FOUR

I was supposed to be a rock star.

As a little girl, I dreamt often of being on stage – clad in sequins and singing my heart out for an audience.

I could never have imagined that someday my stage would be an auction block where I would advertise myself as meat for gaggles of lecherous men. Or that my sequins would have to come off by song number three – house rules.

I was entered in talent contests before I started grade school. Far from the acceptance and popularity I hoped would result, I was astonished when it became clear that the opposite was true. My abilities so exceeded those of my young peers that I was immediately and completely despised.

“You were great,” the other children would tell me when the grownups were within earshot, and I’d know by their long faces that I was going to be in for it at recess. They’d surround me like jackals to taunt me and smack me around. As we got older, they took to shunning me altogether instead.

It never occurred to me that anyone might be jealous of me, or even that I might be talented enough to warrant their jealousy. Compliments about my singing went in one ear and out the other, as did criticism. It sunk in at some point that I was better than average, but only as a hard fact, the same way that I knew that the earth was round.

Nor did I associate the pain of being ridiculed and rejected with music. I sang because it felt fantastic. I sang because it was natural for me to do so. Singing was a part of me tantamount to an arm or a leg. Why wouldn’t I sing? Grudgingly or not, the people around me had told me that I was good at it. I accepted them at their word because it was obvious that they had no wish to flatter me. The idea of choosing another occupation never crossed my mind.

I’m not sure when exactly that changed. At some point, everything that I loved eventually took a backseat. Dreams are easy. Reality, on the other hand, is a motherfucker.

I still sing sometimes when I forget that anyone is watching. And I still scribble lyrics on bar napkins that wind up crumpled in my purse. But that essence is mine alone. This is not something I want to put on display for a world I no longer trust to take care of it.

Once upon a time, I yearned to collaborate with people. Now I’m loath to let them in.

Being naked is a throwaway. In this state of being, no one notices the things I hold most dear. My body parts distract, and they make me anonymous. Anonymity gives me license to avoid fitting the mold where it counts – in my head.

A stiff drink, of course, has the capacity to weaken my defenses.

Tonight I got started early, and I’m feeling the warm flush of tipsiness intensify as I perform my set. The club is desolate so far. It’s been this way all week. The girls are doing what we can to make the best of it. We’re sillier than usual. It beats feeling like shit.

It really should occur to me to be suspicious whenever Richard plays something he knows I’ll like, but I forget for some reason. I’m happy to hear the song. I wonder briefly who told him I liked it.

Inadvertently, I hum along. Before I know it I’m singing audibly. Daisy smiles at me, and I wink in response.

“Oh, baby, what you done to me… you made me feel so good inside,” I wail. I disregard the two customers sitting against the wall who are ignoring me in kind. Neither am I concerned with my nudity. I throw my arms behind me and grab the pole. I push my chest out.

“Yeah, and I just wanna be,” I continue with Aretha. Suddenly she’s gone.

My voice is ringing out by itself, sounding hollow as it bounces against the dirty mirrors. Richard stands outside of the booth, a mean grin spreading across his fat face.

Yep, you’re the funny one, shithead.

“Close to you, you make me feel so alive,” I continue, now painfully aware of my nakedness. I wonder if I’m blushing.

I stare daggers into Richard’s eyes from across the room. He returns the evil eye with his own hateful glare. But I never waver. That’s exactly what he wants, and I’ll be fucked sideways if I’m going to give it to him.

“Cause you make me feel, you make me feel, you make me feel like a natural woman…”

I keep singing. I hold my ground.

Perhaps Richard sees that he can’t get the best of me, or maybe he’s easily bored. He returns to his booth and turns the sound back up. Aretha continues from where I left off until she fades out. Richard next puts on a techno song that completely ruins the flow of my set. Scowling, I start to get dressed so that Alannah can take the stage.

One of those guys in the corner whom I thought was passed out drunk comes to life out of nowhere. He rises from his chair and stumbles over to the corner of the stage as I’m dressing there. He clears his throat. I look down into his face, covering my tits with one of my arms.

He hands me a dollar. He holds my gaze with a lucid intensity.

“Good job,” he says. He doesn’t slur. “That’s some voice you’ve got.”

He isn’t drunk at all.

“You ought to do something with that. Talent doesn’t grow on trees, you know,” he concludes. Then he takes off down the aisle and out the door, yanking on his coat as he walks and leaving me staring after him, dumbfounded.

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