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Rachel
Then…
I was at the bottom of the stairs waiting for a guy I didn’t like in a dress I didn’t like, and the worst part was that it wasn’t the first fucking time.
It felt like all my life I’d been there, shifting uncomfortably in shoes that didn’t fit. That weren’t quite right for me. Felt like all my life I’d been waiting. Waiting around to be someone for someone else. Waiting around for the curtains to part and for the audience to clap. Waiting around to say my lines, walk where I should, stop where I was told, look this way or that, smile, smile, always smile, and then take a bow. It felt like the bottom of those stairs, waiting, uncomfortable, was where I would always be.
I couldn’t do a goddamn thing about it. And I didn’t know why.
“Are you coming?” I called up into the darkness. “This was your idea.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Fitz shouted back down. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Rach. This last line isn’t going to snort itself.”
I sighed and leaned against the wall. Tugged down a dress that was too short. Pulled at a top that was too low. It wasn’t that I didn’t like showing my body. I had a burlesque show in Vegas, for God’s sake. But something about the clothes Fitz picked for me made me feel dirty in a way that sequined pasties never did. When I danced, I danced for myself. When I dressed, it was for Fitz. Or Robby. Or Mick. Or Paul.
“Fitz!” I shouted.
“Bitch, stop yelling at me! I’m coming.”
I knocked the back of my head against the wall. How many times I’d waited at the bottom of stairs just like those. Shitty carpeted stairs. Dark and small and old. How many times I’d hoped that someone else would come walking down them. Someone different. How many times I’d wished someone else would come walking down the stairs and see me as different. As someone different. As someone else. As someone who I could be proud to be. Whoever that goddamn was.
In the end it was always the same. Always Fitz. Or Robby. Or Mick. Or Paul. Always a shaky finger run beneath a white-powdered nose. Always a slap on the ass and a jangle of keys. Always a promise of big money, big futures, big lives. Always a shitty car I had to open myself. Always playing a role. Always feeling alone.
For Fitz I was the Bonnie, he the Clyde. The Showgirl and the Thief. He was going to game the system in Vegas and we were going to ride out of there in a storm of dust and find some beach somewhere to bask in the sun. I wasn’t even sure I wanted a beach somewhere. I wasn’t sure I wanted a Clyde. But still, I swore like a sailor for him. I said, “Fuck the system” with him. I added more eyeliner and snarled at security guards and learned how to shoot a gun for him. I played the role. Played it well. Like always.
“Rach, honey doll.”
A hand on my elbow and I was reaching for my purse before I even thought about it. I was at the bar at the casino and Fitz was at my side. He’d already run out of money to gamble with. He was just warming up. The house wouldn’t know what hit ’em. We were going to own the fucking place, baby. I’d heard it all. Bought it all. I handed Fitz a stack of twenties and he licked my neck. Love, am I right?
The casino was busy as always. But I knew the bartender and he knew to keep my mojitos coming. This was my big night out. The one night a week I didn’t perform. And this was how I was spending it. I would get drunker and Fitz would get higher. He’d keep losing and I’d keep giving. We’d leave out of our heads and out of our cash. Nix that. My cash. We’d fuck and go to sleep and in the morning, I’d go to practise and he’d go to score weed.With my money.
Bonnie and fucking Clyde, my ass.
But there he was again tapping my elbow. And there I was yet again opening my purse, handing over the cash, smiling when he smiled because I was supposed to. Because Bonnie loved Clyde. Because she wanted that adventure. Because she was happy. Because she was Bonnie.
I don’t know what got into me that night. It should have been like any other night. Pretending to be happy should have made me happy enough. I was pretty good at believing myself when I told myself enough times.
But I was irritable. Every time Fitz came to my elbow, “Rach, sugar tits”, “Rach, honey bun”, “Rach, Rach, Rach”, I got madder and madder. Maybe the bartender wasn’t making the drinks strong enough. Maybe I wasn’t drinking them fast enough. Maybe my period was coming early. Or maybe it was that guy in the crowd the night before.
The stage lights had gone down just enough for me to see. Only for a moment or two. Blinking against the glare. Blinking against the white heat. It had just been a moment. A chance glance. A pause between the numbers. A moment to breathe and catch my breath. And it had all gone wrong.
Because I’d locked eyes with a man in the audience. Instead of catching my breath, I lost it. Instead of a reprieve from the glare, from the heat, his gaze blinded me even more, made sweat drip down my bare back. Instead of it being just a moment, there and gone, it was a memory. It lingered. He lingered.
I couldn’t help but wonder about him. Wonder what it would be like if he came down the stairs instead of Fitz. Wonder who I would be with him. Wonder if I might even be me.
It wasn’t really Fitz’s fault that I blew up at him. We’d done this enough times out at the casinos that he thought I liked it. Thought we were having fun. Thought there was nothing to blow up about.
I’d been leading him on just as much as myself. I’d been playing a role for him for so long that when my true self showed up, I’m sure he had a right to wonder what the hell got into me.
I shouldn’t have yelled at him. Barked at him. Lost my cool at him. But I was so caught up in the memory of that man from the audience. In the heat. In the glare.
I just couldn’t take it. I just couldn’t.
I lost it. I fucking lost it. Fitz came back for more money and his hand was at my elbow again and I just fucking lost it. I couldn’t remember being that mad. That infuriated. That pissed at him. And me. And life. And whatever goddamn road had brought me to that point.
The whole fucking casino bar went silent when Fitz touched my elbow and I squeezed my eyes shut and shouted way too loud, “Goddammit, no! No more. No fucking more! No. No. NO!”
I opened my eyes and turned to tell Fitz exactly where I thought he should go and there was that heat again. That glare on my burning red cheeks. Because it wasn’t Fitz with his hand on my elbow. It wasn’t Fitz sliding into the bar stool beside me. Fitz was nowhere in sight.
There was just him.
