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“Ahhh, girl, you a fuckin’ saint, ya know that?” he says as he scurries from his makeshift home, pulling out two buckets and flipping them around for seats. He pats the one next to him and I oblige, before pulling out the bag from my purse and handing it to him. Jay pulls out the two sandwiches — PB and J are all I had — and hands me one.
We sit in comfortable silence and eat our breakfast. Jay finishes before me, but waits for me to be done with.
“Thanks, girl. Needed that. Pickings were slim yesterday,” he tells me. I know he’s referring to his two forms of income, bottle collecting and panhandling. “What you got on today? You look nice.”
“I thought I always looked nice,” I tease, and Jay winks at me.
“Well, you look especially nice today,” he tells me, and I laugh, not at all bothered by the old flirt.
“Well, today I’m practicing that whole ‘fake it, till you make it’ mentality. If I can’t get a job soon, you’ll have to share your dumpster with me before long,” I joke, though in the back of my head I can’t help but think it’s not far off from the truth.
“Any auditions lined up?” he asks, and I shake my head.
“Going to head downtown today, go check out a few of the theatres and see if I can find any open calls not listed online or something.”
Jay stands, holding out a grubby hand to help me up.
“Well, you know I’ve got that cousin with that club I told ya about. Can give him a call anytime,” he tells me.
“Thanks, but I’ll try to find something where I can keep my clothes on at least a bit longer,” I tell him, and he chuckles.
“Shame that.” He winks. “Well, good luck, girl. I tell you what, today I go hustle, and tonight, you can come back and tell me all about the amazing gig you got, and we can celebrate.”
I smile and lean forward, planting the lightest kiss on his cheek.
“Thanks, Jay. I’ll see you later.”
I leave him with a wave and head to the bus stop. Checking my phone, I confirm there’s only ten minutes to wait and opt to lean against the post instead of sitting. There’s a mother and child at the bus stop waiting too, and the little girl waves at me shyly so I wave back. She whispers something in her mother’s ear, and the woman gives me a look and smiles.
“Why don’t you ask her, sweetheart?” the mother says. The girl looks at me through her lashes, and I crouch down so I’m closer to her level and smile. She takes a step forward and looks up at me. Reaching out a hand toward my hair, she stops before she reaches it, pulling her hand back.
She mumbles something.
“What was that?” Her mother chuckles, urging the girl forward.
“I said, why is your hair silver like Gramma but you're pretty like Mommy?” she says, her voice still quiet and shy. I let out a surprised laugh and her mother flushes but the smile stays on her face, too.
“Well, I like to dye my hair and I thought this color would be fun,” I tell her, running a hand through the lengths. “What do you think?”
The little girl smiles. “I think it's pretty.”
I smile back, but the bus pulls up before I can say anything further.
By the timeI’m getting back on the bus to head home, my spirits are significantly lower. I didn’t expect I’d come to LA and immediately make it big or anything, but I figured there would be some work at least. Apparently, there isn’t a huge market for ex-ballerinas or aspiring actresses with no connections from Beacon Falls, Connecticut.
Sighing, I take my seat and let my mind drift as the bus takes us through the less savoury parts of downtown LA. A woman wearing a red, sequined dress catches my eye as the bus passes through. She seems out of place in such a seedy neighbourhood until I turn to look once more and see her step into a club with “Girls Girls Girls'' in neon letters down one side. I think back to Jay’s earlier offer and a lump rises in my throat. My mother’s voice, the nagging and disapproval of my choices and the roads she thought they may lead down, is heavy on my mind.
We seldom talk these days, maybe catch up every few months now, but still that stupid parental disapproval runs strong. I wonder what Dad would have thought, but he passed away when I was young, leaving me with only my mother.
If she knew I came out here and just ended up a stripper, it’d be like proving her right.
But is that better or worse than having to go home empty-handed?
At least if I have some kind of income, I can keep my apartment long enough to find something better.
If you’re even good enough for something better, a voice says, and I mentally shove it aside. I still have just over two weeks to get rent money together. I can totally find a gig before then. And if not…. Well, at least I know I look good naked.
Atlas
