Shacking Up(65)

The lack of line for the ladies' room should've tipped me off that this is not a normal bar, but it's also not that late, so I just assumed I'd beaten the crowd. Also, the urgency of my overfilled bladder prevented me from taking in my surroundings. The room is full of mostly men with only a handful of women scattered throughout.

At first I think I'm in a strip club, but the women dancing on the stage aren't getting naked. Well, not totally. They're scantily clad, but they're clearly costumes. The distinct lack of poles is another tipoff.

It takes me a few more seconds to put together that I'm at a burlesque-style show. Not true burlesque, but a modernized variation. These women aren't up on stage getting naked. Sure, their costumes are extravagant and skimpy, but it's more about sensuality. There's no pole to hump or swing from. I tried out for a role in a burlesque play recently. That was the time I fell on my face. Part of me wondered if karma was trying to do me a favor, but sitting here now, I know that it really was just karma giving me the middle finger.

I take a seat at the bar and order soda water because a real drink will cost too much and I'll be tempted to drain it in one gulp. The show is actually fairly classy, classier than the play I auditioned for. Any loss of costume pieces is strategic, and at no point does it become bawdy or pornographic. The dancers know what they're doing, most of them, anyway. They appear to be professionally trained, but something is off about the routine. It looks like maybe they're missing someone.

I sip my soda water, but I'm thirsty, so it doesn't last very long. The bartender comes over and asks me if I want another one. I check my phone, pretending I'm not sure if I have the time to drink more non-alcoholic beverages in a bar.

She drops another drink in front of me without waiting for an answer. I open my purse, but she waves me off. "That one's on me."

"Thanks?" I give her a questioning look and she just shrugs. "I must look pretty pathetic."

She tips a half grin as she wipes down the bar in front of me. "I saw what happened at the door. Figured you didn't mean to end up in here. And yeah, pathetically sweet seems to be your deal."

I laugh, then sigh and take a sip before looking back at the stage. "They're all trained, aren't they?"

"Most of them. Two of the leads went to burlesque school, the other girls have a dance background."

I watch the girl in the center. Her form is incredible. "What do the dancers make here?"

"Depends on the girl, how many shifts they work, the crowd they draw."

"It's not just an hourly wage?"

"They can make a lot in tips on their solo numbers. Why? You looking for a job?"

I glance her way. Her expression tells me she means it as a joke.

I focus on the stage again. I have the training and the skill to learn those moves. They're not outside of my repertoire. I probably watched Burlesque three million times. My father would have a heart attack if he found out I ended up having to take a job in a burlesque-style show because I don't have money or alternative job prospects. Which might not be a terrible thing. If I can shame him enough, it's possible he won't allow me to work for him.

I realize I've yet to answer her question. "Do you know if the manager's hiring?"

The bartender sizes me up, her gaze shrewd and assessing. "What kind of experience do you have?"

I keep it vague. "I'm professionally trained."

She looks skeptical. "What kind of professional training?"




       
         
       
        
"I took dance, voice, and acting in college." I spin the glass between my palms.

"Oh, yeah? Which college?"

"A little arts college outside of the city." If she asks me to get more specific there's no way she'll offer me any kind of audition, let alone a job so I ramble on, "I graduated two years ago, but theater's a tough market to break into unless you know someone. I managed to get a couple of small parts, but it's not steady. We all have big-city dreams, right?"

"We sure do." Her gaze drops to my purse; thankfully the brand name is hidden. "Come back tomorrow at noon if you're serious."

I sit up a little straighter. "Really?"

"I'm not promising anything." She drops her card on the bar, and I snatch it up like it's a hundred-dollar bill. "But they need a new girl, and you might just be a good fit. If you know how to move."

* * *

I don't hang around the bar. I leave a tip for the soda waters-not so much that it looks like I'm trying to buy myself a job-then head back to the street and program the address of the bar into my phone. I'm a seriously long way from home. Actually, I'm pretty close to my old neighborhood. The job is less than ideal, but it's a job, it might be fun for a while to do something a little risqué, or risky, as it were, apart from my attempt to succeed in one of the most unstable careers in the city.