A Lick and a Promise

The blond guy grunted. But they both slid their feet to the ground. They didn’t stop eating.

Margot sighed. “Shoo. Scram. Leave.” She waved four fingers. “Bu-bye.”

The darker guy stood. He wore cargo pants a couple of sizes too big, a Third Eye Blind T-shirt and a Mets cap. He raised his right eyebrow in her direction, then shuffled out, heading toward the employee lounge, where they should have been in the first place. Blondie followed. Slowly. But finally, she was alone.

It was just past 5:30 a.m. and she wanted all the food prep to be done before eight. The rest of the staff, whom she hadn’t met, would be here soon. From her past experience assisting on other food commercials, there would be at least one more stylist and three or four assistants. Which would be great, All she had to do was get fresh, crisp lettuce. Simple. Easy. She had a mile-long list of suppliers. No reason at all for her heart to beat like a Led Zeppelin drum solo.

She stopped. Took a deep breath. This was just like the dozens and dozens of jobs she’d assisted on. The only difference was, on this one, she was in charge. Which was a good thing. A marvelous thing. Something she’d worked hard for.

From this moment forward, this job was going to be one triumph after another. On time, on budget, exactly to the Whompies specifications. Period. She knew what to do, knew how to do it. Piece of cake.

She went back into the main studio, where more folks had arrived. She didn’t know anyone. Not yet. But soon, they’d all be joking around together, bitching about the work, pulling out all the stops to make the product shine.

She loved this part. A lot. The whole team thing. That was the bonus of doing television. It was good on print shoots, but this was more. Bigger. Better.

Her phone vibrated in her apron pocket. She flipped it on, her earphone snugly in place, as it always was. “Margot.”

“Babycakes.”

Margot smiled at her neighbor’s voice as she went to the craft service table to get her coffee. “Hi, Devon. ’Sup?”

“Just checking in on your first day at the new gig.”

“Well, except for phone calls at dawn, things are going really well.”

She heard a ferocious yawn. Then, “I’m going to bed in five. You know, the new guy is moving in today.”

“Did you find out anything else?”

Her neighbor chuckled. “Eric thinks he’s straight.”

Margot checked out the few people standing around the doughnuts. She didn’t recognize any of them. “Gotta love Eric,” she said.

“He’s never wrong. He also said he’s a major babe, although he was wearing off-the-rack.”

“I’m surprised he wasn’t struck by lightning.”

Devon laughed. “I’m too tired to live. Kick ass, babe. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

She clicked off her phone, then it was her turn at the coffee. She should have brought a mug; she hated foam cups. Behind her, some grips and electricians were talking and laughing, and she got excited all over again at the thought of soon becoming one of the gang. In fact, she was going to introduce herself to the woman behind her, then her phone rang again.

“Margot.”

“Hello, darling.”

“Ma.”

“I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Nope. Been up since three-thirty.”

“That’s not good. You’re not sleeping?”

“New job. Remember?”

“Of course I do. That’s why I’m calling. To wish you luck.”

“That’s nice, Ma. Really. But I’m in the middle—”

“Would you do something for me?”

Margot sighed. Getting off the phone with her mother should be an Olympic event. “What?”

“Talk to him.”

“Him” was her father. It was always her father. Unless it was one of her uncles. Or her cousins. Or her neighbors. “What’s wrong?”

“He bought five cases of broken dishes.”

Margot sighed. “Are you sure they’re all broken?”

“If they aren’t, they will be by the time he gets them. I ask you. What is he going to do with five cases?”

“I don’t know, Mom, but I’m sure he has his reasons.”

“Reasons. We have the meshugge storage unit which is costing an arm and a leg, and now he says he needs another unit because he can’t move the merchandise.”

“I’ll talk to him. But, Ma, I have to go.”

“Okay, bubele. We’ll talk later.”

It wasn’t even six, and the troops were calling already. She fully expected to hear from Corrie, her other next-door neighbor, before seven. Which was fine.

Margot liked keeping in touch, and her co-op in Chelsea was a hotbed of wonderfulness, full of fascinating characters who she’d come to love. A month ago Seth Boronski had died, poor man, leaving his second-floor unit vacant, and just last week it had been bought by a single man. Daniel was his name, but that’s all Margot knew about him. Which was unusual, because frankly, no one knew more about the comings and goings of 18 West 16th Street. Not even the super, who only came around when threatened by mass revolt or bribed with oatmeal raisin cookies.

The new job had been all she’d thought about for days, planning, thinking, styling in her head. She’d have time to scope out Daniel on Sunday during the weekly co-op dinner.

Right now, though, she needed to get to the kitchen. She had to order the lettuce. And the troops should be arriving any minute.

DANIEL WINCED as his friends Terry and Bill lurched through the front door with his oak headboard, narrowly missing the molding. “Careful with that, damn it.”

Bill gave him an evil look. “You know what you can do with your careful, Daniel, old buddy?”

“That headboard’s eighteenth century.”

Terry cut the discussion short with a succinct curse.

“Fine. Be asses,” Daniel said, leading them into the bedroom. “Put it there.”