Thursday - GIGOLO

Olive stumbled into the bathroom and another egregious writing trope reared its ugly head. As she stared into the mirror, the contributing author used this moment to describe her. Oliv was twenty-something with dark, straight hair. She had pale skin, a thin face, and dark eyes. No one had ever accused her of being Einstein, but Oliv was beautiful by most standards, and that usually counted for more. Not lately though. Oliv was having a run of bad luck. She was dangerously short of funds, and moving back home was becoming a distinct probability. If only this latest business idea could take off. She’d always been a freak about Jell-O. Didn’t matter the flavor or what you added to it. Orange Jell-O with carrot shavings was more a punchline than actual dessert option for most people, but she loved it. Anything with Jell-O. John Cahill, the president of Kraft Heinz, had threatened to get a restraining order a couple years ago when she was making her case to be the next Jell-O spokesman. Bill Cosby had poisoned those waters. Or drugged them. But Oliv had a new Jell-O idea. She had been experimenting for months. Her kitchen had turned into a lab of sorts, to the point that Oliv almost bought a lab coat. The color white bleached her out though. The finished product was a version of Jell-O the world had never seen. Good old Jell-O, famous for jiggling, had never jiggled like this. Oliv feared her molds might be banned in some countries, but she wasn’t worried about international sales. Not yet. Conquering America would come first. She would start with food trucks. They were all the rage  these days. Mr. Bezos had seemed excited at first, but he hadn’t loved her name for the new product. And then the golf snafu. Well, there was more than one investor in the sea. If she couldn’t be a Jell-O spokesman, she was darn well going to be a purveyor. And Bezos was wrong about the name. Before the year was out, mark her words, there would be a Gigol-O on every street corner.