I
Doña Giulia,
I can’t effing believe I’m wearing the very uniform that I’ve so despised since my youth. How the hell did I get from the hallowed halls of Georgetown to managing Giulia’s Gourmet South Beach, Dad’s true pride and joy?
I would love to blame this tragedy on the Bush economy, but I feel like it goes beyond a trough in the economic cycle.
Honestly, I believe that, like the Bible’s Job, God is testing me. He may not be testing my faith in Him, but there is no argument that my faith in wealth is being tested by fire.
I mean, my father, the guy who paid cash for my private education, bought me a Rover for getting straight A’s and bought me a condo in the beach upon graduating, needs his brilliant and talented son (moi) to make fucking sandwiches to keep his business afloat? Let me tell you, it’s a hard bitch of a pill to swallow.
You know, I thought that the little red string tied around my wrist was supposed to ward off evil. But as it turns out, the only way to ward off evil (in America, at least) is to invest in secure bonds and liquid assets.
And you know what? Maybe, when he rises out of his financial ashes, Dad should look into investing in businesses with cushy desk jobs or high end travel – hell, I’d rather he own a chain of strip joints than sub shops.
I can totally see myself managing an underground, burlesque strip joint. I’d make friends of the whores, have full-time security to protect me when I run off at the mouth and, most importantly, I wouldn’t be humiliated every time I had to make a sandwich for a gay frenemy who hates me enough to throw his loose change into my ragamuffin tip jar.
I would love for that tip jar to read:
If I haven’t fucked your boyfriend or pimp slapped your sister, check the shade at the door and keep the change, Bitch. – Management
Maybe that would ward off the poison gays of South Beach and the busted trolls that they roll with.
It’s so obvious that they rehearse their backhanded compliments with each other as they walk down Lincoln.
Those little jibes are the only reason they patronize this place. They certainly don’t come for our specialty subs. They order fucking tuna or ham or something they can get anywhere else for five bucks cheaper.
Ugh.
No, but you know what? Now is not the time for sour grapes. As you always used to say – sour grapes make bad wine and light spirits give you a good buzz, so either lighten up or suck it up, Kid!
God, I miss you. I miss your voice, I miss your smell, I miss your buzz…
The fact that this glorified Subway bears your name is the only thing that got me into this tacky uniform to begin with, God rest your soul.
I’m gonna use my next paycheck to buy you an arrangement of orchids and lilies that’ll make all the bitches in the mausoleum jealous!
Oh no wait – scratch that. I have to pay for my own car insurance now, so you’ll have to wait a couple weeks for a decent arrangement.
Whatever.
The point is that I love you so much that I’m gonna leave the confines of this back office and tend to the customer that’s been standing there for the past five minutes. He may just get a little extra camembert for his trouble!
Oh no wait – I can’t give him extra because it’s still early and were running kinda low.
Whatever.
I’ll write back on my next break.
Oh no wait – I was gonna smoke a cigarette on my next break because it’s prime time to lust over the guys leaving the gym across the street.
Whatever.
I’ll be in touch.
Okay, love you – bye.
Giugiu
