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Standing in the shower, watching the inky water run down my body, I vaguely wonder if I’m way over my head. The diluted dye swirls around my feet and down the drain, providing no answers on the way.
Toweling off, I wipe the steam from the mirror and stare at my new reflection. I dyed my chocolate hair a deep, rich black and finely plucked and tinted my eyebrows. Wrapping my hair up in a towel, I start on my makeup. A thick black liquid liner and several layers of mascara make my eyes glow. Powdered foundation slightly lighter than my typical shade contrasts with my now inky black hair. A glossy bright red lipstick completes the look. Goth Marilyn Monroe. I dry my hair and twist it up in a heavy black octopus clip, so the loose ends cascade from the top of the clip and down the sides. I set the makeup with a spray and a light dust of translucent powder.
Next, I slide into the skintight black pants, matching black corset top with red laces down the back, and red-soled stiletto shoes. My new work uniform.
Glisten is one of the hottest nightclubs in the city. The cover charge is outrageous, the line is halfway down the block all night long, and the bouncers have a tendency to deny entry for reasons know only to them. And now I work there. Rebecca Jackson, cocktail waitress.
The subway stop isn’t far from the employee entrance of the club. As I round the corner, I see Ivan guarding the door. I met him when I came to interview yesterday. Like every other Russian here, he’s massive, with tattoos covering the backs of his hands and down his knuckles. He keeps his hair cut short, and wears the required black on black suit. The bulge under his jacket inclines me to believe he’s armed. He breaks into a smile when he sees me. His smile is almost disarming. Almost.
“Hi, new girl. First day?”
“Yep, wish me luck!”
He opens the door and steps aside for me to enter. Inside, the building is awash in prep work. The DJ works at his booth, testing speakers and discussing pyrotechnics. The bartenders are setting up tills and filling up the cubbies with cut limes and other garnishes. Dozens of men bustle back and forth bringing case after case of liquor to the bar. A hostess is setting up VIP tables for bottle service, referencing her iPad for reservation details periodically.
“Rebecca!” Michelle, my new boss, is waving me over to the bar. She’s tall, beautiful, with delicate features, moss green eyes, and red hair in a pixie cut. She walks in the required heels like they are molded to her feet, and the corset top is made for her slender frame. “Sorry to have you start on a Friday, I don’t usually like to throw new girls to the wolves, but we’re just so short handed and it’s supposed to be a full house today.”
“It’s no problem,” I assure her. “I’ll try to keep from slowing you down!” We both laugh. Michelle seems genuinely nice, at least in the limited interactions I’ve had with her. She gives me a tour of the massive multilevel club. The center dance floor is ringed by table service booths, which are then surrounded by a giant wraparound bar on both sides. Above, three separate VIP balconies jut over the dance floor. Each has a perfect view of the stage, its own dance area, with glass railings and floor giving the illusion of being at risk of falling into the crowd below, as well as several large sofas, recliners, and some tall top tables.
“The side balconies anyone can rent or be gifted access to, but the center balcony is reserved for Mr. Popov and his guests.”
I nod along. I’ll prod her for information later. Right now my goal is to settle in at my new job, not raise suspicions. She introduces me to more waitresses, bartenders, and several security guards. The guards are all large, Russian, and intimidating. Some, like Ivan, are quite likable. I quickly realize he and Michelle have a thing going on, but I don’t mention it to either of them. Others, like Igor, standing guard by the VIP area, scare the hell out of me.
After the first hour, my brain is spinning with all the names I’ve forgotten already. Michelle gets an access badge for me that activates the registers so I can keep tabs open for customers and allows me to cash them out. She explains the customary tip sharing between waitresses and bartenders.
“Ok, we open in twenty minutes. Take a few minutes as a break, bathroom, smoke, whatever. We’re going to be handling booths 1, 2 and tables A, B, C, D tonight. Those aren’t considered primo spots, since they are closer to the walkway than the main stage, but I figure it’s best to try and ease into it for now. Then let’s just play it by ear, ok?”
“Sounds good! Where’s the staff bathroom again?”
“Oh! Right. Ladies’ bathroom and locker room are just to the right of the door you came in earlier.”
“Alright, I’ll meet you back here in a few minutes.” I totter off in my sky-high heels. I’m currently just pleased with myself for having not fallen off them yet. Jesus, my feet are going to kill me later.
After washing my hands, I give my hair and makeup the onceover, pleased to see my skills in setting makeup to survive the Texas humidity translate well to the New York night club heat. My black hair and pale skin really do set off the bright red lips. I’m surprised by the look, still not used to the color of my hair just yet, but overall, I have to say I dig it.Just breathe, I tell myself. I practice introducing myself as Rebecca in my head some more, just to set it in.Ok, Rebecca, let’s do this.
I find Michelle reviewing the expected guests at our section with the hostess. No one of any particular interest tonight. I help set their tables up with the requested bottles of alcohol and decanters of mixers and garnishes, nestled in a giant ice bin. Michelle winks at me. “It’s silly really, most of these boys couldn’t make an old-fashioned if their lives depended on it, so we will throw most of this crap away at the end of the night.” I can’t help the giggle that sneaks out. The booth guests start to trickle in, and we get them set up in their spots. We alternate taking drink orders from them and the table guests being sat behind us. It’s only about three a.m., and Glisten is known as a party until the sun comes up kind of place. Michelle and I have settled into an easy groove and my college waitress days are coming back to me. The tips are certainly better here though, I think to myself as a suited hedge fund manager hands me a hundred-dollar bill as a tip.
I can see people have filled up all three VIP areas. Does that mean Popov is here? I’ve looked at his picture, but never seen the man in person.
“Hey,” Michelle shouts over the music, “we’re going to swap with Christi since it’s a little slower here and you’re keeping up. Her section is hopping and she’s exhausted. She has the south balcony.” She points in case I don’t know which one is which. “Head up and she will introduce you to the tables, I’ll let our tables down here know she’s taking over.”
I nod and spin on my heels, headed for the spiral staircase that leads to the balcony. The music is phenomenal, with sounds that you feel deep in your chest and flashing lights timed to the beats. This is the kind of place Tasha and I used to frequent when we were younger. But we aren’t, and certainly won’t be coming here when this story is done.
I find Christi with a tray of lemon drop shots, handing the first to a girl with a white veil and ‘bride to be’ sash. She’s flanked by a posse of ‘bride squad’ sashes. The bride takes the glass and salutes across the open space to the opposite balcony, which is exclusively occupied by young men in designer suits. One is standing, saluting her back with his own drink.
“I love you, baby!” the bride screams. Her squad breaks into cheers and holds their own shots up before everyone drinks.
“Bachelor and bachelorette party,” Christi explains, though I’d come to that conclusion myself. “The girls here are trying to outdrink the boys. I’ve been lightening the liquor in their drinks as the night goes on and putting our sparkling water with fruit in champagne glasses to encourage hydration, and discourage vomiting.” My respect for her increases.
“That’s a great idea. I’ll make sure the tips find their way to you.” She has, after all, done most of the work.
“Thanks, doll, just split them with me. You’re doing me a solid by swapping with me. We can meet up at closing and work out the tips that I owe you from your tables downstairs too.” After introductions to the bridal party, Christi sashays gracefully down the stairs.
Michelle finds me with a tray of fruity water with elegant lemon swirls on the sugared rims. “Christi is a genius, isn’t she?”
I nod. The girls are quite sloshed. Glancing across the way, it looks like the boys are well on their way. All things considered, I’m actually enjoying the job.
The bridal party is busy posing for pictures, each taking turns to hand me their phones to snap some for them. Suddenly, the bride squeals.
