12/25
“I am sure your son is very capable Mrs. Patton, but the fact is we simply don't have any roles available for him – not permanent and certainly not for this weekend's convention.” The small blonde spoke in a measured and firm tone in stark contrast to the squawked rant just unloaded by Alistair's Mom. Alistair shifted uneasily in his seat. So far the conversation had taken place as if he wasn't even there despite the fact it was about him.
“Capable?!” Glenda Patton shrieked from across the desk in a manner that made him want to shrink from sight. “My Alistair is more than capable. In fact, if it wasn't for his recent knee surgery, he would be starting college on a basketball scholarship. He can do anything you need him to. He just needs a bit of a push when in comes to getting a job. That's why I'm here!” His Mom folded her arms adamantly.
“I understand,” the blonde woman replied. “But, as I already explained, we're simply not hiring right now.”
“Not hiring?!” Glenda nearly exploded. “Of course you're hiring. There's a poster right outside your office that says 'Staff Wanted', Not hiring indeed....”
The blonde woman sighed. “Mrs. Patton, those roles are just waitressing jobs for this weekend's convention. Obviously we can't legally state on the poster that we're only hiring girls but, I mean, we've already hired the uniforms.”
“Wait staff?!” his mother practically yelled. “Why, Alistair could do that standing on his head. He worked at Starbucks all through high-school. He's very capable. He just needs a chance. I'm sure you can make an exception, can't you? Unless you want me to report you for illegal hiring practices...”
That weekend at the convention, Alistair still couldn't decide who had stitched him up. Had his mother known this would happen when she insisted on the exception – a way to punish his ineptitude in the job market, or was the insistence he comply with uniform his new boss's revenge for Mrs. Patton's boorish behaviour. Either way, he was stitched up alright – stitched up in a maid's uniform and stockings – his lack of delight only equalled by the pleasure his co-workers took in doing his makeup.
“Alistair!” He snapped out of his concentration for not falling on his towering heels to see his blonde boss marching towards him. “What are you doing?” she beckoned sternly to the plates of cake in his hands. “Use a tray for God's sake!” she pointed to a pile under a table in the corner. Alistair glanced pleadingly at his injured knee he couldn't bend. “No buts!” the woman snapped. “You're more than capable!” No buts? Alistair wanted to cry. There would be plenty of butt for everyone when he leaned over at the hips to pick up trays in this tiny outfit..
