RUBY

My living situation is ironed out for the time being, which is good because I was about to go into panic mode with Bancroft coming home soon. I really wish time would slow down.

“Okay. So you have a place to live for now. That’s good.” Amie sounds reassured.

I nod, although I’m not sure I can call the situation good.

Bancroft is going to let me stay in his apartment until I can find a new place. It’s highly preferable to the alternative. Until now I’ve been relatively positive about things, but the closer we get to Bancroft’s return, the more worried I become about having to return to Rhode Island to work with the whore-mother.

Beyond that, the excessive flirting and banter with Bancroft felt more acceptable when there was an end date to my stay at his condo. When I was just his temporary pet sitter it seemed harmless to engage. Now that I’m going to be his roommate for a while I’m not sure how acceptable it is anymore. It could get messy—especially if things don’t work out and I’m still living there.

“And you’re on top of the job thing. You have an audition tomorrow, right? Everything is working out just fine.” Now Amie sounds like me.

“And I have a couple of interviews for regular jobs.” I’m glad one of us is optimistic.

She sips her cleansing tea. She’s on some sort of healthy-eating program. It sounds a lot like a diet. Which is absolutely ridiculous. Amie is tiny. She’s never had to work to be that way, she’s just naturally built like a model. She’s never been worried about her weight. Until recently. I’m attributing it to Armstrong’s constant, unnecessary commentary. I’m liking him less and less the more I get to know him. “What kind of interviews do you have?”

“One is at a restaurant, the other is a café. I just need some quick money to help get me by.” I’ve avoided nightclubs so far. I don’t want to end up dealing with the same situation as I did in the last place.

“Oh.” Amie makes a face that looks disapproving. “What if I talk to Armstrong about getting you something temporary?”

“Thanks, but I’d rather you not.” If I take a job from Armstrong it’ll get back to my father. I don’t want that.

“Come on, Ruby. It would just be until you get the role you deserve.”

I sip my coffee. I need all the liquid energy I can get. After this I’m back to handing out résumés and filling out applications. To places I should’ve worked when I was in college, not after it.

“What happens when Bancroft comes back? I know I can stay for a little while longer, but eventually I’m going to have to find a place to live that isn’t his spare bedroom.” Like his actual bedroom.

“You’ll have a place to live.”

I’m not so sure that’s true, but I don’t want to put this on Amie. It’s my fault I’m in this predicament. She’s done enough by getting me a place to stay while I try to sort out my life. It’d be great if I could actually make some headway on that front.

“Do you smell that?” Amie’s nose wrinkles as I pull my phone out of my purse.

I sniff and get a whiff of something disgustingly rancid. I put my hand over my mouth to stop from breathing it in again. “What is that?” I look around the café, curious to whether there’s a garbage truck nearby.

“I don’t know. We should go. That smells toxic.”

I gather my things. I have job-hunting to do anyway. Coffee dates are for people who are actually taking a break from being productive.

* * *

For some reason, the horrible smell from the café seems to stick with me all day. I keep wondering if it’s seared into my olfactory senses. People seem to be giving me a wide berth.

I check the bottom of my shoes for carcass remnants, or dog poop, but all I have are a couple of stones stuck between the treads. It’s weird.

By the end of the day I’m pretty sure I’m on the verge of some kind of emotional breakdown. I resorted to begging at one café. It was rather embarrassing since the manager looked to be about seventeen based on his inability to grow even a basic, fuzzy mustache.

Today has been a failure on all counts. All I want is a job. It doesn’t matter what it is, as long as I can make some consistent money. I’ve been careful with what Bancroft left for me, but I don’t want to rely on that. Especially since I’m going to need to pay him rent soon.

Calling my father isn’t an option since he’s made it clear what I’m in for if I go back to Rhode Island. I need some perspective, so I get on the subway and head to Central Park.

It’s another travel day for Bancroft, back to London to finish off his trip around Europe, so I don’t expect to hear from him until much later, or maybe not even until tomorrow. The steady rocking of the subway soothes me. I close my eyes, tired from worry and the stress of knowing Bancroft is going to be back and I still have nothing to show for the weeks of pounding the pavement.

I’m jolted awake by the jerk of the subway. Apparently I’ve been out for a while, because I don’t recognize the station. I exit the nearly empty subway and head for the platform, disoriented and confused.

Late afternoon has turned into evening while I’ve been passed out on the subway. I must’ve been really freaking tired. I’m also in a sketchy, unfamiliar part of the city. And I have to pee like nobody’s business.

I find what looks to be a bar called EsQue. It’s open, so I go inside. The hallway is painted deep burgundy, and a steep set of stairs lead to a glowing sign with one of those flashing arrows. Drunk people must break a lot of limbs here. The need to pee supersedes the need to find an alternate location.

I rush down the stairs only to get stopped by a bouncer. “ID, please.” He holds out his hands.

I shuffle from foot to foot, kegeling to prevent an accident as I root through my bag for my wallet. I’m hit with a horribly pungent, revolting smell. The same revolting smell that’s been following me all day. It’s like a rodent crawled in there and died. I gag when I skim something mushy and drop my purse. I shove my face into the crook of my arm to prevent the smell from invading my nostrils more than it already has as I crouch down.

Bouncer man makes an unimpressed noise but doesn’t offer to help as I hover at crotch level—his, not mine—and try to navigate my purse without touching whatever is creating the offensive odor, while still trying to make sure I don’t pee myself. Opening it only serves to magnify the smell.

He ushers three men in suits around me without carding them, although they’re all silver foxes, so that might explain it.

“You got ID or not?” Bouncer man asks, irritated.

“Do you have a flashlight? I can’t see a thing!”

He blinds me with the flashlight on his phone before aiming it at my purse.

Surrounded by lipstick tubes, a few pens, a couple of pads, and a wad of napkins, I spot my wallet. And three Ziploc bags.

It’s then that I remember the appetizers I hoarded at Amie’s engagement party all those weeks ago. Following the flu episode, I’d forgotten all about them. I haven’t touched this purse since. They’ve been marinating in here for weeks. The contents appear to have liquefied during their rotting period. One of the bags glistens, and it seems to be the main source of the putrid smell. I manage to retrieve my wallet without disturbing the bags and flash the bouncer my ID.

“Cover’s twenty bucks.”

“I just need to use the bathroom.”

“Cover’s twenty bucks,” he says again, his expression remaining neutral.

My situation has become dire. I don’t have time to find another bathroom. I grudgingly part with twenty dollars, then rush through the bar toward the bathroom sign. I’m fortunate there’s no line for the women’s room. I take the most amazing pee of my entire life. It’s the physical manifestation of the word relief. So worth the twenty dollars.

When I’m done I carefully remove the appetizer bomb baggies from my purse and leave them in the trash. Then I wash my hands four times. The smell seems to be stuck in my nose and a leak in one of the bags has left a small stain in the bottom of my purse. I use paper towels to clean that up, aware I’m very fortunate that none of the baggies burst while rolling around in there, especially since I have things like tweezers and emergency scissors. Sadly, I have a feeling I’m probably going to have to throw out my purse, which is a bit tragic, since it’s nice and I can’t afford to replace it.

On my way out of the bathroom I nearly collide with another woman. I step aside, and mumble an apology. Her expression morphs into disgust as she passes me, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.

“It’s horrible, isn’t it?” I don’t want her to think it was me who destroyed the bathroom, even though it was. Since I’m already in the bar, and I’ve paid the cover to get in, I might as well get something to drink while I figure out the best route home.

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.

It’ll just be temporary. Until an audition opportunity comes along and I can get my debt under control.

It takes more than an hour to get home. I read articles on burlesque on the subway ride. The level of bawdiness varies greatly, but this club seems to lean to the more conservative, classy side, which is good. I don’t want a job that makes me feel like I’m on the verge of a career in stripping. That’s not a line I can cross. I’m jazz trained, so I should be able to handle whatever routines they throw at me. I treat it like I would any other audition. When I get home I put on my music videos and practice the one burlesque routine I’ve memorized since I saw the movie Burlesque.

I set four alarms and plan my subway route for the morning. Then I go to bed and say a prayer to the financial stability Gods that I get this job.

The next morning I receive a text from Bancroft minutes before I have to leave. I let him know I’m on my way to an audition and I get four leaf clovers and a good luck horseshoe in response.

At eleven forty-five I’m standing outside the bar wearing what I hope is a reasonable audition outfit. Under a shift dress I’m wearing a black strappy camisole and a pair of black dance shorts. It’s simple and hopefully revealing enough. My shoes are in my bag. I brought both heels and flats, because all the women were wearing heels last night.

The bar looks a lot seedier in the light of day than it does at night. I try the door, but it’s locked. Maybe there’s some secret back entrance I don’t know about. I root around in my purse until I find the card the bartender gave me. I changed bags this morning before I left. I’m still mourning the loss of the purse that I fear will forever smell of rotten appetizers, but I dumped a container of baking soda in there and sprayed it with some of Bancroft’s cologne, so I’m hoping to salvage it.

Before I can find the card, the door opens. The bartender from last night greets me, except she’s wearing a suit, not jeans and a corset top. “Wow. I’m surprised you showed. You must be pretty desperate for a job.”

“I’m just keen to have steady employment.” I maintain what I hope is an even smile. What else am I going to stay to that?

She laughs and rolls her eyes, opening the door wide to let me in. The bar looks a lot different with the lights up than it did last night. The dark walls need fresh paint and the tables are chipped at the corners. I remind myself again that this is temporary as the bartender, who still hasn’t introduced herself, takes a seat and gestures to the stage. There are a few other employees milling around, a man lugging boxes, a woman carrying a notepad, but they don’t acknowledge me.

“Is there a song you want?” she asks.

I dig around in my bag and retrieve my portable speaker. “I brought music, just in case.”

She arches a brow, but she flashes a hint of a smile. “Aren’t you prepared?”

I have a feeling she’s being condescending, but I need a paycheck, and I’ve had to deal with my father for the past twenty-four years, so I’m used to being patronized.

I drop my bag on a table, shed my sheath dress, and set up the speaker. I cue the music and take position.

I spent the entire trip here giving myself a mental pep-talk. I’m pretending like it’s practice for the audition I’m supposed to have early next week, just prior to Bancroft’s return. If I can manage to get that role, I might not need this job anyway.

I don’t look at the bartender while I perform the routine. I can’t, because I’m terrified of screwing this up. And if I see her look at me with disdain I know that’s exactly what I’ll do. When the song ends I finally look her way again.

Her hands are steepled under her chin, her expression pensive. “Where’d you say you went to college?”

“I didn’t.”

Her serious expression drops and she laughs. “That’s some pretty sophisticated training you’ve had.”

I clasp my hands to stop from fidgeting. “I’ve been dancing since I was a kid.”

“The routines are different than what you’re probably used to.”

“I’m good with that.” Oh God, is she telling me I have a job?

I cross my fingers behind my back while she taps her lip with a painted nail. She pushes out of her chair and crosses over to me. “Show me your arms.”

“What?”

“Your arms. I need to see them. Palm up.”

I hold them out and she grabs my wrists inspecting my forearms. It takes me a few seconds to understand that she’s looking for track marks. Jesus. What am I getting myself into? “I don’t do drugs.”

“You can never be too careful.” She drops my arms. “All right. You got yourself a job. I’ll give you some paperwork to fill out and a couple of videos to watch. You can move, but you’ll need to step it up if you want to make real money.”

She sashays down the hall and disappears through a door. I pack my things back in my purse. This is the weirdest audition ever.

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.