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(Me)Sorry G. Gotta go. TTYL?
(Gary)Of course, girlfriend. TTYL.
I pop open the notification app on my phone.
“Fuck.” It’s an overdraft message from my bank. My checking account is negative seventy-five.
And there’s an overdraft fee of forty bucks.
“Double Fuck.”
I log into my bank account and do the quick math in my head. I’m going to be four hundred dollars short.
I’ll figure this out. I always figure things out. Somehow.
Looking outside to where I just left my sleazeball boss hanging, reality dawns on me. I’m well and truly fucked.
The stream of thoughts spins around inside my head faster than I can handle. How the hell am I going to come up with that money in two days?
I text Gary back.
(Me)Yeah, well, career or not, I’m out of a job. Again.
(Gary)Maggie’s is still hiring.
Gary has been trying to get me to work at the breakfast café for years. I’ve never followed up because the starting salary is less than my customer service jobs, but at this point, I’m desperate.
(Me)How soon could they start me?
(Gary)Probably not until Wednesday. Maggie is out of town and she likes to interview all the new hires. Even my besties.
I rest my forehead on the steering wheel and stifle another scream.
(Me)Okay, I’ll let you know.
A squeezing pressure fills my chest as I hang a right out of the parking lot. I pull up to the stoplight, trying not to panic as my eyes blur with tears. Swiping the tears away, I glance up at the massive billboard across the street.
EDEN’S PLAYHOUSE
Beneath the billboard is a large yellow neon arrow, flashing so bright it’s conspicuous even in the bright afternoon Houston sunshine. The arrow points downward at an angle toward the single-story red brick building across the intersection. On the side of the building is a three-times-life-size mural of a beautiful girl lying on her back with her stiletto adorned feet raised into the air, her long skinny legs hooked around a stripper pole.
I’ve passed by that offensive image every morning and every night for the past eight months on my way to work, or on the way home from Rowles Auto Parts. I’ve never given it a second thought… until now.
SERVERS WANTED-IMMEDIATE HIRE
No. I will not work at a strip club. If Cheese Breath back there is bad, imagine the men in there.
As the traffic light turns green, I hit the gas and drift through the intersection, but instead of turning left, I turn right into the parking lot in front of the building.
This is probably a mistake. A huge mistake. But it doesn’t have to be long term. If they’re hiring immediately, I can offer to work the whole weekend, make enough to pay rent, and then take Gary up on his offer to get me in at the café.
I shut off the car and slide toward the door, reaching for the handle, but stop myself. What the hell am I doing? Am I really considering working in a place that publicly advertises women as sexual objects? Sure, it was years ago, but after what happened, am I that naïve? The memory makes me shiver, even though the inside of the car is an oven from the blazing sun and the Houston heat.
Stifling my pride and telling myself that it can’t be any worse than Rowles, I drag myself out of the car and up the steps toward Eden’s Playhouse. Before I can reach out for the handle, the door swings open in a violent arc and slams against the wall of the red brick building. A woman in a skintight tank top and denim shorts stumbles out, glancing over her shoulder.
“Yeah—whatever! You can go to hell!” She takes one look at me and smirks. “This place is a joke.”
This is my chance to turn around. I know I should, but against my better judgment, I catch the door before it closes. Stepping inside, I can barely see a thing. It’s like I just passed through a time warp. For the past two hours the clock at Rowles has been stuck at ten-minutes-to-five, and now suddenly, it might as well be midnight. This place is like a cave, and the only thing I can see are flickering lights coming from a large stage at the far right end of the room where an Allman Brothers tune is playing. Standing in the pulsating lights are three shiny silver poles that sprout from the base of the stage and stretch to the ceiling. A short woman in a black corset is twirling lazily around one of the poles.
