by Anne Whitney
I straighten out my sleeves and head toward my new boss, ready and raring to go. I have no idea what waiting tables entails, but it can’t be as bad as the life I left behind at home. Or, at least, I pray that I’m right.
CHAPTER 6.
“So, you’re now Rachel’s glorified slave?”
Viridian sips on a cocktail. The clock reads just past one in the afternoon, but on a Sunday, the crowd is smaller but just as boisterous. The East Village is the epitome of New York, with an extra dash of flamboyance and hip. Sitting across the bar from me, Viridian’s hair is tied up to reveal glittering rhinestone earrings that drape over her neon yellow dress. She is a flashing safety sign made flesh.
“I get $50 an hour with tips,” I say.
She lifts an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Maybe one hour a shift,” I admit. “I’ve been working here like 10 hours total now and I’ve made $120 and I still have no place to live. What will that get me?”
“A cheap ass hotel for a night,” Viridian snorts. “A room in a hostel. A prostitute for an hour. Take your pick.”
“How much is your apartment?”
“More than I care to reveal,” she mutters into her cocktail glass, draining the last bit of the fruity concoction the bartender fixed. “It’s going to take you a bit to get back on your feet, so milk Fitz’s rich behind while you still can. He likes you, you know.”
I flush again at the prospect. “He barely knows me.”
“He pities you, then. Which is probably more accurate given the fact that he doesn’t date girls like you. Does that make you feel better?”
“Oh.” I look away. “No, that doesn’t make me feel better, actually. Kind of insulting, actually.”
Viridian sets down her glass. “There are two types of man in New York. They’re either assholes or they’re gay. And then there is Fitz.”
The bell on the door tinkles and a group of college students wander in, giggling up a storm as the hostess pouts. My frown deepens as I watch her trot off with the gaggle in tow.
Viridian waves her hand at the bartender as I continue to wipe down glasses. She orders another cocktail. By the time the bright pink mixture is delivered, I’ve moved onto folding napkins. Rachel wasn’t kidding when she spoke of grunt work. Only once have I been allowed to wait a table, and the tip I got was mostly out of pity, I think. Or else they were rich, a likelihood considering the man’s wad of hundred dollar bills.
We wait in silence, Viridian getting drunk, me folding napkins and wrapping them in cute pink paper rings. She props her elbows on the bar and sighs wistfully while staring off into space.
“What did you want to be when you were growing up?” she asks suddenly.
The question takes me aback. I set down the napkin I was working on and bite my lip. Part of me had hoped nobody would ever question my past in New York. Part of me had expected it all along. The last part was still cursing me out, demanding to know why I gave my real name, my real hometown, my real life laid out from the first moment I stepped foot in this city.
“I wanted to make my father proud,” I admit. “That’s it.”
Swiveling her head around, Viridian looks incredulous. “Really? You had, what, twenty years to pick out a story to tell and you go with that? How lame.”
“I grew up in a boring life,” I say. It’s the first real lie I’ve told her. “I couldn’t afford college or community college or technical college or whatever, and I knew that since I was six. Why dream about stuff you can’t achieve?”
Viridian settles back, clearly not satisfied by my answer.
“And did you make him proud?”
I choose to avoid her gaze and go back to folding napkins instead of answering her question. Even now, after everything that’s happened and forcing myself to come to the realization that my father never would feel pride for me, I can’t stand to hear the truth. I hear Viridian get up from her chair and approach me but I keep my eyes down.
“Hey,” she says, placing her well manicured fingers on top of my hands to stop them from fidgeting with the napkin. “Marina, you don’t have to share anything with me that you don’t want to, or with anyone else for that matter. Okay?”
I feel relief wash over me. I know that the past will follow me everywhere because my memories will never leave me, but the prospect of sharing the truth with others makes me punch-drunk with fear. I never told anyone what happened, even when asked outright by nosey but concerned teachers and acquaintances.
“Honey, it’s none of my business,” Viridian continues, her voice soft and full of understanding. “It’s none of Fitz’s business, either, and you make sure he knows that. He invited you to stay, you don’t owe him anything.”
“Thanks,” I mumble back, meeting her eyes.
“I do have one piece of advice though, if I may?”
“Of course.”
“You have got to stop walking around here like you’re constantly on the verge of being hit by a truck. You look terrified. You’re going to scare the customers away and I promise none of them will eat you.”
I can’t help but laugh at that. It’s true; I have been in a perpetual state of fear since I arrived here, not at all helped by such forward kindness and more frequent bouts of voyeurism than any normal person could ever get used to. It’s not within my disposition to be so naturally confident and at ease with regular human interaction, but I can’t think of a better time to learn than now.
“Has it really been that obvious?” I ask.
“Oh yeah. I didn’t realize your reaction to Fitz’s little show was your default mode. Just relax and enjoy yourself. I know Fitz is a vain little shit, but he’s good people. He has a habit of picking up strays, but he seldom lets them live with him. Usually they’re pawned off to one of us. I once had a British transvestite potter sleeping in my old room-mate’s bed for an entire month. Fitz will look out for you.”
“Does he ever wear clothes around the apartment?”
“Yeah, I can’t help you there. My advice would be to enjoy that while you can. Think of it as a private performance just for you.”
Please don’t blush, please don’t blush, I repeat in my thoughts over and over again. While you’re working on becoming a more confident and less embarrassing version of yourself, try looking into solutions for the constant red-face mode. It doesn’t exactly scream confidence.
“I’ll try to,” I reply, desperately working to keep the mood jovial. “I guess I’ll need to work on my art history while I’m living with Fitz.”
“You’re welcome to come round to my place and borrow a few books. I’m more into using an actual canvas than Fitz’s particular line of work, but I swear, I’m pretty awesome.”
“Stop distracting my staff, V!” Rachel dashes over with a tray of wine glasses. I quickly push away some napkins to give her space to put the tray down before picking up the pace with my folding.
“Just giving her some words of encouragement,” Viridian laughs. “Oh, that reminds me. What time are you letting Marina off?”
“About 7 or 8. Depends how busy it is,” Rachel says as she stacks the glasses under the bar. I had agreed to work as many hours as Rachel wanted me to, which she seemed only too happy to exploit. My feet are killing me already, but I have enough tasks to keep me busy and the prospect of pay is sufficient drive to work through the pain.
“Can you please pick an hour?”
“Why are my new employee’s work hours such a concern of yours?”
“Fitz and I are going to take her out tonight and we need to get her ready.”
“You are?” I say with surprise. Fitz hadn’t mentioned any of this to me as I’d left the apartment this morning. He’d been somewhat distracted by a phone call to someone who sounded very panicky on the other end, so I’d simply waved goodbye and ran out the door, toast in hand.
“Mhm.” Viridian nodded excitedly. “Derek’s performing tonight and he’s invited you especially to the occasion, but it’ll
require a little prep beforehand.”
“Define prep,” I ask with trepidation.
“Derek doesn’t like anyone to be anything less than fabulous at his shows. He even makes Fitz wear clothing to them. Well, “clothing” is a very loose definition of what Derek makes him wear. Believe me, it’ll all make sense tonight. Just get out your fanciest clothes and I’ll deal with everything else. So, what do you say, Rach?” She leans across the bar, hands to her face and her eyelashes fluttering. “Pretty please, my dear, dear friend?”
Rachel looks ready to vomit at Viridian’s pleading expression. I don’t think she’s a fan of sentimentality.
“Marina, you can get off at 8 tonight, okay?” She says.
“No problem, Rachel.”
“If she comes into work tomorrow inebriated and completely unable to function, I will personally hold you responsible, V. You can go elsewhere for your damn afternoon Cosmos.”
“Thanks, Rach. You're always a beaming ray of sunshine!”
Viridian takes the last few gulps of her cocktail and hands me the glass. I obediently place it in the glass washer underneath the bar before wiping away the drops that spilled onto the tabletop.
“I’m off to work,” Viridian announces. She ignores the snorting sound Rachel makes. “I’ll come and get you after work, Marina. Have a good day!”
She twirls out of the cafe, her glistening earrings flipping with her hair as she moves. I can still see her yellow-clad form through the windows as she crosses the street and merges with the roaming pack of pedestrians.
“Marina, the delivery’s coming in soon. Can you go talk to Mark and help him put it all away?”
“Sure,” I say as I head into the kitchen. I stop and swing back. “Rachel. Do you know what kind of performances Derek does? Is it naked stuff like Fitz?”
Rachel looks more amused than I’ve seen her since meeting her.
“I can honestly tell you it’s nothing like what Fitz does.”
CHAPTER 7.
“Ouch!”
“It would hurt a lot less if you could sit still for longer than four seconds!”
Viridian has been yanking at my hair with a paddle brush and set of flat irons for about an hour and has nipped at my ears with the singeing hot metal plates more times than I care to remember. I try to remain stationary as she sweeps large chunks of my usually frizzy locks with her brush through her makeshift torture device, but I’m just too naturally jittery for all this.
“How much longer will this take?” I ask, unable to keep the whining from my voice.
“Beauty is endurance,” Viridian explains in a sing-song manner. “Beauty is pain.”
“Beauty is exhausting.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
On top of being my hairdresser, Viridian has also taken it upon herself to be my makeup artist, manicurist, pedicurist and stylist. Already she has dismissed my one vaguely stylish piece of clothing, my hand-made red dress, as ‘Stepford Housewife’ and ‘an affront to fashion’. However, since I am too short and plump to fit into any of her extravagant pieces, she has given in and declared it ‘vaguely acceptable’, albeit with some borrowed accessories. I stare at the headache-inducing pair of sequined and spiked high heels she has displayed on the table in front of me and pray that I won’t be forced to don them myself.
“Trust me, my friend. I’m an artist.”
“Fitz calls himself an artist as well and he’s never waved burning hot irons in my face.”
“No, he waved something else in your face. I guess you preferred that?”
I choose not to dignify that with a sarcastic remark and look down at my fingernails. They remain short and stubby thanks to years of nervous biting, but Viridian had worked wonders with a rather terrifying-looking file and applied several layers of polish. They, along with my toenails, are now a fantastical shade of glittery green that changes color under the lights like ripples in a pond.
“There!” Viridian announces loudly, although I’m the only person in the apartment (Fitz has disappeared somewhere, as he is apparently prone to doing). “Much better.”
I sheepishly reach out to stroke my hair, but my hand is quickly slapped away.
“Don’t!” Viridian snaps.
“Can I at least have a look in the mirror or something?”
“Not until it’s complete. You can’t rush art. Now, makeup!”
I groan. It’s not as if I’ve never worn makeup before, although it was hardly a regular occurrence, but being treated as a project by a New York artist wearing feathers in her hair makes me feel very strange. Viridian lays out her tools - brushes, lipsticks, blushers, and many odd-shaped little vials - with craftsman-like precision and quickly gets to work. I daren’t even breathe too loudly lest I spoil her work. Brushes stroke my face with various sweet smelling lotions and powders. As she tackles my eyes, I fight back the tears as a narrow pencil sweeps across my lids, several colors of shadow are painted on, and mascara is liberally applied. She mutters something about my eyebrows and I am once again relieved that I managed to talk her out of using the tweezers.
“There,” she says, looking proudly at her work. “Stand up and let me add the final touches.”
She helps me to my feet and begins to fuss with my dress, pulling at the silver corset belt she has strapped me into, and gently pushing a black lace fascinator into my hair. I barely notice as Fitz enters the apartment, carrying a jangling bag full of bottles, but I do see him stop in his tracks, looking a perfect mixture of confused and impressed.
“Wow,” he says quietly.
“I know,” Viridian says, stepping back to join him. “My god, I’m good. I’d swap the dress in a heartbeat, but never say I can’t turn coal into diamonds.”
I awkwardly stand still as the pair of them tilt their heads and examine me. To relieve the awkwardness, I do a little spin on the spot. It can’t be that bad, can it?
Viridian claps her hands and dashes toward the seemingly bottomless purse she brought with her to our (Fitz’s, dammit, Fitz’s) apartment. “Shoes!”
“Oh, please, not the platforms, Viridian,” I moan. “Being short isn’t a bad thing.”
“Shoes like that require training. I’m not sending you on a kamikaze mission your first night out.”
She shows me a pair of emerald green flat peep toe shoes, with ribbons made from measuring tape on the front. Admittedly, they’re very cute, and I happily slip them onto my feet. They’re comfortable and they won’t inevitably result in broken ankles, so they’re perfect, and far prettier than anything I’ve ever owned.
“I think you need to let her see herself,” Fitz says. “Come here, Marina.”
I follow him into his bedroom, but don’t have enough time to be nosey as he opens up his wardrobe door to reveal a full length mirror, and I can’t help but be stunned by what I see.
I still look like me but much more defined, more dramatic. My eyes are wider thanks to a thick layer of mascara coupled with a blend of different greens across my eyelids, and the hideous spots on my chin are concealed. A shade of scarlet covers my lips, matching my dress, which looks fitted and brand new. The lace and bows of the fascinator rest in my hair, shiny and poker straight for the first time in years. Overall, even I have to admit that I look pretty good.
“Wow,” I say, completely unable to say anything more eloquent. “That’s...”
“Couldn’t have put it better myself!” Viridian struts around the room like a peacock.
“You look beautiful, Marina,” Fitz says softly.
“I bet you say that to all of Viridian’s projects,” I reply, standing a little taller. I feel very good right now and want to enjoy it for as long as it lasts. I notice what Fitz is wearing and am equally impressed. “You own a suit?”
He tugs at the lapels of his striped grey jacket, flaunting his ensemble. It’s only then that I notice the complete lack of clothing underneath the suit jacket and I wonder how the hell I managed to miss
that. Poor, impoverished artist. He really doesn’t own a shirt.
“Derek bought it for me,” he informs me. “He got sick of me turning up at his shows and upstaging him. It’s not my fault, of course. It’s a curse I must live with.”
“Careful there, Fitz.” Viridian slaps him on the back. “If you keep talking like that, your head will never fit through the door. Anyway, we’d better leave now or the good seats will be gone.”
“Better not be late for Derek. You’ll never hear the end of it.” Fitz holds out his arm to me. “May I, my lady?” He asks, putting on the voice of a regency gentleman.
Who can resist that? I take his arm and Viridian does the same to his other side. Whatever Derek’s show is, I feel ready for it.
CHAPTER 8.
“Legendary.”
I look up at the sign above the door, an understated West Village basement without windows beneath a stack of apartments sandwiched between parking garages. But it isn’t until I survey the line waiting to get in that I realize I’m even further over my head than I had planned.
Almost every single patron waiting to get in is a man, with only the occasional woman - at least I think they are women - thrown in for flavor.
Viridian leans over my shoulder and whispers into my ear, “Don’t worry, my dear. Gay men are harmless.”
“This is a gay club?” I say.
“Do you think Derek is the type of person to frequent straight laced places that serve brandy and talk politics?” Viridian says. “Or some hipster asshole in Williamsburg?”
My eyes widen in confusion. “You remember I’m an innocent child of Spokane, Washington, aka the ass end of hell, right?”
Fitz breaks out into laughter while shoving his wallet back into his pocket. The cab takes off with a squeal of tires on pavement.
“Then we’re going to break you in, aren’t we?” he says, putting his hand low on the small of my back.
I suck in a deep breath, feeling little bubbles of tension escaping me. Fitz guides me forward into the chaos where a bouncer stands like a statue while a bouncy, tiny man clutches a clipboard and barks orders into a microphone strapped to his head. When he looks up, the first thing he sees is little old out of place me. His eyes open in pissed off astonishment before Fitz lets out a tiny cough and the man’s eyes rise upward.