Debbie was five minutes into the job interview when the prick-of-a-restaurant-manager’s mustache winked at her. Impossible, of course, but it happened just the same.
She’d asked the prick-of-a-restaurant-manager if there were any open waitress positions and he’d answered, “Well, that depends on what positions you’re willing to get into,” and then his mustache winked. So help me God, Debbie thought, the fucking thing winked.
Ron, the aforementioned prick with the aforementioned mustache, noticed her looking at his whiskers. He leaned back in his chair, took a comb out of his breast pocket, and ran it five times through each side — five times exactly. Then he slipped the comb back into his pocket and puckered his lips to give the mustache a better platform. It was enormous — biggest mustache Debbie had ever seen.
“What position did you have in mind?” Debbie asked, disbelieving the words even as they came out of her mouth. The great Dynamite Deb, who’d spent half of her life getting the upper hand on the best chauvinist assholes in the business, now being played by a goddamn amateur. What a son of a bitch life is, she thought. What a bastard.