing the poshest Golf Club in the OC? “Sixteen hours a day, seven days a week if that’s an option.”
He pushes the shades to his head, messing up his perfect hairstyle. “Nine hours a day, five days a week, Friday through Tuesday. We might occasionally consider you for bar work when were understaffed. Though, if you’re really interested, you could cover Cassidy’s shifts when she’s incapacitated,” he stresses the last word with a smirk.
It doesn’t take a genius to decipher the code. By the sound of that, Cassidy sufferers from chronic hangovers. She’s twenty-three, a year younger than me, and does seem like the party type with her electric personality. During our short meet and greet, she relayed a condensed life story—she majored in photography, moved to Newport Beach at eighteen, and dreams of owning a photography studio. She also mentioned she goes by Cass, not Cassidy, most of the time.
I look back at Jared. “Whenever you need me, I’ll be here.”
“Good. That’s what I like to hear.” His eyes are fixed on the screen of his iPad. “I need a few more details from you. We’ll sort it out after your shift.” He sizes me up, but it hardly looks sexual. More like he’s appraising a product, wondering if it’ll sell. “Keep your hair up, smile, and if you want to make good tips, don’t let them know you’re smart.”
“Why can’t they know I’m smart?”
“Most golfers expect the cart girls to be pretty, dumb and to laugh at their crude, sexist jokes. You’ll get tipped well if they like you, and whatever they give you is yours to keep.”
The blog I read about the ABCs of working as a cart girl mentioned obnoxious golfers, but until now, I thought the scandalous posts were poor attempts at driving more traffic to the website.
Apparently not.
Whatever. If cute, broad smiles equal higher tips, then so be it. After two days in Newport Beach, my wallet’s contents officially shrunk to four hundred and ninety dollars. The cheapest place I found advertised in Newport Gazette is fourteen hundred dollars for a tiny, claustrophobic studio eight miles from the golf course.
To move out of the motel, I’ll need to save at least double the monthly rent, so I better practice a convincing smile.
“Any questions?” Jared asks, glancing at a silver watch adorning his wrist.
“None so far.”
“Good. Come find me once you’re done today. We’ll finish the paperwork.” He strolls back inside, his steps rushed as if he’s running late for a meeting.
“Right, let’s start. We don’t have much time.” Cassidy rounds the cart, running her fingers along the display shelves and fridges where different beverages are stored, and starts her monologue, filling my head with information. “On a typical weekend, you’ll go through six cases of Bud Light, four cases of Coors Light, and two cases of Corona.” She uses her fingers to show the numbers as if she’s worried my English is lacking and I won’t understand if she foregoes visual aids.
The monologue continues while she points out important details, explains how the cart works and describes which golfers I should not flirt with if I don’t want to be groped. I soak in every detail like a dry sponge, making mental notes until seven o’clock sharp when Cassidy fires up the cart. We head toward the first hole, where four middle-aged men have already teed off.
“Morning, Cass,” one says. He’s not looking at her, though. His eyes are on me, roving my frame, one eyebrow raised. “Who’s the new girl?”
I inhale a deep breath, smile wide and jump out of the cart, smoothing the narrow fabric surrounding my hips—a skirt by definition but it wouldn’t pass for a belt in my granny’s eyes.
“Hey, Jerry,” Cassidy chirps, batting her long eyelashes as she pinches a lock of blonde hair between her fingers, her voice artificially sweet. “This is Thalia. She’s a trainee.”
She’s got the innocent flirtatious look right on the money. Maybe she’d be willing to take on an apprentice? I could do with a few tricks up my sleeve.
“Thalia,” Jerry repeats, testing the word, eyes focused on my boobs playing peek-a-boo out of my V-neck. “What do you do, beautiful? College?”
I arch a questioning eyebrow. It’s one thing to expect flirting and a different thing entirely being ogled by a man who could easily pass for my father. Or for the first sentence spoken toward me to contain an endearment.
“Not anymore,” I say, practicing a convincing American accent. Not that it works. Anyone with a half-decent hearing can tell I’m not from around here. “I’m new in town.”
A row of snow-white, immaculate teeth peer between Jerry’s chapped lips. “That’s an interesting accent you’ve got there. Let me guess…” He sizes me up again with narrowed-eye scrutiny, stopping at my boobs as if their size will betray my nationality. “Spain?”
“No, Greece.”
Cassidy serves one of the men, popping a cap off a bottle of Corona with undeniable ease. Jerry’s friends stop by his side, their hungry eyes looking me over from the ground up as if I’m a mail-order bride awaiting her groom.
As shameful as it sounds, I had, for a split second, considered registering on one of those websites. Thankfully, I chose the Green Card Lottery instead. And good thing I won or I probably would’ve married a man like Jerry, desperate to escape my homeland. Greece is a lovely country, full of spirited people… the same people who wish I’d rot in jail or die a slow, painful death, burned at the stake.
“How old are you?” Jerry’s friend, a balding man in his forties, asks, scratching his long beard.
“Twenty-four. What can I get you? Soda? Beer? Water?”
“A bottle of Coors Light, dear.”
At seven in the morning? I bite my tongue before the question escapes my lips. His drinking habits are none of my business, so I fetch the beer, mimicking Cassidy’s cap popping with less ease. Another golfer approaches, equally curious to know who I am and where I came from. By the time Cassidy and I head to the common room for a break at ten, I’ve been asked about my accent by every person I served.
Mediterranean features, coupled with my sudden arrival, are the main reasons why men swarmed to me all morning. At first glance, it’s obvious I’m not American, but not one person asked directly. They all waited until I betrayed my roots with a thick accent, and then their mouths curled into knowing smiles.
“You’ll make a killing in tips,” Cass says when we restock the cart after the break. “We haven’t had a foreigner here in two years. Men sure love you, European girls. Two years ago, a Polish chick made enough cash in tips after three months that she paid off her entire college tuition.”
“In three months?” I echo. No way she earned a few hundred dollars a day… I reach into my pocket, pulling out my tips. My hands grow clammy because what I initially considered a ten-dollar bill from Jerry is a hundred.
One-hundred-dollar tip from one man.
I’d need to work nine hours straight to earn that, but he casually slipped it in my breast pocket as if it wasn’t more than a few dollars change. I didn’t even flirt with him! How much money could I make if I put more effort into my smile?
My initial nervousness vanishes when the break is over. I’m here to make a living. If innocent flirting is the way to go, then so be it. I’ve spent three nights at the motel, but I’m desperate to rent a place now, regardless of how tiny it’ll be. Paper-thin walls of my temporary room and a bed that’s probably ridden with STDs drive me crazy. I’m more than willing to use my European good looks to flee the motel faster.
By four o’clock, I’m exhausted, but my spirits are lifted when I count the tips. The stack of money spread out on the table makes my eyes water. Three hundred and sixty-five dollars. Three day’s worth of work earned within nine hours.
I swallow the sour disgust burning my throat and lock my conscience in a puzzle box somewhere inside my head. This is not the time to act dignified and self-sufficient. This is the time to use all means available to survive and build a new life, safe from my sketchy past.
“Good, huh?” Cass taps her long, red nails on the tabletop. “Listen, I’m going out with my girls tomorrow evening. Come with us. I’m sure you could use a few friends.”
I can’t fault the girl. We spent nine hours together, chatting and laughing. She’s cheerful, charming, and surprisingly helpful. She’s also right; I could use new friends. Accepting the invitation isn’t a practical move, considering I should save every penny, but she might not invite me again if I say no, and nobody wants to be a loner. I’ve always been a social person, surrounded by a group of friends. When they were brutally taken away from me, courtesy of my cuffed hands and my face on the cover of every newspaper in the country, I struggled with my mental health.
“Sure, that sounds great. Thank you. What time and where should we meet?”
“We haven’t decided which bar we want to hit. Give me your phone number. I’ll text you later with the details. I booked tomorrow off, so I won’t see you here.”
We exchange numbers, and I shimmy out of my uniform, changing back into jean shorts and a loose t-shirt before I head outside, ready for the five-mile trek back to the motel.
