“What’s your name?” I blurt out, already knowing the answer. But it’s like when I have a bruise. Sometimes I press it to make sure it’s still there.
“Mary,” she says, and I swallow again, already doing a poor job of impressing the boss. “Can you go get those glasses now…” She gestures toward me.
I say, “Bonnelyn.”
“Ain’t that cute. Now, go.”
Mary is gone before I can say okay.
I exhale, trying to regain my composure. It helps that the boy with the confident smile is nowhere to be seen. I duck beneath the bar’s partition, then hesitate outside of it. The room is more than a bit intimidating.
A grand chandelier hovers over the dance floor. It casts winks of light onto the wooden bar. I hold my hands out, turning ’em front and back, examining how shimmers of color dance over my skin. The red neon sign, spelling out DOC’S, acts as a backdrop for the stage. There, a man sits at a piano, his hands banging into the ivory.
The sudden high notes of a trumpet erupt in the room. A dark-skinned man breathes into the instrument, bending at the waist, a mirror image of another man with a saxophone. Front and center, the three girls croon into microphones, each swaying to the beat. For a second, I forget where I am and how the police could come barging through the door at any time. I softly rock from foot to foot. What a thrill it’d be to be onstage, creating the sounds that fill this room. Extraordinary, breathtaking. Sensuous.
My cheeks blush.
The dancing, if that’s what it can be called, reddens my cheeks further and stops my feet from swaying. In front of me, arms and legs flail wildly. And no, it doesn’t matter I’m not partaking; the act of watching feels sinful enough. Suffice it to say, there are certain places better fit for such half-dressed movements, and the government closed those houses down along with the bars.
The sweaty smell of sex—or how I’d imagine nookie would smell—wafts over me. I blow the thick air from my nose, but the perfumed, musky scent goes nowhere.
Me, on the other hand … I could escape upstairs. I’ll run home, crawl under my covers, pretend this night never happened. Tomorrow, Roy will hold me, tell me the paint color he prefers for our walls, and I’ll push away any thoughts of the betrayal in coming here.
Over my shoulder, I search for Blanche’s familiar face behind the illicit bar. Only Mary’s wide eyes stare back. She signals with those eyes and a quick tilt of her head toward the tables. Her simple command to get the glasses shouldn’t be so scary. For years, I’ve been clearing tables at the diner—a job I no longer have.
Income I no longer have.
In time with the saxophone’s roar, I shuffle forward, keeping to the outskirts of the room. A woman nearly knocks into me and I risk glancing at her. She flings her head back and her partner buries his face into her neck, kissing her.
I steady myself against the wall. The brick is cool to the touch, and I want nothin’ more than to press my face against it, letting the coldness seep into me and numb the guilt swarming my insides.
But I keep moving forward, doing as I’m told. With each step, laughter and booming voices and music swirl together in the room, surrounding me.
I stop at the first table I come to, hesitating before I reach for a glass. A man drapes himself over the table, arms folding ’round a pile of poker chips. I’m sure they clink together as he drags ’em toward himself, but the room swallows the sound. Only his smug laugh and the other men’s boisterous groans cut through the noise.
Quickly gathering glasses, I fill my arms and scurry to the bar.
Back and forth I go, in barely more than a daze, the hours ticking by. And ’cause I’m technically not the one mixing or serving the drinks, I try to convince myself being here ain’t wrong. It helps I don’t see that boy again, the one who smirked at me when I first arrived, part of me wondering what he was ’bout to say.
Each time I return to the bar, Blanche flicks her attention to me, beaming widely. This time she fills a glass, slamming the now empty bottle hard against the table. The men lined up at the bar raise their glasses and cheer.
The man Blanche serves next is a gross type—slick and gross. Wearing a fancy three-piece suit don’t make you fancy—or at least that’s what Ma says.
He reaches up, wraps a wisp of Blanche’s blonde hair ’round his finger, but Blanche is acting cool as a cat, giggling and leaning closer. It’s the tapping of her foot that broadcasts, to me, that she’s unhappy with how he fondles her.
I avert my eyes, too uncomfortable to watch.
When I turn back, Blanche is pouring a shot of liquor. One is already filled, in front of me.
She nudges me with her elbow. “This here gentleman bought us some drinks.” The shake of my head is automatic, and Blanche might as well be speaking French when she whispers, “Stop staring at it like I’ve gone and poured you poison.”
A hand shoots out, grabbing the small glass.
Mary slams it down, empty. She puffs from her cigarette, scrutinizing me, blowing the smoke toward my face. “Take them glasses into the kitchen to wash ’em.”
I oblige, going quickly, without another glance at Blanche or the disgusting man.
The back room is quieter and I release a breath. It’s easy to lose myself in the simple motion of cleaning and rinsing the glasses, and I don’t realize ’til a few minutes later that my hands move to the beat of the muted music, my fingers tapping against the glass as if against the piano’s keys. My shoulders, though—they stay rigid.
“What are you doing here?” a sultry voice says.
I whip toward her, suds dripping onto the floor.
Mary steps closer, slipping her cigarette between her lips. The way she moves somehow seems seductive. Her clothing, her bobbed hairstyle, the tilt of her hip—everything suggests she has it.
Sex appeal.
Self-consciously, I brush aside my hair with my wrist, leaving soap on my cheek. I lift my shoulder to dab away the residue, feeling like a child.
“Cat got your tongue?” she asks me.
“I, um, Blanche brought me.”
“Yes, but why are you here?”
I think of our unpaid bills. But I can’t help thinkin’ further off, picturing a life that’d make my daddy proud. I think of Roy’s doodles and the need to support my ma. This here could pad my way, but now that I’m hiding out in the back room, thankful to be washing dishes …
“I…” I stumble over my words, not sure how to answer, not sure those reasons are enough to keep me here.
“In over your head,” Mary says, reading me perfectly.
I nod, and honesty slips out. “I’m not sure this is the right place for me.”
Mary releases a slow stream of smoke. “But it’s right for me?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“So you didn’t mean to judge me?”
Judge her. The conversation is moving too fast, my mind too slow. I squeeze the slick glass tighter.
Mary leans against a table, locking her gaze on me. “So what’s so wrong with being here?”