It was 6:30 p.m. The air was hot, damp, and buzzing with mosquitoes. I had just clocked out of my summer job as a cart girl at a neighborhood golf course. My pockets were stuffed with bills, my hips were swinging under my pleated athletic skirt, and a piece of bubble gum was popping between my lips. It was just like any other summer weeknight.
I slipped into my car and turned on the radio, checking my phone for any notifications missed during my twelve-hour shift. The sky was lit with the fading sunset, swatches of yellow and pink streaking across it. Addison Rae’s newly-released song, “Diet Pepsi,” came on the radio, and her dulcet tones began to stream through the stereo box. “My boy’s a winner, he loves the game,” she sang. I thought about my own boys: Jeff, 74, former news executive; Lyle, 54, wealth manager; and Richard, 68, retired Head of Sales at Verizon, among others. “My lips reflect off his cross gold chain.” I thought about the ways I had scammed these men out of their twenties today: giving them an extra Fireball shot (diluted with iced tea), a free beer (I charged them double regardless), or a peek up my skirt as I grabbed them a cup of ice to fend off heat stroke (even though they’re literally so old, gag).
“My cheeks are red like cherries in the spring,” Rae sang. My cheeks, too, were still flushed from my hours on the green. I fastened my seatbelt. Click! It had been a slow day – I had only made a couple hundred in tips. The men had also been pretty tame today. Well, except for Walter, 77, retired pharmaceuticals rep, who told me that he’d make me his bride if it was the last thing he did. He was joking, of course, but I did notice a malicious glimmer in his eyes as I handed him his G&T. “When I drive in your car, I’m your baby.” As I pulled out of the parking lot, I thought about my sexy, 6’6” boyfriend, waiting for me at his house with a fresh pan of chicken parmesan. He always lets me drive his baby blue Camaro.
“Losing all my innocence in the backseat.” Screech! I slammed on my brakes. As Addison’s sweet, sweet harmonies interrupted my thoughts, I realized I had forgotten to follow the advice my mother had impressed upon me since I was a young girl: always check your backseat. I swerved out of traffic and into a temporary stopping zone, whipping around to check my backseat. What do you know? There was Walter, looking guilty as a baby who had snuck a cookie from the kitchen, holding a blindfold and a pair of pink fuzzy handcuffs. “Walter, what the fuck are you doing in my gray 2009 Honda Civic?!” I exclaimed. “I told you I wanted to make you my wife,” he replied, sheepishly shrugging his bony, fragile shoulders. As though possessed by my former-MMA-fighting father (may he rest in peace), I whacked him on the head with my bright pink Stanley (filled to the brim with Diet Coke and those special ice blocks millennial women are obsessed with on TikTok). He went out like a light. With ease, I shoved his frail body out of the car door and swerved back into traffic. “God!” I said to myself, turning up the radio with disgust. “I hate this fucking job.”
“Summer love (ah, ah), sexy / Sitting on his lap sipping Diet Pepsi”
