I was pretty sure I was the richest girl in the world.Ĭoming in everyday at lunchtime, the man pestered.
I was making about 400.00 a week at the time. He said I could make double what I was making in the restaurant. His brother owned a temp agency in Beverly Hills. He told me that he liked the way I moved through the restaurant, never getting distracted or chatting with my coworkers (This really was a problem in the restaurant, pretty as they all were, they didn’t have much of a work ethic). It really all could have been so much worse, you know?Ī little over a year later into my new life, a regular at the pizzeria handed me his brother’s card. I had always been frugal, thanks to the values instilled by my sainted parents, and I had my on again off again boyfriend Jack. I probably could have asked the landlord for the tuition, but he had already done so much for me. There wasn’t enough money for me to go to the trade school. I cast aside my dreams of becoming a dental hygienist. Life was as good as it was going to get for a recently orphaned girl. The rent was cheap, and I was making what I considered a fortune in tips.
He set me up in another apartment in one of his other buildings to share with two other young girls. He was a businessman, and he had barely known me before the accident. He couldn’t keep me on living rent-free in my family’s apartment indefinitely. And I was, but I was also numb in a way that frightens me now when I look back on that time. I should have been grateful or touched by this man, the landlord, who was going so beyond the call of duty to help me. I was very gawky teen, vaguely uncoordinated with absurdly long limbs. I wouldn’t even be eighteen for another week. I did not look like a supermodel at the end of the day, but I wouldn’t end up sticking out like a sore thumb.
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