[ Upon arriving in Panorama some weeks ago, the first thing Nashua did was get a job. It wasn't hard or offensive to do; she had been working since she was twelve, in some capacity. Rolling cigarettes in the back room of a gas station for cash under the table. Feeding meal worms to brown recluse spiders for a local pastor researching venom before her hands got too big to handle the worms individually. At sixteen, she washed dishes and waited tables a breakfast restaurant within the reservation from four a.m. until she had to get ready for school, and sometimes even through the first period.
So, when her quote-unquote cushy job as at a news station is no longer available to her—hold for temporal-dimensional displacement, etc.—she hardly turns up her nose at working in a bar. She even makes the effort to tame her frizzy mass of curls and put on some makeup. Tips are better when the violet creases and drooping bags under her eyes don't threaten to take up her whole face.
The music is shit, but she paints a conciliatory grin over the sentiment. When men—customers, after all—try to buy her shots, she fills her shot glass with apple juice and chugs it down like they're the best friends in the world.
It's just for now. In a few weeks, she'll try to introduce herself at whatever news outlet or newspaper office Panorama offers. In the mean time, she needs to eat. She's pretty, when she bothers to make the effort, and doesn't struggle to talk to people. It's easy. It's fine.
Making her rounds through the tables, Nashua drops off a pitcher of beer and a tray of depth charges to a particularly exuberant table, and then pivots to the next in her section.
She only pauses for a second, before plastering the face of Pleasant And Agreeable Customer Service over her features. ]
Hey, can I get you a refill? We also have two-for-one baskets of nachos on special, if anyone else is coming.
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So, when her quote-unquote cushy job as at a news station is no longer available to her—hold for temporal-dimensional displacement, etc.—she hardly turns up her nose at working in a bar. She even makes the effort to tame her frizzy mass of curls and put on some makeup. Tips are better when the violet creases and drooping bags under her eyes don't threaten to take up her whole face.
The music is shit, but she paints a conciliatory grin over the sentiment. When men—customers, after all—try to buy her shots, she fills her shot glass with apple juice and chugs it down like they're the best friends in the world.
It's just for now. In a few weeks, she'll try to introduce herself at whatever news outlet or newspaper office Panorama offers. In the mean time, she needs to eat. She's pretty, when she bothers to make the effort, and doesn't struggle to talk to people. It's easy. It's fine.
Making her rounds through the tables, Nashua drops off a pitcher of beer and a tray of depth charges to a particularly exuberant table, and then pivots to the next in her section.
She only pauses for a second, before plastering the face of Pleasant And Agreeable Customer Service over her features. ]
Hey, can I get you a refill? We also have two-for-one baskets of nachos on special, if anyone else is coming.