Mornings at The Oak & Ivy, the club's "upscale" dining room, were usually predictable. That suited Margot Hitchens just fine. At fifty-two, she liked things a certain way—her coffee brewed weak (to somehow justify her very clear caffeine addiction), the ketchup labels facing the same direction (to pay homage to her late husband's affinity for military-level precision), and drama kept to a minimum (which was something she liked to say out loud but, perhaps, secretly could use more of).
Across from her, Simone Waters, a club waitress—and 20 year old daughter of one of the club members—attempts to spin her tray on a finger.
A repair technician emerges from the freezer.
"Well? What's the story?" Margot asks.
"I'm not sure you've got the clearance to hear that," the technician deadpans.
"It's a broken freezer. What's clearance got to do with it? Is my meat going to rot or not?" her tone quickly boiling.
The technician shrugs, "Eh, what do I care? Yeah you've got, like, a couple pounds of pot in there that messed with the temperature intake."
Simone lets the tray drop to the floor as her eyes widen, her curiosity now fully piqued. "Wait, drama!"
Margot looks to Simone with an accusing glare.
"Don't look at me. Pot makes me super anxious. Tried it once and spent an hour in a broom closet listening to water run through the pipes. This before I sat on a toilet for two hours convinced I was going to wet my pants at any moment," Simone elaborates, "I'm not really a "drug" kind of person."
Margot breathes heavy, "God bless it. Well, now what am I supposed to do?"
"Pay this within 30 days. There's some website, I think," the technician rips off his invoice, hands it to her, and shoulders his bag before walking out, "Enjoy your pot."