“You’re up,"...

... Velvet said as the petite blonde – Jasmine – re entered the room. “Linda. You get a 15 minute break.”

“Ok.”

I backed away from the window and turned to Persephone.

“My scarf?” I said putting out my hand.

I watched as Persephone unwrapped the fabric from around her thighs, waist and crotch. A vision of the scarf -- freshly laundered, folded and bundled in blue paper by M. Lee’s Chinese laundry -- floated through my mind.

“Thanks, do you have any more?”

“No. This is all I brought,” I said opening my arms to display the lavender g-string, lace opera gloves and sparkly leg warmers I’d picked up at a Polk Street lingerie shop the day before. Persephone tossed the fabric into the air as if she were releasing a bird and watched as it parachuted to the floor. Then she turned away.

“Coffee…”

“No, baby you need to bring your own shit. Nobody wants your stuff all over their clothes.”

Persephone spotted a new customer and rushed to his window. “Hey darlin’,” she yelled, putting her hands behind her head and offering up her breasts.

…I feel for you, I think I love you…

I’d figured out the slutty bridesmaid walk that kept everyone circulating through the room and made what, I believed, was a graceful exit, except that I didn’t step down when I passed through the curtain and lost my balance. For reasons I’d yet to discover a spool of toilet paper was attached to the wall next to the stage entrance. To catch my fall I grabbed onto the spool, unraveling several yards of toilet paper as I staggered down the steps. I quickly tore the ribbon off at the roll and crumpled up the remaining tissue. As I was searching for a wastepaper basket Celeste entered through the door to the theater.

“Wow. That wet already?” she said spying the fat wad of tissue in my hand.

“Oh. Um… no. I was just looking for the trash.”

“Right there,” she said pointing to a plastic can at my feet.

“Oh. Thanks.”

“Let’s talk about your performance,” Celeste said turning toward the dressing room. “It’ll just take a few minutes and then you can finish your break.

“You want some coffee?” She paused at a standard office-issue Bunn coffee machine. I marveled at the ordinariness of the set up -- coffee filters, napkins, mugs, stir sticks, artificial sweetener. What had I expected, after-all, gold-toothed pimps stepping out from the shadows dispensing little pink and blue pills?

“OK.”

She grabbed a stained mug that bore the message, “Carpe Diem,” and filled it with a brew so pungent I felt my gut tighten.

“Make sure, if you start a new pot? To put it on the warmer after it’s brewed. Otherwise it’ll burn and taste like crap.”

“Ok.”

She handed me a cup of crap-coffee.

I followed Celeste into the dressing room. From behind, she looked like a typical office employee. In fact, she reminded me of my Pro-Temps placement counselor, Maggie.

Celeste wore a white silk pantsuit and carried a clipboard in one hand and a felt tip pen in the other. But, whereas Maggie favored low, square-heeled pumps, peeking out from the cuffs of Celeste’s pants were sharp, red, three-inch heels. Under her suit jacket was, not the pastel Liz Claiborne blouse that Maggie might wear, but a red lace push up bra. I doubted Celeste – like most employed women caught on the streets between 8am and 5pm -- changed into comfortable walking shoes or clutched a canvas tote bag containing work shoes and tuna salad on nine-grain.

No, rather than negate the dramatic effect of her outfit with a pair of scuffed Rebocks and ankle socks over L’eggs pantyhose, Celeste would confidently navigate the city hills in her heels and uncompromised sexuality.

I felt something like awe at the authority the image evoked, followed by excitement at the thought that I might soon belong to this club of bold women.

“Have a seat,” Celeste said gesturing to a purple velour couch.

I looked around for a towel to put under my bare butt and when I didn’t see one, wrapped my scarf around my hips and sat.

“Well? How did it feel? Any comments, concerns, questions?”

I tried to think of something smart and street-wise to say but drew a blank… worse than a blank. I felt like an exceptionally slow first-grader staring at a high-school SAT.

“Um… no.”

She eyed me for a long moment, sea-sawing the pen between her thumb and index finger. I suddenly felt more naked than I had inside the mirrored room and tugged self-consciously at my scarf.

“I thought you did fine,” she finally said. “There are some things we need to work on but, basically, you did fine.”

I was surprised to find that I felt disappointed. I guess I wanted Celeste to recognize some special and heretofore untapped quality in me. Deep down I wanted her to praise my performance as the best the theater had ever seen -- a left coast Jennifer-Beals-in-Flashdance, even.

Yet I knew the reality was that I looked out of my depth.

“I’d like to offer you the position.”

I took a sip of coffee and puckered my lips as the bitter brew hit my taste buds.

“OK.”

“We start every dancer off at seven dollars an hour. As you get better, your pay increases. Raises aren’t automatic… you have to earn them. The top dancers earn ten an hour. You work a four- or six-hour shift and rotate a fifteen-minute break with the other dancers.

I could tell Celeste was used to giving this spiel and I wondered about the turnover rate.

“The g-string is going to have to come off,” she continued. “Do you have a problem with that?”

For the first time I noticed the hand-lettered affirmations that were taped to the dressing room walls.

I take pleasure in my job and that puts perfection in my work.

I move my body with poise and confidence.

I am positively adventurous and outrageous.

I felt comforted – if slightly confused -- by the trite positivism.

“No, I think I can handle it.”

I could sense myself getting closer to a crossroads. One way led back up the hill to my cramped rent-controlled apartment, yesterday’s want ads tucked under my arm. The other way led… someplace for which I had no referents, only shallow assumptions gleaned from 70s television dramas starring such falling child-stars as post Brady Bunch, Eve Plumb and post Exorcist, Linda Blair.

“You’re sure? There’s no wiggle room with that. Our customers expect it.”

“Ok.”

“We have weekly, mandatory staff meetings,” Celeste continued.

“OK.”

“Great.

“I’d like you to finish off this shift… that’s another hour and a half and then…” she looked at her clipboard, “can you come in Friday morning, work the ten-to-two shift?”

I thought for a moment, even though I knew the only thing I’d written on my calendar in three weeks were the details of a job fair that I’d, ultimately, blown off.

“OK.”

She scribbled something and then stood up.

“I’m going to give you the locker on the end – locker one. You’ll want to bring your own lock. I’ll need you to fill out your emergency contact info as well as a W-2 form.” She handed me the clipboard and pen.

Again, I felt comforted. I hadn’t wandered so far off the morality-map that Uncle Sam would call off the search for me.

Celeste continued, “You can pick your check up at the front desk… Fridays after ten. The schedule will be with your check. It will also be posted on the bulletin board.” She pointed to a wall of corkboard from which a variety of postings hung.

“Congratulations and welcome to the Lusty Lady. Just get the paperwork to me before you leave.” And then she left the room.


To be continued....