Shacking Up(67)

       
         
       
        

She returns a minute later with three sheets of paper and a stack of videos. "Watch these and bring this back filled out tomorrow, same time. If you can handle working with my lead dancer, and she thinks you can hack it, the job is yours."

"When can we talk about wages?" I call after her retreating form.

"When my girls tell me if you're workable."

* * *

The bartender, Dottie, is actually the owner of the bar. She isn't the one who greets me the next morning. Instead it's Diva, the lead dancer. I can't tell if everyone's names are fake or real or somewhere in between. She was the one who came into the bathroom post –baggie bombs. I sincerely hope she doesn't realize I'm the one responsible for that.

I pass the test, which consists of four hours of dancing in heels, lots of yelling, and several references to me being similar to a floundering walrus.

I'm five-five and all muscle. There's nothing walrus-like about me. Diva is harsh. She's also an incredible dancer so I take the insults. It feels almost like a hazing. Like if I can take the bitchiness I get to be part of the cool crowd. What I really need to know is what kind of money is attached to this job. If it's enough to get me out of the hole I managed to dig myself, I can deal with Diva for as long as it takes.

Before I leave I'm set up with a schedule. For the rest of the week I rehearse daily from three to five and then I'm on stage for the first and second sets only, from eight until nine and then nine-thirty to ten-thirty. The third and fourth sets are eleven to twelve and twelve-thirty to one-thirty. Apparently that's when all the best tippers are here.

I won't get to dance the late shifts until I prove myself, according to Diva. However, they are short a girl, so proving myself may not take all that long. Base wage isn't great, but with tips I should be okay, better than my current two hundred a week stipend from Bancroft, at any rate. It's a start, and that's what I need.

"How long do you think it will take for me to get on the third set?" I ask.

Diva shrugs. "Depends on how long it takes before you stop screwing up the routines."

I should be happy as I get on the subway and head home-back to my temporary accommodations. But it's just that-temporary, like everything seems to be in my life right now.

I have another audition coming up, though. Maybe my luck has finally changed. Maybe I'll be on to even better things sooner rather than later.





Chapter 14: Dancing Shoes


RUBY

Being employed is very good for one's ego, even if the employment is of a questionable nature. I'm choosing to look at it as a fringe role in a fringe-type production in order to make myself feel reasonably okay about the whole thing. I have a job. That's the most important part. 

The potentially scandalous nature of the employment is secondary to the actual income I'm about to generate. And it won't be provided by Bancroft. It means when he comes back I won't be reliant on him for money. That brings me one step closer to self-sufficiency. I'd really like to see whether all this flirting will turn into something else, but not when it feels like I'm being bought or kept.

That's exactly what it's felt like with my father; he paid for my education and my life, but it came with an expiration date and huge side of shame. It's also how my mother seemed to exist for a long time. He bought her complacency in their marriage until she decided it wasn't worth the price anymore. Moving to Alaska was an extreme measure, but I understand it better now that I'm getting out from under his bricks of money, and I never want to end up in that kind of situation ever again.

When Bancroft calls later I'm all smiles. Until I realize I'm going to have to fudge my job title. Theater is one thing, burlesque isn't quite on par with what's acceptable employment in my world, and if it gets back to my father it won't be good. I also don't want Bancroft to know. He went batshit when he thought I was showing cleavage to one of Armstrong's friends. He'd probably have a coronary if he saw what I was going to wear on a daily basis at work. I don't need to deal with that at the moment.

"You're in a good mood," he observes.

I'm lying on his bed with Francesca, who's playing in my hair. My feet are killing me, but I don't care. I have a job.

"I'm gainfully employed."

"That's fantastic, Ruby. You had an audition? Or was it a job interview? Either way we should celebrate. I'll order some champagne and you can open a bottle on your end."

"We're not having champagne. It's not that kind of job."

"It's a job, that's all that matters. Go get yourself a drink."