Inertia
Manicured nails pick at the delicate, sensitive skin on your lips. Grabbing ahold of a small sliver of it and peeling it away to reveal the rawness beneath. The voice of a siren carries through the smokey bar. Tauntingly caressing your ear drums. In the shadows of the hall leading to the stage you stare up at the woman singing. Harlow. Unblinkingly and jealously. Low bass reverberates through the wood-paneled walls.
In the dim yellow lights Harlow still manages to look angelic. Impossibly soft yellow hair brushed over her dainty shoulders. You tear your gaze away from her to survey the crowd tonight. It's smaller than usual. Not by a lot, maybe five or so people less than usual. A majority of the patrons are men. Eyes flash in the corner and you meet them momentarily before quickly looking elsewhere. Those eyes aren't for you anymore.
On stage, Harlow bows and blows a kiss.
"Thanks for coming tonight." She calls out in her stupidly soft voice. It grates on your nerves. Subdued applause rings out as she turns heel and walks towards the hall - towards you. You don't look at her as she passes, bumping your shoulder as she does. You straighten out your dress and gloves and walk forward, stepping onto the stage and taking your place Infront of the microphone.
The Fireflower, like most of the older businesses in Las Almas, is old and in desperate need of a new coat of paint. It's had the same owner since you were a child. It's on the west side of town and it's frequented by people that live there too. People who lack much money and choose to spend what they do have on illegally homemade beer that is guaranteed to fry their livers faster than regular alcohol. It is cheaper to produce, however. And when you live in a 'protected' neighborhood where the cartel demands a 'security fee', you have to find ways to get creative with money.
You flash your teeth in a smile at the crowd. Pretending that they're more interested than they really are. One of them is. Peter. He's also been here since you were a child. Often seen slumped over in front of the doors next to a puddle of his own vomit. He whistles and raises his drink in support. Your smile is a little more genuine when it reaches him. You don't bother with introductions. None of the faces here are new anyway. Three songs. Get through three songs then you're free to leave. Go back to your dingy, one bedroom apartment and cry yourself to sleep under the obnoxiously loud AC unit.
It's not that you don't enjoy your job. You like to sing, like being on stage and admired. It's just doing it here sucks out any possible joy that could be found in it. The bar is grimy and falling apart and its loyal patrons match that. You glance over at the corner. Where the eyes were. They aren't on you anymore. Their owner, a tall dark-haired woman, are gazing deeply into Harlow's eyes. Your grip on the microphone tightens, your voice weakening at the sight so you look away. Object impermanence.
Halfway through your second song the doors open and a woman walks in. She's notable because there aren't many women in the bar as it is. She's also openly carrying. She looks around, eyes briefly settling on you before shifting to a man in a far corner. You don't pay much attention to her as she strides over to him. He and the woman begin to engage in what looks to be a very serious conversation. It's not one that lasts long, she jerks her head to the side and he reluctantly rises to a stand. One few too many beers making him unsteady on his feet. He walks out, leaving the woman alone.
She finally turns her attention on you. You're used to being stared at, that's just what happens when you sing on a stage. People have looked at you in all manner of ways. Lustful, indifferent, judgmental. Some people have really intense stares. Ones that you can feel like a hand firmly planted on your shoulder shaking you. Demanding your attention. Demanding that you stare back.
You finish your second song and begin your third and final of your set. You sing it with a little more conviction. More passion. Because a face comes to mind whenever you hear or sing it. Downturned eyes and arched brows. Your eyes shift to the corner where the tall woman is. You don't know how many times you've traced the slope of her nose or brushed her unruly mane of hair away from her face.
You finish the song. Glad to have it over and done with. You bid the audience a farewell before walking off stage. Into the dark hallway. One of the lightbulbs along the wall has burnt out, leaving a dark patch of vague ominousness. You walk back to the dressing rooms. Passing a few of the girls smoking. They don't speak to you, something you're fine with. In the group dressing room, you grab your coat and purse from your locker. Slipping your arms into the cheap, water damaged leather.
You walk back out into the bar. Weaving around the tables.
"Hey!" A slurred voice calls out your name. A heavy hand claps you on the back and you grimace.
"Hi Peter, enjoy the show?" You ask.
He smiles at you, sun-damaged cheeks dimpling. "I did, come have a drink. Come." He ushers you towards the bar. Reluctantly, you follow. Peter doesn't have many friends.
He pulls out your stool for you and you take a seat. Having to shift to get comfortable. The padding has worn away over the years. Leaving barely any protection between your ass and the hard wood.
"What will you have?" He asks. Scratching his unkempt beard. "My treat."
"Um... just coke." You say. Smiling nervously.
"Coke? C'mon sweetheart this is a bar, you have to drink!"
You shake your head. "Not tonight." You say. You don't like drinking. It doesn't make you fun or sociable. Just angrier and more bitter than you already are.
Peter shakes his head back at you like a disappointed father.
"Alright." He concedes. "I remember when your father used to bring you around here." He sighs.
"Hm. Yeah." You nod. The Fireflower was your father's main haunt and maybe that's part of why you hate it so much.
"He was a good man."
"He was." You reply. Good, if you weren't his daughter or his girlfriend. Peter claps you on the back again.
"He and your mother would be proud, you've grown into a fine young woman. Too good for this town."
You smile but it doesn't reach your eyes. Your mother couldn't find the time to be proud of anything you did, and your father was incapable of being proud of anyone but himself. Peter lifts his drink in a toast, you lift yours back although you aren't sure what you're toasting to. While drinking, your spine tingles with the feeling of eyes watching you. Discretely you turn to see who it is but can't notice anyone outwardly staring.
The bartender comes back around with a whiskey lemonade and sets it in front of you. He goes to leave but you stop him with a hand, concerned about being charged for a drink you didn't order.
"I didn't order this." You tell him. He nods understandingly.
"I know, it's from the woman over there." He nods his chin over at the back corner. You tilt your head to see. It's the woman who walked in earlier. She's not looking at you, instead her eyes are on the stage, focused on the other girl singing.
Turning down drinks always makes you feel guilty but it's a necessary evil. Not only do you try not to drink, but you've come to learn that accepting them from strangers leads to expectations. The bartender leaves before you can give it back so you slide it over to Peter.
"If I were given free drinks, you best believe I'd never turn them down." He says, happily taking the glass.
You smile lightly. "They usually come with a price, Peter. Just not one that's monetary."
Peter replies with a low hum.
You stick around for a while longer. Keeping Peter company. You finish your coke and set down your empty glass on the counter.
"I should be getting home now, goodnight, Peter." You say. Your farewell is lost on him as he has already passed out. Head resting on the rough wooden counter. You get up and head towards the exit.
It's cold out. As cold as it can get in Las Almas. You walk to your bus stop and check the app, hoping you didn't just miss the bus. You didn't. A small win for you. You put your phone back in your pocket and wait. Watching a piece of litter drift by aimlessly in the wind. Something glass shatters in the alley across the street and a drunken yell rings out. Somewhere else a girl laughs at something. Down the street Dolly stands. Dark purple dress and extravagant fur coat on display. You watch discreetly as a truck pulls up to her. Watch her walk up to his window and chat. After a couple of seconds, she gets in and they drive off.
It gets to a point where you begin to shiver. Wishing you brought pants to wear over your dress when your bus finally pulls up. 'El Sin Nombre' has been spray painted over its side. Ominously red, the paint having dripped before it dried. You step on and pay the 13.95 peso fee. There aren't that many people on board. One of the few pros of working the night shift is not having to deal with crowded transport. You walk past a slumped over man and take a seat at the back.
It's only a five-minute drive, a fifteen-minute walk if you're fast, home. However, it's not safe to be out past dark. You had a colleague a few years ago, a sweet girl who lived in your building used to walk home. Her weathered missing person poster hangs up on the front of the worn brick apartment complex. You fish out your key and open the door, walking inside and slamming it shut because if you don't it won't close.
You almost trip over a little girl on your way up to your floor.
"Jesus. Maria, what are you doing pout here?" You ask, frowning. What is she still doing up is another question. Maria simply shrugs. As usual she doesn't speak or look you in the eye. You sigh and reach for her hand, which she promptly gives you. The two of you walk down the hall to her door. You brace yourself for what you're going to have to deal with next.
You knock on room 20 and one of the sickly green-blue lights flicker. There are a few seconds of cherished silence before muffled stomping draws closer. Maria tightens her hold on your hand. The door swings open, revealing a very short woman.
"What?" She barks. Glaring up at you.
"I found your kid." You reply, gently ushering Maria towards her mother. She scowls and pulls Maria inside.
"¿Qué te conté sobre tocar en la sala?" She hisses. There's no idle chit-chat or thanks. The woman slams the door in your face.
When you finally make it back to your apartment, you're exhausted. You've done what you could with the place. Paintings you made yourself to hide the holes, cracks, and stains in the wall. Saved up to purchase fluffy pink rugs to cover the water-stained floors. Fake plants to decorate the counters and shelves because the real things seem to die regardless of how much care you provide them. Still, despite the pink and colorful nature of your living space, it somehow still seems sad and dull.
You drop your bag down by the door, soon followed by your coat. You promise yourself that you're going to pick them up later, but you know you probably won't until you need them for tomorrow. Tomorrow. You shove the thought of tomorrow out of your head. Shove the fact that you're going to have to wake up, do your hair and makeup, put on a cute but uncomfortable outfit and go back to that sad little bar on 8th Street.
You wander into the kitchen and look around your cupboards for something easy to eat. You find a dubious bag of nuts that you forgot about. The milk has gone bad and you're out of eggs. Looks like grocery shopping is on your to-do list for tomorrow.
You peel off your dress and let it fall to the tiled floor. The water is cold as it sprays your nude form. You hurry your shower. Using up the last of your favourite body wash. You feel like you'll never get warm when you step out. Forcing yourself through your usual routine. Brush your teeth, wash your face, moisturize your body. Finally, you get to stumble into your room and crash into bed. Enveloped by soft pink pillows and sheets, watched over by your childhood stuffed animals. You reach into your nightstand for your pills. The bottle is almost empty. One refill left.
The cycle repeats. You stare out at the crowd blankly before over correcting yourself with a large smile.
"How's everyone's nights going?" You ask. "Good I hope, I know mine is." You broke down into tears ten minutes before this. "This next song is Valerie, one of my personal favourites, always a good time when I get to sing this." You begin the song. Voice far more enthusiastic than you feel. Each note burns your throat and the smell of smoke is worsening your headache. "Won't you come on over stop makin' a fool out of me. Why don't you come over Valerie? Valerie, Valerie, Valerie."
You're on closing shift. Helping the bartender wipe down sticky tables. There's a puddle of vomit in the corner. You pretend not to notice.
"Hey, can you go to the back and get a couple bottles of Smirnoff?" He asks. Lazily wiping glasses behind the bar.
"Sure, Tony." You reply. You set down your rag and walk past him into the back. You watch your step as you head down to the cellar. The wooden stairs are rotted.
Grabbing two bottles you go back upstairs, setting them on the counter for him. You turn away but he stops you.
"Oh, hey, someone left these for you." He says, placing down a vibrant bouquet of roses. You raise your brows.
"For me? Are you sure?" You ask carefully. Even Harlow, with her angelic vocal cords and appearance to match doesn't receive flowers. Tony pushes them towards you.
"No other girls here with your name." He replies.
You grab the bouquet with care. Inspecting it. The roses are real and look expensive. You gently trace your fingers over their petals, feeling the smooth velvety surface.
The bus is running late. You shift on your feet impatiently. You really need to get your license. However, you don't make enough to afford a car. Or the car insurance. The distinct tapping of heels approaches you and look over, seeing Dolly approaching you, diamonds glittering around her throat.
"Public transport is so unreliable." She rasps. She reaches into her bra and pulls out a cigarette carton, offering you one.
"No thanks, I'm trying to quit." You say. Dolly shrugs and lights her own. Taking a deep inhale and coughing roughly.
"That's a beautiful thing of roses you got, sweet girl." She says, eyeing the bouquet clutched in your hands.
You smile timidly.
"Thanks, got them from work." You reply, feeling a little proud.
"Wish my customers would give me flowers." She sighs, shaking her head. "Who're they from?"
You shrug. "Not sure. Tony said someone left them for me."
Dolly gives you a knowing smile. "Maybe Tony is the one who gave them to you. He's always been a shy boy."
"Ah, maybe." You say. Looking away. It wasn't Tony. He doesn't play for your team.
Dolly blows out smoke rings.
"Did you hear about the man found in the canal this morning?" She asks.
You frown, feeling heavy. "No. Cartel?"
"That's what the police think." Dolly says. "The man had twelve pounds of coke in his apartment, my guess is that he stole it from them."
An engine rumbles as the same truck from last night creeps towards the two of you. It stops and the window rolls down, revealing the man inside.
He's older than you, younger than Peter and Dolly.
"Thirty minutes with you and your friend." He says gruffly. Before you can even respond Dolly storms up to his window.
"Get the fuck out of here you good for nothing trout." She snaps. "Don't show your face around this corner again. Or I'll have my boys cut off your balls."
"Your boys?" He laughs.
"Eric and Thomas."
His laughter stops abruptly. He narrows his eyes at Dolly, expression dark and cruel. However, the threat that Eric and Thomas must pose seem to mean more than his pride. He rolls up his window and speeds off.
Dolly curls her lip in disgust.
"You have lipstick on your teeth." You murmur.
Dolly swipes a finger over her teeth. "He didn't pay me the agreed amount last time." She says angrily. "His excuse was that I'm old."
You frown. "What a pig."
Dolly sighs, turning to you. "My advice, Sweet girl," She says as your bus pulls up. "don't ever do this line of work."
The next night is the same. As it always it. As it always will be. Walking back to the dressing room you bump into someone.
"Oh, sorry." You mumble.
"Hey."
you look up, downturned eyes, arched brows. "... Erin." You greet stiffly. Erin's gaze lingers on you for a few seconds before she brushes her hand through her dark hair. She nods once and moves past you.
Something venomous coils around your heart as you put on your jacket and pull on some sweatpants. Speaking to Erin has ruined your night completely. Why was she even back here? Probably for Harlow. You scowl and storm out of the dressing room, purposefully knocking into another girl.
"Hey-" She exclaims angrily at you.
You clench your fists as you leave the bar. You lean against the foreclosed building in front of your bus stop. Avoiding the trash littered along its side. You check the app, seeing that you just missed the bus. You feel like crying. You feel angry. You punch the brick building and immediately regret it. Hissing in pain and cradling your throbbing hand to your chest.
"I'd hate to be that building." A smooth voice says. Your head whips up. The woman it belongs to looks vaguely familiar. Dark hair cut into a layered bob, severe brows. She's wearing a dark turtleneck and coat, hands tucked into her pockets.
Your face heats with embarrassment.
"I was just, like, I slipped." You mutter.
Her lips twitch up in amusement. "I broke my hand once by punching a wall." She tells you, leaning beside you.
You flex your hand, worried that it may be broken. It's stiff and sore. "Oh."
"You have a lovely voice." She complements. "Shame you're wasting it on the Fireflower."
You feel slightly defensive at her jab. The Fireflower is rundown, and you hate working there but it's where you've made most of your childhood memories, good and bad.
"It's not that bad." You reply.
"Sure." Valeria nods. "But you're still only making 7,500 pesos, no?"
You don't reply to that. It's not like minimum wage is exclusive to the Fireflower.
"I didn't mean to be rude." The woman says. "Valeria." she raises her hand. You look at it. Tempted not to shake it. You grab it gently, surprised when she lifts it to her mouth, pressing a chaste kiss to your knuckles.
You stare, caught off guard. You're not sure if you're flattered or weirded out. You give her your name and she repeats it, then nods her approval.
"I'll be seeing you around, chula."
Valeria walks off into the night. Disappearing into an alley. The interaction leaves you feeling disrupted. It was weird. She was weird. But that doesn't stop a butterfly from emerging from it's cocoon within your stomach.