Lips Made of Yarn

The building before me was one that resulted in mixed feelings floating around my body. In a whole I detested the place, but it payed the bills and allowed me to attend nightly college courses. If I wanted to get anywhere with my life, like I so desperately wanted to, this place was my only means of getting the cash for it. Mixed feelings, yes, but with a smidge of dependence thrown in.

I sighed and walked in, my reflection wavering in the plate glass windows, my shoulder length dark blonde hair tied in an unruly bun, my green eyes lack-luster and clouded with sleep deprivation.

As soon as my foot entered the air conditioned Starbucks, there he was, practically breathing down my neck, complaining in his overly nasal voice about how I may have forgotten to stack the sticky buns in precise weight order; or how Janice, my fellow co-worker, withheld three receipts yesterday afternoon.
My boss, Mr. Kranger.

"Melanie, are you listening to me?" Mr. Kranger barked, bringing me out of my ponderings.
"Mhmm," I hummed, crossing behind the counter and into the back lounge, where I proceeded to pull on my hideous Starbucks uniform.

"If you had been listening, then I don't think you would feel so light-hearted right now." He grunted.
"I'm sorry. What were you saying?" I replied robotically, staring at Mr. Kranger's wispy white beard that still managed to only grow on three quarters of his face, even after three years of working here.

"I said, Janice quit."
"What?! When?!" I barked.
"Last night."
I groaned, sitting back on an overturned cardboard box. That was the third employee this month to high-tail it out of here. With horror, I realized it was just me and Mr. Kranger left, plus Ian who only came in on Sundays.

"What are we going to do?" I asked.
Mr. Kranger sighed, rubbing his eyes. "We have no choice but to hire someone else."

The way he ended his sentence had heavy implications, and I cringed, already knowing what was coming.

"And I want you to do it." he finished.
"But you know how hard it is to hire someone suitable; it took us three months just to find Janice-"
"And I want it done in two days time."
"What! That's impossible!" I shrieked, but he merely shrugged and slunk back into the main shop.

I sighed and fished behind the box I was sitting on, pulling out a red piece of cardboard with the words 'Help Wanted' written across the front. Sadly enough, it hadn't even gotten a chance to collect dust since the last time it was out.

I trudged up into the front of the shop and propped the sign on the windowsill as the first few customers straggled in. I hurried to the register, noting how hectic my day was going to be now that I was literally the only person working.

"Hello, my name is Melanie, welcome to Starbucks. How can I help you?" I droned, writing down the complicated order on a cup before hurrying to make it.

The whole morning I watched the window, but not one passerby so much as glanced at the sign. The customers were starting to complain, seeing as their orders were taking twice as long, seeing as my attention was on the window. I'll never find someone in two days. Making a pact with myself, I decided to hire whoever asked for the job first. Easy enough.

My heart nearly jumped out of my mouth when I saw a women in her late forties stop at site of the sign, biting her lip and glancing in the shop. I tried to contain my excitement as she entered, walking to me with her jaw set in determination. Sure, she was a little older than most of the previous workers, and Mr. Kranger preferred younger employees because they 'connected with the demographic' or whatever he had said. But if I am to get so lucky as to have a savior walk into my shop the very same day we put that godforsaken sign up, then I sure as hell am hiring her.

"Hi! I'm Melanie, how can I help you?" I asked, significantly more cheery than before.
"Hello," she replied, at ease from the brilliant smile on my face. "I saw your help wanted sign and wanted to apply. Who can I talk to about that?"
"Me! I mean, I'm in charge of hiring employees," I amended, toning down the enthusiasm.

"Oh, okay great," she smiled warmly. "What are the qualifications?"
"Oh, uhm," I guess I hadn't prepared for this exactly, but man, my life just got so much easier thanks to this woman. "Well, just as long as you can learn the ways of coffee-making relatively quickly...and it helps to be personable, I guess...that's really it." I almost laughed at how easy working here was.

"Lovely," she smiled holding out her hand. "My name is Robin Urie."
"Hi Robin," I shook her hand, smiling. "How's starting tomorrow sound for you? Around seven?"

"Oh, the job's not for me, it's for my son."

-x-

So maybe it wasn’t the best idea. But Kranger can’t complain, after all, he was the one who was pressuring me so hard to find a new employee. And I can most likely get fired for hiring a boy who hadn’t even come down himself to apply, but after three years and countless mishaps, I don’t think Kranger’s got it in him to fire his only employee.

I arrived at work extra early—at six o’clock to be exact—and nervously waited by the front entrance, staring out the windows for any sign of my new co-worker. Every minute that past,
I kicked myself more and more. What kind of loser sends his mom to get a job for him? What kind of loser actually agrees to hire him. Apparently me.

The nail polish on my left pinky was chipped and uneven from my anxiety as I paced back and forth, stalking in front of the windows and receiving a few weird glances from passerby’s, their metal briefcases causing the rising sun to refract uncomfortably into my eyes.

A car caught my attention as it parked on the opposite side of the road. It was beaten up and old, circa 1970s, while the rest of the vehicles around these parts were shiny Mercedes or the highest-end Ferrari’s. Robin Urie stepped out, squinting briefly against the sun. I bit my lip and crouched slightly behind an old cardboard cut-out of a large cappuccino cup.

Robin smoothed down her gray pencil skirt and snapped her door shut, walking around the open the passenger side door. I subconsciously leaned forward until my forehead smacked against the glass, but I didn’t move, in fear of missing the chance to see who I had hired before he was thrust upon me. Robin looked as if she was arguing with whoever was in there, her face tinting pink in anger. Finally, she wrenched an arm out, that arm attached to a shoulder and head, which housed an unruly mop of brown hair.

Robin dragged the person out of the car and to the sidewalk, where he broke free of her grasp and ruffled up his hair some more. He didn’t look to bad, and by Kranger’s standards, would ‘connect to the demographic’.

He pushed his red glasses further up the bridge of his nose with one finger, never picking his gaze up from the sidewalk. I would guess him to be about 20, which makes the whole mom-getting-you-a-job thing even sadder in my opinion. I wondered vaguely if he had ever even had a job before this as the pair crossed the street and made their way over.

I stood up and pretended to be walking casually in the direction of the door. Robin caught my eye and waved cheerily, giving her son a little push. I opened the door for them and called out a hello.

"Nice to see you again, Melanie," Robin said. Up close, I couldn't help but notice how radically different the two looked. Robin had blonde hair and bright blue eyes, very petite with soft facial features. From what I can make of the kid, since his head was still pointed down at an alarming degree, he had brown hair and was taller than his mother.

"Hey, I'm Melanie." I said to him. He lifted his head an inch, giving me a reproachful glare from behind his chocolate eyes. I raised my eyebrows in surprise, after all, I had agreed to hire him with actually meeting him, he should be thankful.

"This here is Brendon," Robin said after a pause, laying a gentle hand on the boys elbow. I nodded and smiled at him.

"Where did you last work, Brendon?" I asked casually. He just stared at me as if I was some insane retarded. I frowned under his gaze and waited for his answer.

"Brendon?" I tried again, fighting the urge to be rude. He clenched his jaw and kept staring at me. Realization dawned on his face and he rounded on his mother, moving his hands in a series of weird positions, stamping his foot for added effect.
Taken aback, I realized Brendon was using sign language.