THIRTY-THREE
By the time I reach the seventh audition I’ve been to in almost as many days, I’ve lost count of how much cash I’ve spent trying to find a new job. Some clubs won’t hire me because I don’t look like the girls they’ve already got. Other places are just too damned dead for me to justify paying house fees to the owners. I’m thinking this Merry-Go-Round place may be one of them. It’s empty.
The manager asks me to stay for the rest of the shift after he sees me dance. He says he’ll waive tip-out. “We need more white girls,” he tells me plainly.
From what I’ve observed so far, the girls here spend most of their time in the dressing room, playing cards and bullshitting. The conversations I’ve overheard have run along these lines:
“Public assistance ain’t really no thing.”
“Yeah? How long I’ma have to wait for it?”
“Depends. You got kids?”
“Nah.”
“Well, so maybe longer than I did, chica. But when you get it, it’s all good. They give you a card to swipe through the machines at the grocery, jus’ like a credit card. It’s like, and what, white girl? I got a card too – I’m just as good as you.”
Somehow I doubt the girls here would agree with their manager’s assessment of the Merry-Go-Round’s staffing needs.
I doubt I’m going to work at this place. But I’ve decided to see if I can at least make enough to put some gas in the car today. I hate going through my savings. The act of spending money rather than making it, for the first time in something like ten months, really worries me.
They wander into the club while I’m in the middle of a set, and they head right for the stage. They are three guys and a girl. None of them look much older than I am.
It’s always a little strange for me when a woman comes in. I feel like I need to go out of my way to talk to her and try to figure out what her deal is. Usually she’s half of a couple. This one is attractive. A goth chick or a metalhead from the looks of it. My money’s on metal – she’s wearing black jeans and not very much makeup. She tips me when I dance in front of her.
“Tell me which one’s your boyfriend, and I won’t touch him unless you want me to,” I tell her confidently.
She laughs. “None of them,” she says. “We all work together.”
“No kidding.” I’m surprised. “What do you guys do?”
The girl points to one of her colleagues, a chubby guy with glasses. “He owns the company. J.J., can I give her a business card?”
J.J. nods his permission. “Give her this, too,” he says, and passes her another wad of singles.
“Thanks,” I say to him. He raises his glass at me, his eyes taking in every inch of my body. I look down at their cards. She’s A&R for a record label I’ve never heard of. He’s the CEO. “That’s really cool,” I comment. “Is it a fun job?”
“Yeah, I like it,” she answers.
What else is she going to say in front of the boss? I feel silly for asking the question. An A&R rep – of course she likes her job. I clamber back up the pole and do a trick. The three guys clap politely, and throw more money up on the stage.
I should be living in their world, not this one. I wish there was some way that I could let them know I don’t belong here.
My set ends. I collect my pile of one-dollar bills and walk through the club to the dressing room, naked and clutching my dress in front of my body.
After I’m finished putting myself back together, I return to the floor, where a pretty Latina dancer has taken the stage. I watch her move, staring as hard as any customer would. My motivations are different. It’s not lust for me, not today. I’m trying to picture her dressed. I’m trying to imagine what this girl would look like if she did something else for a living.
The Fugee’s version of “Killing Me Softly” comes on. The girl onstage wiggles her ass to it, looking thoroughly bored. I tap my foot automatically and sing along with Lauren Hill.
“Strummin’ my pain with his fingers… Yeah, he was singin’ my life with his words…”
One of the label guys walks past me on his way to the bathroom. I continue to sing. I’m not sure if he hears me or not. I’m not even really sure that I want him to. His expression never changes, so I assume he didn’t.
Over the course of the next hour, I do another two sets. I notice that I’m not the only girl who isn’t selling private dances – I haven’t seen anyone actually land one for the whole time I’ve been here. I decide not to finish the shift.
The manager is decent enough about it – what can he really say, after all? I tried. It feels good to get back into street clothes. I’ll try another club tomorrow, and if necessary, the day after.
As I emerge from the dressing room, I see that the A&R people are also leaving. I’m not going out of my way to listen to their conversation. But I hear it anyway, and I stop cold. They don’t notice me standing right behind them.
“Did you hear that skinny chick caterwauling over the music?” says the guy who walked past me.
My stomach drops. He means me. I’m the skinny chick.
“That’s what you get when you tell people you’re A&R,” laughs his boss.
“Does every stripper on the planet think she’s a singer?” the first guy asks.
“No. Some of them think they’re actresses, too,” the third guy says.
They all laugh. The only one who doesn’t say anything is the girl. I can’t see their faces, so I have no idea whether she agrees or not. What I do know is that I feel ill.
I give the A&R reps a good head start before walking out to my car. I don’t want them to see me in my street clothes. My lower lip quivers as I fight off tears.
Singing is the only thing I’ve ever really thought I was good at. And I guess somewhere in the back of my mind, I always hoped that when I finally got my shit together, I’d be able to do it for a living. I don’t even know what else to aspire to if I don’t want this.
But what if I’ve been deluding myself? Maybe I was good enough to slay the competition in grade school – was I merely a big fish in a small pond? These people listen to music for a living. They not only thought I was horrible – they all had a good laugh about it, too.
I hear a set of tires screech somewhere down the block on the West Side Highway, and a second later, the sound of glass shattering.
Perfect, I think to myself bitterly. Somebody upstairs is making it real clear, all right.
It seems appropriate to me that failure has its very own soundtrack.
My teeth start to chatter as I enter my musty, cold apartment. There’s still no heat in the building – it’s been four days now. Barry is bundled up in front of the TV under a mountain he’s made using every blanket in the house, including mine. He doesn’t look up when I walk in. I ignore him and go straight to the bedroom, where I plunk my ass down on the bare bed and stare at the wall.
I keep hearing that one guy’s voice in my head, over and over again like a loop, until I’m ready to start screaming just so that I can hear something different.
I don’t know anything about those A&R people. It’s possible they just don’t like this kind of music. I have no idea what they’ve put out on their label, but they can’t be the final word on good taste, can they? Most people hear me sing and then tell me I’m great at it. Why would they all lie?
What about Sean? His opinion counts, doesn’t it? I can think of nothing I’d like better right now than to jam with someone who likes the way I sing. But Sean’s at school.
And then I remember the blues band in the subway. Those guys loved me. I never did call up that frontman. I should call him now.
I rummage through my phone numbers. Do I even have his card anymore? That was months ago. He probably won’t even remember me. But I finally find the card buried all the way on the bottom of the box. Before I can lose my nerve, I dial the number. My hands shake. It’s ringing.
“Yeah?” It’s a woman’s voice. She sounds old and not very friendly. When I ask for Chuck, she doesn’t answer, leaving an awkward pause.
“Hello?” I say. “Is this Chuck’s number?”
“Who this? Why you callin’ my husband? You sellin’ somethin’?”
“What?”
“You one of those telemarketin’ people?”
“No. I met Chuck at Grand Central, and…” I trail off because I’m nervous. She’s already put me on the defensive.
“You met Chuck? When you met him?”
“I don’t know, a while ago.
“Mm-hmm.”
“He said to call him, back when we met. It’s about his band.” I sound moronic. “Is he around?”
“No, he ain’t.”
“Oh. Um… could you tell me when’s a good time for me to call back?”
“Ain’t no good time. Chuck ain’t here. Chuck ain’t gonna be here.”
“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry to bother you, then.”
“Mm-hmm,” she says again.
“Has he got a new number where I can reach him?”
“Honey, you cain’t reach him. He dead.”
“What?”
“I said he dead. You unnerstan’? Chuck dead.”
There’s no answer for that and she knows it. I apologize and hang up the phone, dazed.
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April 22nd, 2009 at 4:47 am
Hey Lauri,
I am following your book all the way and I really enjoy!
Good luck!
Gerlinde
April 28th, 2009 at 7:27 am
Gerlinde, I’m so glad. Thank you.