Audition - Part 2

During my next shift at the bookstore, in between selling John Irving books, I scribbled down the number listed in the want ads and shoved it into my pants pocket.  I thought about the number in my pocket as I sat ripping covers off the “mass market” romance and western novels with Michael.  There was something satisfying about ripping off the covers.  Busty women with flowing dresses falling off of their white shoulders being bent over backward by a swarthy long haired man, with a sword at his side.  Rip, and the cover was added to a stack of others in a box, and the pulp fiction flew into another much larger box overflowing with cheap print.  Although the job kept Michael from scowling at customers, just being surrounded by so much bad writing seemed to aggravate him even more.  Michael’s real love was loud, raucous music, and he wrote regular reviews for several music related ‘zines.  He despised mediocrity.  I never read any of this crap either, but there we were, both of us with bachelor’s degrees, literally surrounded by crap fiction. 

It was break time for Kevin, as we could hear by the rhythmic tapping of his drumsticks.  He kept them nearby at all times, and would regularly beat out a rhythm whenever he had a chance.  We once caravanned to Galveston together for a weekend with friends.  He drove behind me and each time during the three hour drive I looked into the rearview mirror, he was tapping out rhythms with his drumsticks on the steering wheel.  I wasn’t sure how he actually drove the car. 

            “Michael,” I said, as I ripped the cover of a Western off.  The sunset and horse joined the busty women in the ripped covers box.  “Have you ever known any dancers?  I mean, you know, stripper dancers?”

            Michael stopped for a minute and pushed his glasses back up on his face.  “I was friends with a girl for a while who did that.  And Shanda, from The Blaxx, used to be a stripper before The Blaxx made it big and so now she doesn’t need to anymore.”

            “Is it good money, do you think?” 

            “I guess so.  Seriously,” he said, holding up a true crime book titled All the Wilted Flowers, “who reads this fucking shit?”  He ripped the cover off violently and slammed the book into the pile of paperbacks.  “I hate this goddamned job, sometimes.” 

            Kevin’s tapping had stopped.  I heard him negotiating with a creditor on the break phone.  His creditors were always calling him at work.  I wondered how much money the author of All the Wilted Flowers made on that book.

            That night, I sat on my apartment floor next to the phone, looking at the number I’d scribbled down.  I could hear Mary, Blake, Cat and Brad down below me, drinking Miekey’s.  It was hot in the apartment, since I didn’t have air conditioning.  I was in shorts and a half shirt.  My cat, Simon, came over and rubbed against my leg. I picked up the phone and dialed.

            On the third ring, someone picked up.  “Devil’s Cave,” said a man’s voice.  I heard voices in the background.  I tried to sound confident.  Like they would be freaking lucky to get such a sexy thing as I. Simon tried to curl into my lap, and I shoved him off.

            “Hi, I was calling about the ad in the paper for dancers.”

            “Oh great,” said the man, who didn’t sound like I thought he would.  I had expected an old voice, gritty and slimy.  This voice was young, and seemed to be in a pretty good mood.  “Do you have any experience?”

            A tricky question right off the bat.  “I have 4 years of experience in dance,” I replied, “but I’ve never danced in a club.”  Suddenly, I felt like I was applying for a college scholarship.  It was all about selling myself.  “But,” I went on, “I have lots of experience performing in front of people.”  I was really sweating now.  I pushed my sweaty hair back from my forehead and I felt I trickle of sweat roll down between my breasts. 

            “How old are you?” replied the man, and I heard someone in the background whoop loudly.

            “Twenty-three”.

            “On a scale of one to ten, with ten being good, how would you rate your body?”

            There was an interview question I’d never heard before.  An image of my naked body flashed in my mind.  110 pounds, skinny, knobby knees, pale skin that never tanned, even in Texas weather, small breasts.  “Eight and a half” I heard myself say in a confident tone.  I was nothing if not competitive.

            “Well,” said the man.  “Why don’t you come down here and audition for us.  Can you come Friday night?  8:30?”

            “Sure,” I said, feeling triumphant and terrified.  Friday night was two nights from now.  “Where are you located?”

            He gave me directions and told me to park next to the green dumpster in the back.  “And,” he said, “wear lingerie.”

            “Um, okay”.

            I hung up the phone and my hands were shaking.  I had an audition.  Or something.  I had one piece of lingerie, which no one had ever seen before.  It was a one piece baby doll shift of red lace.  It would have to work.  I couldn’t afford anything else.  I went to the cardboard box that held my pajamas and underwear.  The box said “Penguin Publishing” on it.  I dug out my red lace and looked at it.  Then I stripped off my clothes, emptied the milk crate that held my shirts, turned it upside-down and stood on it in the bathroom, so I could look at myself in the bathroom mirror.  If I stood on the crate, I could see my head and most of my torso.  It felt good to take off my sweaty shirt.  I leaned forward and looked at my face critically.  I had a small mole on the side of my nose, but with makeup no one would notice.  The Texas sun had brought my freckles out, but they were just a small smattering, and I thought they looked okay.  I let my red hair down.  It was long and fell down over my back and shoulders.  Definitely a high point.  I heard Mary laughing downstairs.  I was wearing my glasses.  I took them off and I couldn’t see, so I put them back on.  But behind them, my eyes were a pale blue, although sometimes they were more green.  They were okay, I guessed.  I licked my lips.  Sexy enough.  I looked down at my breasts and upper body.  Arms were decent, although I wished I had more arm muscles.  I’d never been overweight, and certainly wasn’t now, since none of us ate very much.  We mainly drank beer and Crown Royal and smoked cigarettes.  My breasts were small. They’d be okay if they weren’t so small.  I figured that was a drawback, but what the hell.  Really, I was pretty hot and I decided eight and a half was an exaggeration, but not by that much.   I pulled my sweaty half shirt back on, poured Simon another bowl of water, took my cigarettes and a beer from the fridge, and went downstairs.

            Brad was really drunk tonight.  A pile of empty Mickey’s was next to his lawnchair.  Mary handed him another cigarette from her pack, lighting it for him.  He leaned over to reach it, and nearly toppled from his chair.  I figured Mary had bought him the beers.  Brad never had any money. 

I’d never even been in a strip club.  I had a general idea of what went on from watching TV shows, or hearing about it, but I hadn’t actually seen it for myself.  I didn’t know what part of town Devil’s Cave was in, but I figured I’d find it somehow.  I guessed I’d just stand around in my lingerie and they’d decide if they wanted to hire me or not.  I thought about saying something to Mary about my audition, but then Blake jumped up and howled again, then slammed his fist into the side of the apartment, so the moment passed.  Part of me didn’t want to hear what they’d say.  Which was probably that this was a stupid idea.  I’d tell them after I’d been dancing for a while and was making a ton of money.  

            The next day I started getting nervous.  As I rang up the now discounted Son of a Circus books, I felt a nagging fear that it might not be a good idea to drive to a strip club by myself in an unknown part of town wearing lingerie.  I rang up a self help book titled, Loving and Leaving Myself:  A Guide for the Lost.  I wished I had a gun.  My stepfather had tried to give me one once, but since I didn’t know how to use it, I refused.  This was a great excuse for him to force me to endure a shooting lesson, but this only reinforced my ineptitude with firearms, as I couldn’t hit any of the cans he’d put out for me, and the kickback from the rifle had given me a monstrous bruise on my shoulder.  I rang up a large stack of “Cliff Notes” books on major works in English literature for a young man who looked like he was born in a fraternity house, and I sneered at him internally.  I told Michael about it, and he threw a book across the back room in rage.  I thought about snuff box films I’d heard about and thought about myself in red lingerie.

            On Friday, all I could think about was my audition.  I’d been practicing undulating around my apartment in what I supposed was a sexy way, but my apartment was small and I only had book boxes and milk crates for props, and I didn’t quite know what to do.  I’d tried to incorporate some of my ballet training, but I didn’t think that was helping me.  I’d brought two potatoes with me for lunch to heat up in the microwave, but I wasn’t hungry.  I was going to need a drink before I went, that’s for sure. 

            On the way home, I smoked a cigarette and tried to feel confident.  Smoking in the car never worked for me, though.  The smoke would just fill up the cab of the truck, even if the windows were down, and my eyes would water.  If I held my cigarette out the window, the ash would fly back into the cab and land on me somewhere.  I found it hard to shift and steer at the same time when I was holding a cigarette.  I didn’t feel very sexy.

            I was hoping I would leave for my audition before everyone started sitting around drinking like usual.  Blake would be off work where he was a prep cook at a Cajun restaurant around 7, but he’d have to stop by and get alcohol and cigarettes.  Mary was working the late shift at the bookstore, so she wouldn’t be back until after 10:00.  Brad was home, but he was always confused and never really paid any attention to what I was doing anyway, unless I was buying him beer.  Mary was really the catalyst that made our little group come together every night, so I figured I was safe.

            I took my shower at 6:30.  I shaved meticulously, trying to get every errant hair.  I dried myself carefully, and applied lotion to my entire body.  I thought about the man on the other end of the line.  He didn’t sound like an ax murderer.  But I guess I didn’t know what one sounded like.  I didn’t want to sweat in my lingerie, so I left it off and dried my hair with my blow dryer, fluffing it up and away from my face.  I curled it with my curling iron until it fell in red curls around my face.  I pictured a dark parking lot and a green dumpster.   I opened a beer and drank half.  I decided I needed some protection. 

            I threw on shorts and a T-shirt and went downstairs to see Brad.  His door was open.  “Brad?” I called, sticking my head in and bracing myself for the stench.  Brad’s place smelled atrocious.  It was because he adopted cats.  He had 20 or so of them now who came and went through the open door as they pleased.  So it smelled like cat and pee, and since Brad wasn’t fond of showering, also of stinky man. “Brad!  Are you in there?”

            He stepped in from his back patio holding a black short haired cat, wearing his ripped jean shorts and tank top.  His sweaty hair flopped in his face.  “Oh, hey, Naomi!  What’s up? Come on in.  Hey, you don’t have a beer do you?”

            Brad was happy to see me.  He was happy to see everyone who would stop by.  Other than us, he pretty much just talked to his cats.  I stepped in and stood in front of the fan, next to three cats who had flopped down in front of the fan, their fur rustling in the blowing air. 

            “No, sorry.  Hey, I know this is a weird question, but do you have a gun or something?”

            It was an odd question, but nothing really phased Brad.  He shook his floppy bangs out of his eyes.  “No, I used to, but someone stole it.  You know, when they robbed my place a few months ago.”

            I didn’t actually remember this, but it sounded like a long story and I didn’t want a long story right now.  So I didn’t ask. 

            “Why do you want a gun?” said Brad, setting down the black cat and picking up an orange tabby with a ragged patch in her fur.  All Brad’s cats looked terrible.  He couldn’t afford to take them to the vet or have them groomed, or to give them anti-flea medication or anything.  They just ate and slept there, a motley collection of unkempt and matted fur, cat dandruff, limping wounds, raccoon bites, and deteriorating teeth.  They whined frequently.  But he loved them all. 

            I gave up and told Brad what I was going to do.  He petted his cat and listened.

“Well,” he said when I’d finished.  “Do you think that’s safe, Snackicat?” he whispered to the orange tabby.  “What does Snackicat think about that?”

            Great, now this jobless, stinky man who talked to cats was going to tell me I wasn’t being safe.  Or Snackicat was going to.

            “I’ll be fine!” protested.  “It’s no big deal.  I was just thinking it would be good if I had something, you know, just in case.”

            Snackicat started meowing as if to protest my determination.  Brad set him gently down on the floor.  “Sounds a little sketchy to me,” he said.

            “But Brad, I need to make money!  And I can do this without it interfering with Bookstop, and I think I could make a lot of money.”  I noticed him perk up a little at this.  Probably thinking of the cases of beer I could supply.

            “You know, I do have something.  Hold on.”  He disappeared into the bathroom, where I heard a great deal of rummaging around.  Snackicat looked up at me with watery eyes and meowed painfully.  I started to lean down to pet him, but thought better of it.  I was always worried Brad’s cats were spreading some kind of disease.  Brad emerged with a small canister.  “Mace!” he announced proudly.

            I took the Mace canister in my hands.  “See,” he said, you just flick this switch, point and spray.  That should do it.

            “Why does it have electrical tape over the spout?”  There was a small strip of black tape right over the spout where the Mace should squirt out.

            “Oh, that’s because I lost the safety cover.  But don’t worry, it’s really powerful.  If you shoot it, it’s going to shoot right through the tape.”

            I needed to get going.  I still had to get my lingerie on and my contacts and eye make up done, so I decided not to discuss this.  I thanked Brad, who gave me a big stinky hug, and I headed back upstairs.

            I pulled on my lingerie.  The lace against my skin felt good.  I looked at the Mace.  I wasn’t so sure about it shooting through the electrical tape.  I pointed it into the sink and pushed hard on the trigger.  The Mace dribbled out from under the tape in rivulets and covered my hand, dripping into the sink. Clearly, this was not going to keep me from being snuff boxed.  I decided to forget the Mace.  I had to finish getting ready and go.  I washed my hands quickly.  It was 7:45. 

            At first, I couldn’t figure out why my eye was burning.  I had just put my clean contact in my eye, and now I was on fire.  I bent over the sink, and pulled my eye open with one hand so I could scrape my contact lens out with the other.  It felt like my whole face was swelling.  Tears were streaming down my face, and I couldn’t open my eye.  “Brad!” I screamed. 

            I made my way down the stairs, not bothering to find anything to put over my lingerie.  I could see out of the eye I hadn’t maced, but my whole face hurt.  “Brad!” I screeched as I stumbled into his apartment.

            “Naomi!” I heard him shout.  I stepped onto a soft furry thing that howled as I crashed down onto the floor, landing in a pile of cat vomit.  I felt Brad’s arms under mine as he hauled me up. 

            “What happened?  Are you okay?!”

            “The mace!” I cried.  He pulled me over to the sink and held my head down over it and ran water.  He splashed it up into my face, and I tried to hold my swollen eyelids open. 

            “Oh my god, what did you do?”

            “It doesn’t shoot right through” I gurgled through a mouthful of water.

            A few minutes later, I sagged on Brad’s flea ridden couch with a wet cloth over my eye.  I had reviewed the damage in Brad’s bathroom mirror.  My eye would not open.  It was swollen and red. In fact, most of my face was now blotchy and red.  My lingerie was soggy.  A long haired gray cat with matted fur and a limp sat on my foot.  I was not  feeling sexy. 

            “Well,” I said heavily.  I guess I’m not going to that audition.”

            Brad sat across from me, holding Snackicat.  “You could reschedule,” he said helpfully.

            “I guess so,” I replied. 

            “Let me rewet that,” said Brad, taking the cloth from me.  As I handed it to him, I felt a sense of relief.  The image of the dark parking lot and the green dumpster faded.  “Maybe I will, maybe I won’t.”  Maybe I didn’t need any more adventure for a while.

            Brad returned and handed me the cool, wet washcloth.  And then he handed me a cold beer.  I held it for a moment against my hot cheek. 

            “Thanks,” I said.  He smiled at me.  “Here’s to staying home tonight” and we clinked our bottles.