Winston McElroy - The brother-in-law

The offices here were disgustingly similar to those of every other employment agency Ginny Dennison had visited since Monday when she began in earnest to find a job. And not a particular job this time; she'd learned her bitter lesson about job-hunting long ago. This time she had promised herself to take anything offered to her, anything from file clerk to dishwasher.

She read down line after line of qualifying questions, and reluctantly checked "none" for each of the areas of previous experience desired. And why not – there was no reason to think that this agency would be any different from the ten or twelve – she'd lost count – that had already turned her down. Oh, not in so many words, of course; agencies have a way of saying no without actually saying it. But that "we'll call you or drop you a card if anything comes up" is more than adequate.

This agency had advertised for cocktail waitresses, and though she had never had any experiences there either, it certainly did not seem too difficult, and Mr. Bondman had told her on the telephone when she answered the ad that sometimes they considered girls without experience as trainees. At less salary, of course, but at this point, salary was the least of Ginny's worries.

She knew she had to find work somewhere, or start climbing the walls. Fred had been gone now for over seven months, and for a bride of only three weeks, that sort of absence was hard to swallow. But Uncle Sam has a habit of putting his soldiers where he wants them most, and for a brand-new draftee, there wasn't much chance of getting any choice. Fred was in Germany; at least she had that much to be thankful for. He could just as easily have been sent to some jungle outpost in Vietnam, and that would have unquestionably been more than she could have taken at once.

It wasn't really a matter of economics, just more a problem of trying to stay busy. Without a job, and nothing to do all day, the weeks seemed like months, and sometimes it seemed that Fred would never be coming back at all.

"Have you finished your application?" A short, stubby balding man stepped from the inner office, closing the door behind him. She guessed he was the one she'd talked with on the phone. In fact, he seemed to be the only person around.

"Yes… I've finished," replied Ginny, "but I'm afraid it won't be much help… I just don't have the right experience to get a job, it seems…"

He smiled benevolently, "Well, why don't you let me be the judge of that… You might be qualified for something you never thought of." He motioned toward the open door to the inner office. "Why don't you step inside, honey, and we'll talk it over." Something was odd about the faintest outline of a smirk on his face, but Ginny was in no mood to be choosy.

The inner office lacked the refinements someone had added to the reception area; at least the outer office was paneled and well-supplied with fairly comfortable vinyl and steel chairs. The private office showed evidence of not being painted since World War II; the pale green paint was peeling in layers, like dead flesh from a bad sunburn, and there were broken sections of it here and there on the faded, sun-bleached carpet. Marty Bondman's desk was old and battered, but without a trace of soul; and a large, upholstered wooden swivel chair stood behind it, where Bondman lowered his bulky, fleshy frame. "Now, let's take a look at your qualifications," he said, glancing over the penned notes on his brief application form.

"I called you earlier," began Ginny. "You said something about a trainee cocktail waitress position I might be qualified for… I don't have any experience… I guess you can see that." He glanced up from the paper with that same vague smirk and looked over her, as if making some mental appraisal.

"Haven't you ever had a job before?" he asked.

Ginny lowered her head, she'd been through this a dozen times already. "No… except for a part-time job when I was in high school. I worked for a department store back in Indiana, but that was three years ago. I got married right after high school, and Fred – that's my husband – Fred took care of all the money matters, so I didn't need to work."

Bondman suddenly seemed interested. "Married, you say? And where is Fred now… why do you suddenly need a job?"

"Oh, I don't have to go to work, I suppose," explained Ginny, "but Fred's with the Army in Germany, and I just feel like I ought to be working or something. It gets so boring just sitting around all the time… and the car's busted, so I can't even get out much. Maybe with a job, the time would pass faster."

"How about typing and shorthand?" asked Mr. Bondman, "Did you take any commercial courses in high school?"

Ginny looked puzzled, "Commercial courses? You mean secretarial skills… that kind of thing?"

He nodded.

"No, I'm afraid home economics was the only elective I took."

Bondman made a couple of scribbled notations on her application card. "Can you type at all? Even a little hunt-and-peck?"

Ginny shook her head, "Sorry… That's my whole problem. I just don't have any skills."

Bondman checked off a series of blocks on the back of the card and put it aside and turned his gaze to Ginny. She grew increasingly uncomfortable under his intense stare, and she self-consciously tugged at the hem of her miniskirt, in a futile attempt to conceal even a little of her bare thigh from his probing eyes.

"You know, there is one job you just might be able to get," he grinned, "It's at a little bar out near Santa Monica… you'd have to wear a costume, though… sort of like a go-go outfit."

Ginny thought for a moment. "Gee, I don't know. Fred would kill me if he knew I was parading around in some kind of a go-go outfit. How skimpy is it?"

Mr. Bondman laughed, "It's decent, if that's what you mean. But just barely… It's about the size of a bikini. Have you got the build for something like that?"

"I… I guess so," blushed Ginny, lowering her eyes to her lap. "Fred says I've got a nice figure. And I was a majorette in high school, if that means anything."

Marty Bondman pulled a sheaf of papers from his desk and glanced over them. "Yes," he said, "it appears that the position I mentioned is still open. However, they are very specific about applicants being… that is, having the right figure for the job. It says here I'm to be absolutely certain before I send anyone out."

Ginny looked straight at the floor, afraid to look him in the eye. "Well, I told you the best I could do, Mr. Bondman. I…"

"Telling me is not good enough," he interrupted, with a sly sparkle in his eyes. "I'm afraid you'll just have to show me. Stand up."

Ginny's mouth dropped half-open. "Mr. Bondman! I couldn't do that… I mean, what kind of a girl do you think I am!"

"Don't worry, honey," he assured, "it's all part of my job. I have to look girls over all the time. You might as well get used to it. The only kind of jobs you'll be able to get are jobs where you show a little skin, you know what I mean? And employers just don't hire their girls sight unseen. Now be a good kid, and stand up so I can get a better look at you."

"Gosh, I don't know, Mr. Bondman… But I suppose it'll be all right, since you do it all the time." She stood up slowly and turned her profile to his eager eyes, her firm, young breasts swelling under her thin, cotton blouse.

With one hand, she brushed down her miniskirt, smoothing out the faint wrinkles until it unbrokenly hugged the rich, full curves of her hips and buttocks, clinging tightly to her smooth flesh. As his eyes coursed over her, she suddenly wished she had worn a longer skirt, or maybe a suit-dress with a jacket top.

Marty Bondman nodded approvingly, "It's okay from here, at least what I can see. But you're going to have to do better than that. I can't send you out of here without being sure, my professional reputation's at stake. Suppose you have a big scar on your back, or an ugly birthmark on your thigh or something. I mean, those things show up when you're wearing a bikini top and panties." He stood up, his hand on his chin pensively. "Yeah, you'll just have to show me some more. I've got too much at stake to take a chance."