The reek of coconut oil, octogenarian golfer feet and carbon paper wafted to Lena’s nose and conspired to break her lead stomach. The feet and coconut oil belonged to the esteemed Mr. Lawson, who, after a cartless–a point of which he made sure to inform Lena as he flexed a flaccid muscle in his left arm and eased himself onto the massage table–18 holes at the Black Diamond’s notorious all-hill course, was in desperate need of a foot rub at the Calming Waves Spa, her first employ of the day. Lena’s subsequent lateness to The Parlor Grille, her second employ, the source of carbon paper in the reek cocktail and the resultant dramatics from her hyperbole and histrionics-prone boss, Piero, too, was owed to the overworked piggies of Mr. Lawson and the all-hill Black Diamond golf course. Lena stifled the gag reflex long enough to scribble the neon-dry-erase-penned-specials on her waiter’s pad.
At 4:36PM on the dot, the crack of a rolled-up newspaper to her ass and the unmistakable smell of multiple blue-ribbon apple sauce, Nat Shermans and Chanel woke Lena from her olfactory and neon-dry-erase-penned-special hypnosis.
– You smell like feet.
– It’s the notepad. Want your usual?
– Make it a margarita. I’m celebrating.
– You know it. And a Bud back.
– And a Bud back. Got it.
The old woman walked towards the dining room.
– Watch your –
– Step. I know, dear. I know. And you do smell like feet.