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Chapter Text

 D.C in summertime is murder, a humid hell full of rooftop money and men riding on coat tails, but Hollywood didn't work out and a gal’s gotta eat. A gal's gotta snatch some scraps of friendly feeling from the whirlwind. There ain't none of that to be found in Los Angeles. No, there the scrap to be snatched is you. Snatched, slobbered over, chewed up, and tossed away. In no time at all you’re broken. Broken for life. Hobbled. 

Creepin back to the capital under cover of dark is not exactly the homecoming I'd planned. I’d planned no homecoming. I ain't no queen. Dropped out of school anyway. The District is not my fave place in the world, so LA being on the other side of the map was the second best thing you could say to recommend it. The weather’s better too. Dry heat is endurable, and I’ve never liked rain. Douchebaggery is expressed different in the two cities, but the level of it is about the same. LA is where nobodies sell everything they got to be somebody, and DC is where born and bred somebodies look down on those funny little plastic gladiators. I'm very much a nobody.

My plane touches down with a jolt that almost shoots me through the paper thin roof. Twitchy. Stressed. Boiling hot even under the air con. The decision to come back home was spur of the moment. Landlady wanted to hike the rent on my cardboard box. A producer I hate touching wanted to do a private audition. The guy I was seeing was seen with someone else. Luckily, Cousin Lacey is laid back and always keen to have somebody to talk at. 

“Hey, baby, need help with that?” a middle aged businessman with sweat stains under the arms of his blue suit, reaches for my luggage before I can. I'm not exactly model tall, one reason why I didn't make it in the movie industry. Or so I tell myself. I actually think it's cause I'm a carrot top. They only want slutty blondes or sultry brunettes. Weirdo gingers are hard to handle. Maybe hard to shoot, who knows.

“Thanks, honey.” No use not bein sweet to a fella when bein sweet makes fellas easier to handle. Also keeps the insults low. The man, wedding ring and all, gives me a slimy grin. Guy can't be that successful if he's flying cattle class, but some things never change. 

“How old are you, darlin?”

“About to turn twenty.”

His eyes light up. Yup. Can't even drink and I'm already LA flotsam ripe for the beachcombers.

Usually that's the end of the interaction, but this guy follows me along the boarding bridge, shouldering his way past sleepy travellers, wanting to lug my wheely bag for me. Wanting to buy me a coffee and a late night dinner slash early morning breakfast….Fine, it's crazy to say no to free nosh (stole that word from a Brit), especially in expensive-as-hell DC. Just that though. Messin with married men makes me sick. I hate it to happen to me. Not that I've been married. No way. A gal always needs an out, and a ring is just a very small kind of cuff.

“So what are you doing in DC, sweetheart?” he asks, while egg yolk splashes onto his rumpled tie. “You don't look like a native.”

What does a DC native look like? Mosquito bitten? Self satisfied but plain? Harried? Catching my reflection in his Rolex says that whatever I am, I ain't plain. Got them big liquid doe eyes outlined in kohl. False innocence swimming in their green depths. Bad men can't get enough of that crap. They like a virgin with experience.

“I'm thinkin of becoming the president.”

Like he's suffered a massive heart attack, the man reels back from the scratched formica table, clutching his chest with his free hand. But he's laughing, laughing wildly, deeply, the best laugh he's had in years, his belly shaking the cheap furniture. That is one thing I can do - affect men - in all kinds of ways. Too bad it's not a superpower I can direct. Not like an intercontinental missile. It's more of a grenade. Results may vary…and sometimes I cook the explosive too long. 

It's a while before he gets himself under control, and when he does he slams his fist on the table a couple times, making our Styrofoam cups jump. “Girl, you're going to go far, but maybe not in the direction of the White House. Still, there are other big houses round here. Give me your number.” 

Turns out he's a senator.

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 So, that's my welcome home. Breakfast with a senator at an overpriced cafe chain, the burnt smell of airport coffee making me feel grungier than normal. Givin my number away like a fool. I know what he's going to do with that. What they all do. You get an invite to a ‘cosy’ party, just you and a couple hundred other tasty walking kebabs made of juicy young female flesh. Yeah yeah, not tonight though, even the movers and shakers have gotta sleep sometime. Coke can only do so much. 

Lacey is waiting for me where loved ones wait, holding a sign that says ‘Mia’ like I might've forgotten what she looked like when we practically grew up together. I guess everyone knows that anything can happen in LA. Forgetting relatives is pretty common there, it's true. It's sweet of her to make the effort. 

She looks like how I feel. Lank, oily, colourless hair. Torn tights supposed to be used for yoga. Infected eyebrow piercing. Cute little top saying ‘the Future is Female’. Part of the reason she looks bad is standing right next to her. Tall guy with an inked up body hollowed by meth. He's our age but looks much older. Her latest baby daddy. Sam. Can't forget his name cause it peppers every text like buckshot. Can't tell her she deserves better.

“Mia! Girrrrl!”

“Lacey, honey.” my voice is all smoke, the fire just visible through the billowing grey. Producers loved it, but smoke does not make a star.

We hug, Sam looking on for a moment, before his wide eyes fixate on a small child toddling past, his jaw clenched tight so the muscles pop. His gangly hands stay deep in the pockets of his canvas raincoat, two quirks for the price of one.

“You have to tell me all about LA! Hollywood! I can't believe it!” 

I've already told her about it…not all about it I guess. Some things are too nasty. Gotta wait till those embers cool off and you can handle them without bein burnt.

“Yeah, yeah, hon. We got all the time in the world to chat.” I projectile vomit cliches these days. That's how it is in Tinseltown, bunch of fake people playing a very deadly game in one huge, hot and dusty prison. Miranda rights. Don't say anything that can be used against you. 

Sam breaks his silence, eyeballs jerking instead of rolling smoothly. He looks over my head, black irises shaking. He has not acknowledged my presence. Careful, Mia. Be very, very careful. A guy lookin at you is less dangerous than a guy purposely not lookin at you. “Come on, Lace. Quit yapping.” his voice sounds like a gravel glacier. I didn't like him second hand, and I don't like him now.

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 Lacey's apartment (yeah, Lacey's) in Shaw, is like Lacey. I don't know why I expected different. Can't bitch either, cause I grew up like this, and she's letting me stay for free. Her pad is a place to lay your head in-between your busy schedule of bar hopping, getting money from vaguely defined ‘work’, and running from debt collecting phone calls. There ain't nothing on the walls except mold, but there sure as shit is a lot on the floor. Kids toys, wrappers, crumbs, Styrofoam, spare batteries, torn cardboard, glass, sticky clumps of weed, ash. It looks like a disaster and it smells like the inside of a bellybutton. 

Sam storms down the short hall, into another room, without bothering to close the door. The unmistakable sound of liquid hitting porcelain follows.

I have to say hello to a couple of Lacey's (I think one is Sam's) kids before I'm left alone to try and make sense of the sofa. 

Chapter Text

 I want to get started on the business of getting out of Lacey's as soon as possible, but cousin and boyfriend take my existence as an excuse to party, a good reason to go on a tour of the city, messy faced kids in tow. No taking no for an answer. I tell myself it's a good way to get my bearings and scout opportunities. God, I sound like a vulture. Can you scrape the black powder of Los Angeles off your skin once it's sunk in?

First thing: get me a SmartTrip card with some of my dwindling stores of cash. Gonna be spending a lot of time on the metro if all goes well. And yeah, we spend so much time on it during the next couple days, that it's like I've moved into the tunnels, like a ghoul. I like trains though, underground or not, the jerk and the whoosh. Massive metal anacondas going places, at speed. I ain’t gonna lie, I like the feel of standing on the precipice of something extremely dangerous. One wrong move and it's all over, explosively. Plus, all the people standing with you give the illusion that you ain’t so alone as you are. Not so sad. Maybe someone gifts you a smile. Maybe a girl your age does, and you start daydreaming of friendship and fun times that don't leave you feeling empty. 

A train screeches into the station, a heaving sea of flesh surging towards it in waves. I don't mind thinking of the accidents. I don't mind spending hours watching disaster videos on YouTube either. Life is fragile. And short, luckily.

Too late to see the cherry blossoms, we pay cursory visits to parks and buildings and museums, the free stuff. Water, water, water, everywhere. Least you won’t die of dehydration here. What we (ain't gonna lie, I like a drink) really want to do is sit our asses down at a bar, outside but in front of a fan, and drink till the world and its crowds turn fuzzy. As soon as we do find a place to vegetate, a beer garden somewhere near the Navy Yard, Sam's personality improves by one hundred percent. He even flicks a glance my way. I'm not sure that's a good thing. 

“So, Mia, what do you wanna do? We didn't have time to get into plans before you caught the plane. There's theatres here.” says Lace, smiling at me, disarmingly stupid.

“There's theatres everywhere, hun. You can't just walk in and say you wanna play Snow White, or whatever.”

“You're more like Ariel. You know-” she points at her hair. Beside her, Sam makes a contemptuous face, and snorts smoke from the cigarette he always has on the go when he doesn't have something harder. A more contemptuous face, I should say. 

“Little mermaid, little mermaid!” a kid, Sammy (named for her father) smashes her hands on the wood of the table, getting her ice cream all over. Neither parent pays any attention. 

“I know, why don't you study Beauty, like all the other airheads?” hisses the asshole, beer oiling his studded tongue. He says this without looking at me, looking instead at some hot young thing prancin past. 

His girlfriend punches him in the arm, barely shifting his immensity. “Hey! I studied ‘Beauty’. It's called Cosmetology. Like space.” 

“I know you did.”

“It's not a bad idea.” I say, neutral as vanilla. When guys get mean like that, I like to ignore it. At first. ‘Like to’ - it's not really a choice. The same way a hare crouching behind a thicket isn't choosin. We have to wait and see if the predator moves on. If he don't, well, then you start boxing.

“Course it ain't a bad idea. You ain't got anything else goin for you.”

…Bastard doesn't know me.

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 When I get some privacy (mall toilets) I look up the Beauty License thing on my phone. Hehe, liscense to style. You need a High School diploma, which I ain't got….Mom did say that one day I would regret not gettin it. Speaking of my mother, I ought to visit her. ‘The best of terms’ can't be used to describe us, not at all, but I still love her, and I always hope she'll say I'm a good girl when I do something a dutiful daughter would. Used to send her money, but she's one of those people who are never satisfied. Or grateful. 

My fifth day back in town, when the shininess of me has rubbed off for my hosts, I take the subway, alone, to her house, an old house in an old neighbourhood, multiple rooms let, mostly to old male and young female tenants. And I mean young, although there are some women creeping up in years too, that live there. I like them the most, I always liked grunge and red lipstick slicked on outside the lines (probably I ain't a good fit for that beauty license). 

Walking the path in the early mornin puts me in the way of one of these women. She's sitting on the low brick wall marking off the property from the street, still in her night clothes, greying hair frizzy, smoke pouring from her lips, her black rimmed eyes looking beyond the bounds of the world. Gold light acts like the best foundation, scrubbing away the exhaustion. She doesn't recognise, or even see me. 

A man I know leans against the door frame, tough, tall, working class, sixtyish, but on a good day he might look younger. Even handsome, like an aged rock star, long hair, goatee, and all. A couple of the guys who live here don't pay rent, and he's one. They don't pay with monopoly money, anyway.

I hate coming back here.

“Lo, little lady.” the bouncer says, looking me up and down without seeming to do so. Not like when women do it, ha. “Lookin for a job?” Guess my years away have changed me a lot. Or I look exactly the same as every other girl coming through here. Sometimes, cause of things my mother said, I think this guy might be my father. He's been here long enough. I used to try and match up our features, but I could never be sure. If he is, he's never acted like it. 

“Looking for my mother. She awake?” 

The light of recognition turns my mother's boyfriend’s grey skin pink again. Recognition, and some other stuff I'd rather not think about. “Should be.” He turns and barks up the worn down stairs. “Cathy! Mia's here!” 

A yell of surprise answers him, and then a door flies open, and a ginger woman only thirteen years older than me comes tripping down the steps in a silk kimono. Unlike her guy, she looks older on good days. Much older. And she is older than thirty-three when it comes to being hard-as-nails and no nonsense. I'm an asset. The motherly bit is a sham. Folk like to try and flatter her by saying we are for sure sisters, but it ain't a compliment because she thinks I'm a gross incompetent when it comes to playin the game of life, and there's no way I come from the same hardworking generation as her. 

“Mia! Doll! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming for a visit!” Arms like razor wire fly round me, pulling me across the threshold. My heart starts freaking out, filling my ears with ringing. I don't wanna cross into the house. I'll end up trapped again, gettin into screaming matches three times a day, sobbin in a corner the rest of the time. So I lean back, slamming my palm into the splintering doorframe. 

“Can't stay long, Mom. I'm meeting Lacey for lunch. I just came to say hi.”

Mom's true face briefly surfaces as her false one flickers off for a sec. Lacey is also a disappointment. Lazy and full of feelings. Beside us, my maybe-father lights a cigarette, the smoke as grey as his eyes. 

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 Mom made me come in anyway. ‘For coffee’. She soon pried the latest sob story out of me. Of course she wanted me to move home and make her money keep her company. Thank God I genuinely had places to be, but I can guarantee she's going to ring up Lace and wheedle, whine, and do whatever she can to make my cousin feel bad for being kind to me. Good thing Lacey treats her phone like it's lit dynamite, and my mom will have a warning ringtone attached to her number.

Anyway, my next clever move is to sit next to a flowering bush in Georgetown Waterfront park, and pull a pretty pink notebook out of my black handbag. Time to begin applying for any job I can find, stopping every couple minutes to people watch. Tourists flail about, mouths wide open, weird languages and odd accents flopping from them. Back to my phone. I'm not picky, I'm not a diva, I'm used to dirty work and dirty people. Even retail will be awesome. When I've got a job and a place, I can maybe get a GED. Even dummies like me can achieve that. After I get a piece of paper, the world is my oyster…Ha, it’s off. A rotten oyster. Not sure why I'd bother to eat it when all it does is give me food poisoning, except I've gotta keep putting one foot in front of the other. 

Chapter Text

 I didn't know it was so hard to land a job interview these days, even for me, a young thing ripe for exploitation. AI or whatever, reads my online application form, and finds me missing a whole bunch of crucial keywords, or, that's what Sam says is happenin. He offers to ‘embellish’ my CV, and when I get it back I see that I've achieved a bunch of awesome stuff I'd forgotten about, like climbing Everest and earning a Doctors Degree in Beauty. 

But, two things, I don't like the idea of lying, not so much because lying is wrong, but cause I don't wanna be caught out. I hate to see people's faces fall when they're lookin at me. Second, I don't wanna be in Sam's debt. I've caught him glaring at me out of the corner of his eyes, and that's a very creepy thing when it comes from a very angry guy. A very angry guy hyped up on speed. 

Speaking of speed, chalk, crystal…he offers me some in that bullying tone he's addicted to using. I turn it down. That's a one way street into a dead end cul-de-sac. All this gal's got is her looks, and meth destroys those as quick as its nickname. 

So, without a Prince Charming to rescue my ass, I keep applying for everything from cleaning jobs to fast food positions, eventually landing my first interview at a stationary store. But when I get to the place - a basic stationary store in a basic mall - it's a group interview, and the old woman manager (who has an office she sits down in most of the day) tells us she expects us to stand ten hours a day, every day, for slave pay, with unpaid lunch, a day off every other week, and no holiday except Christmas…Excuse me? She also asks if we have children, cause it’s going to be a problem if we do (I'm betting she has children though). I don't mind standing, but this is a bit much. I don't like answering private questions, even if they don't apply. I feel bad for the older women interviewing with me. When did things get so bad? My first job, years back, wasn't this awful. And it was terrible.

The next interview comes a week later. An entire week of trying to dodge Sam on the way to the bathroom. Of trying not to be alone with him. An entire week of children screamin. An entire week of backache and hot and cold alternating. Of Lacey's eyes gradually freezing over. I'm not doing anything to attract guy's attention, but other women never believe me when I say so. It's like they want me to disembody myself.

“Okay, thanks. We'll let you know if you've made it to the next stage of the screening process.” says the McDonald's hiring woman where we sit in cheap plastic chairs at a cheap plastic table, talking like I've entered a talent competition or some shit. I guess I have, although no talent is needed to flip burgers, surely (no offense, burger flippers of the world. I can only aspire to your level.) If McDonald's won't hire me on the spot, then my ultimate goal -Starbucks- is lookin like a pipe dream.

All I wanna do is sell myself for a decent price and decent benefits. That's not too much to ask in a land flowing with gold and silver. Or not. Flowing with grimy paper green like the Potomac. 

“You should go in person. Show you have a good attitude.” says Lacey when I come ‘home’ from my latest disappointing interview. She sits on my bed, the ratty sofa, staring at some Korean TV show full of women and girly boys. From the tightness in her jaw, I can see that I'm not living up to expectations. I suppose I was supposed to float along on a glittery cloud or something, shedding reflected glory from walking the Hollywood Boulevard, and from having seen Brad Pitt once. To be fair, I thought like that too, before.

“I ain't got a good attitude.” I say, tryna be funny. It doesn't work and she crosses her arms. “And I do go in person. When I get an interview. After all the online crap.”

“Mia, girl, you need to try harder.”

I have to raise a brow, and struggle not to fire a series of sharp questions about what exactly she is doing that gives her the right to tell me that I'm not trying hard, and if she thinks I can pluck a job out of a tree. I can never understand this attitude people have. Like they don’t live in the same world I do. 

Maybe they do, but it is easier for them. 

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 It gets to be that I hope the senator calls. I can do some networking at his parties. Ha, Mia, you have never networked a single thing in your life. Connecting to WiFi is hard enough. 

Being used to swimming around in a feeding frenzy, tryna snap up a pound of flesh for myself, I'm used to rejection, but somehow it's a hundred times worse when it comes from McDonald's . Fast food is supposed to be the safety net. The last gasp before you hit the pavement. And fast food doesn't want me. I stand in front of the mirror in the bathroom and ask it to explain. It doesn't bother to answer.

And then, even worse, I'm late for an interview because the stupid place (hairdresser) gave me the wrong time and then phoned, wondering why I was making a poor impression by bein late. So, Sam offered me a ride in his Shitmobile. The kind of offer that only has one correct answer. My cousin says nothing, looks back at the TV while her kid throws an iPad at the wall. Sometimes I wonder about relationships like his and Lace's, whether there's not some kind of looking on, like there's a leash involved, and the dog is not roamin free. What I'm tryna say is, I think sometimes the girl feeds the shark. To keep him happy.

Dropping me off at the sad little hairdresser was fine, awkward and tense, but fine. Sam drives like he's a meth fiend. I wish he was different, but his driving style is semi-endurable after rush hour. The sound of his teeth grinding gives me a headache, which gets worse when he steps out of the car to get in a screaming match with another junkie who failed to put his indicators on. For a second I'm sure one or both are gonna get shot, but they break up when a traffic cop appears in the rear view mirror. Yeah, Sam has a gun, a 'Glock'. Which he holds sideways despite being extremely white. Doubt he has a license for it.

So anyway, I go for the interview to be a hairdresser’s receptionist, looking nice and professional in my black leather mini dress, fishnets, combat boots, artfully messy hair like I just woke up, and tragic urban vamp makeup. 

Sitting down on another plastic (why is everything plastic?) chair in an office full of stacks - boxes, files, hair products - is more anxiety producing than before, partly cause there's a starving tiger pacing outside in the car park, partly cause I'm running out of time, and partly because I've noticed that employers hate it when a job seeker doesn't come to them already having a job. It's like a guy being pissed that his girlfriend ain’t married. I do not get it.

A curvaceous black woman in matching wig and nails sits down behind a cluttered desk. Here comes the grilling, where we both sound like really crappy robots. 

“Tell me a little about yourself.”

-How am I supposed to answer this? Whenever I look inside…I don't see anything. It's like lookin into an empty fridge. It smells bad. It's depressing.

“What are your biggest weaknesses?”

-I'm passive. I'm not like those tough girls you see in the movies and music videos. I've never felt the urge to kick a guy in the balls, or to pull another girl's hair.

“What are your biggest strengths?”

-Men want to get with me. In the one night stand way. Sometimes they buy me drinks.

“Where do you see yourself in five years?"

-I don't see myself, and I don't see a future either. 

“ Out of all the candidates, why should we hire you?"

-I really need the job.

“How did you learn about the opening?"

-Google??

“Why do you want this job?”

-I need money. I need my own place, or at least, a place with a different set of people. I need to get to safety. 

“What do you consider to be your biggest professional achievement?”

-Meeting Harvey Weinstein.

“Tell me about the last time a co-worker or customer got angry with you. What happened?"

-Another actress called me a whore, so I said something snappy, and left the room.

“Describe your dream job.”

-I'd like to sit around a fancy apartment, maybe in New York, and do nothing but read magazines, and be paid a seven figure salary to do it.

“Tell me about the toughest decision you had to make in the last six months.”

-I had to decide which shitty, cutthroat city to grow old and die in. 

“What is your leadership style?”

-I'm not a leader. At all. I can't even lead myself.

“What do you like to do outside of work?”

-Sleep. 

I don't think she found my answers satisfactory, but she did crack a smile once or twice, soooo…fingers crossed.

Outside, Sam is leaning against the peeling, sunburnt hood of his car, arms crossed, smoking. I guess he would be handsome, in a grungy way, if he wasn't ravaged by amphetamines. That always makes me feel better. When a guy is good looking.

Even when you expect it, you don't expect it. Never ever. He stops the car down a lonely street in a bad neighbourhood, and begins kissing me. He made sure I knew he had that gun, so I freeze in my seat. And if you ain't ever froze, or experienced terror, then there's no point me tryna explain it. You physically can't scream, so I don't wanna hear about ‘why, why’. Askin why I didn't scream will actually and truly piss me off. The word describes what happens.

 F R E E Z E  

You go cold and everything. Anyway, I get lucky, because he couldn't be bothered to go out to some wooded area or wait for night to fall, so he's interrupted by some guys tryna bum cigarettes off him, knocking his attention off his game. I guess my brain decides I have some sort of a chance to escape, cause I'm able to get out and walk, walk back to the apartment I share with him.

I hope the hairdresser calls me back.

Chapter Text

 Nothing is said when me and Sam get back to the apartment, separately. That's how it is, it's like living in the savannah. The lion doesn't speak to the zebra about a failed attempt to bring it down. 

It will try again though. But even knowing the lion is waiting in the bush can't compel the prey to leave the plains. It must eat, and I have nowhere to go, unless you count my mother's place, which will amount to the same thing, in the end.

“Listen, have you tried bars and restaurants? There's some real dives in town. Real expensive dives that can afford a Hollywood actresses rates.”

“I've never made a cocktail in my life, hon. And my waitressing is iffy at best.”

Now Lace is the one looking at me like I'm stupid. She stands at her bedroom window, coating her hair with dry shampoo. “So what? You've seen what I'm talking about. Neon and Grunge. They're looking for show pieces. Hot chicks with dark eyeliner to smile at customers so they don't notice the watered down beer and upside down Cosmopolitans. Or care. I actually know one that would be right up your street, and I heard there's an opening. Here.”

She flaps her phone at me, letting go before I can grab hold of it, leading to a jugglin act on my part. I have to scroll back through a bunch of screenshots of Google maps before I find the one she meant to show me. 

The place she thinks I'll fit in at is a love child between an American dive bar and an Irish pub, with the genes of a homely restaurant thrown in for good measure. Called Moriartys, it's been here for three generations, so it's got clout and history and seriously good reviews, being featured in the papers. I hadn't heard of it cause I was too young for classiness when I left for LA. Checking the photos, I like the polish, the food, and the happy faces of the staff in the photo with the owner, a guy who definitely looks like he put the ‘dive’ part into the place. Aesthetically sleezy, that's the look.

“How you'd find about this?” it's not somewhere I'd expect to find my cousin at. She prefers establishments with prominent dance floors.

Lacey flips her still lank hair over her shoulder. “I hang out at the bar sometimes. It's a great scene. Specially at night.”

“Is it good to work at?”

“Dunno, never had a job there. I ain't heard there's a high turnover or anything like that.” a plastic brush slaps the window sill. “But so what? An opportunity's an opportunity. Just have a look. What have you got to lose?”

True. I have little to lose and a lot, potentially, to gain. Like employee discounts.

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 It's another metro visit or two before I make it to the bar, which is open all day, hoping to get the owner himself and not some manager. I have no idea what time he's likely to be in, but shoot for one in the afternoon, to try and play it safe. He's set up in a great location, near but not too near where politics happens, hanging out in an entertainment district, but the only one of his kind. Still, the outside is like a lot of other places, with a long wall of glass fronting the building and covered seating lit by fairy lights taking up the pavement. In the daytime it looks very respectable, old fashioned, only a couple neon shamrocks in the window giving a clue to its seedier side (why is neon so seedy?) The name scrolls across the forehead of the multifloored building in silver script, like it probably did a hundred years ago. 

It will be cool to serve people. So long as they're nice, anyway. 

Walking in without an interview makes me feel a bit like a criminal, coming in to case the joint. Ulterior motives. Maybe I'll buy a drink and chill, see if I'd fit in. Excuses. I'd ask for a job at a kindergarten at this point. 

Stumbling up to the polished wood bar, I order a vodka based drink from a Hispanic bartender afflicted by that birthmark thing that makes you look like you're bleeding internally at all times. It's ugly, seriously ugly, especially as he’s standing in front of a beautiful mirrored back wall, and he's shy and stammering, but I can respect the courage he must have, cause if that were me, most of my money would go towards stage makeup. 

When he slides my drink across the pristine bar top, I ever so casually ask the loaded question sitting on my mind like a nuclear bomb. “The owner in?”

It may as well have been a nuclear bomb, the way this guy reacts to the barest mention of his boss. Those port-wine stains get even more repulsive when he flushes, his tired brown eyes rounding like a scared horse's, rolling sideways, the bottle in his hands slipping. Luckily he catches it…That reaction ain’t good. Really ain’t good. 

“Mister M-moriarty? What do you want him for, Miss? He's a busy man.” he says, eyes flicking sideways again. Okay, so the boss is in, lurking somewhere behind a wall, doing boss things. I’ve never been a manager type, and I don't want to be. Seems boring and hyper stressful all at once.

It would be rude and impossible to ask why the guy is scared, so I tell the truth. “I'm looking for a job.”

This simple statement is the straw that breaks the camel's back. The bottle leaps out of the bartender's purple-red hands, hitting the bar before falling to the floor with a dreadful crash. There's a half instant of devastating silence below the heavenly Celtic music playing from tastefully obscured speakers, and then with the slam of a door and quick, angry steps, the owner comes to me instead of the other way round.

“Gob! What have you done now, you useless-” the man, in the process of lining up a series of high level expletives, pauses his tirade when he catches sight of me. Not because I'm the only person in the place, I ain't, but cause (as I later find out) I'm the only newbie. Everyone else sitting around doesn't look up even though this guy is bellowing at the top of his lungs and his employee, who is taller and younger than him, is cowering like he's about to be beaten.

And what a guy the boss man is - a pit bull, short and thick and ready to tear your throat out and absolutely ruin your life. The seedy, whiskey laced factor was not properly captured by the photos. In his late thirties to early forties, I'd say, sporting longish sandy blond hair streaked with grey, and icy blue eyes that slap when they connect with yours, he looks like he frequents mosh pits partly to ‘accidentally’ beat up teenagers as a form of spiteful exercise. Handsome and fit, in a heavy metal Wild West way, with a long goatee and mustache thing going on. Thick arms show themselves off by the convenience of the rolled up sleeves of a white shirt worn underneath a buttoned up black leather biker waistcoat. He's got style, I'll give him that. And those ain't gym thick arms, but the fat covered muscle that comes from a productive life. More power lifter than body builder. Like the bodyguards who protect starlets. Or bouncers. Meaning he's willing and able to knock your block off no problem. No wonder the bartender is cowering. 

This Moriarty person squints at me for barely an instant before an interior light flips on and most of that menace is shoved under the bed in favour of a charm that's just as sinister. He moves round the end of the bar and struts over to me, without offering a hand, confirming that he's an asshole (and or germophobe). Now I get to see the rest of his outfit - black skinny jeans with a chain and black leather boots with chains wrapped around them (I should have taken note of all the chains.) And he's not wearing the look like its a costume. We're more or less the same height, but after that outburst of his my funny bone is temporarily out of commission. Not that I find short men naturally hilarious or anything.

“Colin Moriarty, at your service, lass! Welcome to Moriarty's! My saloon, my home, my slice of heaven in this backwoods little burg, hehehe. If you've got the money, I've got your pleasure. Please, sit down, make yourself comfortable. Your troubles are a thing of the past.”

‘Saloon’. I mean, he’s technically correct, it's just…odd. Just like his attempt to be funny with the quip about DC being a backwoods. I’m sensin a premature mid-life crisis on the way. I bet there's a bike outside somewhere. Oh, and I forgot to mention that he says all this very quickly, and in an aggressively Irish accent, like he’s trying to beat me to death with four leaf clovers, or whatever his national symbol is. I don’t think the original Irish immigrants were this Irish. I like the bit about my troubles being a thing of the past though. Really like that. 

“Hello, Mister Colin. Thanks, honey. I'd love to sit down.” Crap, shouldn't have said ‘honey’ to a potential employer. But judging by the intensifying smirk on this one's face, he doesn't mind. He doesn't kick me out anyway, instead gesturing to all the studded leather seats I can pick from. Only when I slide into one do I realise that my heart is goin at a mile a minute. Thankfully, he leaves me alone to interrogate my body about why it's freaking out. The chat between boss and barman is subdued now. Hissed. 

Why the frick are you going crazy, heart? The cold sweat on my forehead and under my arms answers. But why? the guy didn't pull any particularly creepy stunt. Or a gun, though I saw what might be the bulge of one at his waist. No lack of eye contact stunts like Sam, who doesn't frighten me to the point of a physical reaction, except in the car that time. The cocktail (Cosmo, the right way around) I ordered goes down my throat in double quick time. Oh well, it doesn't matter if he scared me, I'm just going to be turned down here too, if I even get up enough courage to ask for a job.

But here my big mouth gob gets me in trouble. Or someone else's does. Chains jingle jangle, a cloud of expensive cologne heralding the approach of the boss. Another Cosmopolitan appears next to my empty glass, which is disappeared. 

“No, no, put that pretty purse away, girl. This one's on the house.” A heavy body slides into the booth opposite me, dangerous arms crossing on the thick oak table. Shark-like, Moriarty smirks at me for a moment which feels like a vivisection. I would say something, but I’d rather take a sip of my delicious drink. A long sip. Pale blue eyes flick from mine to the pink liquid, and back again. The smirk deepens till it's a gash in tanned skin. “Gob tells me you're looking for work.” underneath the jovial Irishness is nothing but solid concrete. 

I choke on my drink. Very unladylike. The man only watches while I cough and get myself under control. Barely blinking. It won't be long at all till I realise there's something very wrong with him. 

“Yup. I'm new in town. Well, not new, returning. I was in LA for a while, tryna be Marilyn Monroe. Anyway, I'm willing to do whatever.”

Moriarty licks his lips, flashing his pointed, unAmerican teeth, eyes still hard and fixed, like a doll's. It won't be long till I realise the worst thing you can do is start spilling your guts in front of him. The absolute worst thing. He'll lap that juicy shit up and store it in his gullet for later. And yet he invites confidences, by profession, and by not sayin anything, by only sayin so much, by being provocative. I just made the fatal mistake of signalling I need money, that I don't have strong connections, that I've had my hopes dashed and I’m in need of affection and care…and most deadly of all, that my self esteem is non-existent - everything he needs to know to get what he wants, and more. 

“You're a beautiful little social butterfly. Just what I'm looking for. There's been a dearth of customer service round here, and that needs to change.” he says, eyelids lowering as he glances at my chest. I don't even care. I'm too busy fixating on what he just said. ‘Beautiful’ - screw atom, that’s a hydrogen bomb. Apart from the L Word, there is no more sharply hooked word he could have used to snag this fish. He’s telling me he believes I am what I wish I was. It’s not rocket science, but it takes years and years to understand what a person has done, or is doin to you. And even more years to accept that they do it on purpose. 

“Oh, yeah?” Gosh, I sound so desperate. Tell me more about how I’m beautiful and wanted, Mister Man I Don’t Know. Mister Man I Just Saw Scream At a Guy. Could never be me. The bartender dropped a bottle, of course he got in trouble.

“It's a hospitality job, princess. Think you can stoop to that? It's not easy. You have to be on your feet most of the day. Course, I pay well.” And here comes the rapid-fire negging, designed to make me want to impress and prove myself. And it works. 

“I'm your dream girl, darling.”

Chapter Text

 My new boss puts me to work immediately, learning bartending from the guy called Gob (what sort of weirdass nickname is that?) He doesn't care that I have little experience, hasn't asked my age, doesn't know that I never completed school, knows basically nothing and is apparently deeply trusting. I should probably tell him, but I can't lose this job with no other to fall back on. He intends to shift me around the place until I can fill in everywhere do everything, even cook a bit. That plan sounds ultra generous, ultra beneficial to me. I'll learn a bunch of stuff to fill my CV out with. Besides, how hard can pouring drinks be?

Hard, as it turns out. There's a lot of maths involved, and that's not my strong suite. Also, they run a crap tonne of specials, all applying to different items and various times of the day or week. Still, Gob says it gets to be that you can do it in your sleep.

“Sometimes I wake up making the actions-” he mimes shaking a cocktail, eyes dull, voice tired.”-because I was dreaming I was doing it. That's what happens after ten years of doing the same thing over and over again, every single day. You should see Mister Moriarty sling drinks. It's like it's part of him.”

I'd love to find out more about the boss, but knowing my luck he'll appear from somewhere the second I get Gob talking about him, and just one glance is enough to tell you he's not the sort that tolerates people talkin behind his back. I'll wait for a better moment, maybe at closing or whatever. All day he's hangin around while I'm learning the ropes, and he doesn't do nothing either, no, he's cleaning, neatening, greeting customers, standing at the door smoking, checking stock, all done aggressively, but wound spring aggressive. I hope he's not a micro manager. I had one at my first job. Very quickly you start goin cuckoo round those types.

He also adds me to the group chat (Moriarty’s Kingdom) without introducing me to the other people on it, either in the group or in person. It's like being thrown into the deep end, not that there's any chatting going on. No, he comes on there, types some short order like a bark, or a longer one like a rant, and then someone says ‘Yes, Boss!’ and that's the end of the interaction. There's girls' names with interesting pictures attached, girls around my age, probably a bit older, past twenty-one, and guys. No one really stands out except a goth girl, and Gob. That's his name even on WhatsApp, and his photo is some anime thing. I'm not sure if anime is allowed though, because Mister Moriarty comes on and ALL CAPS shouts at him about it. 

‘@GOB. GET THAT PEDO JAP SHITE OUT OF HERE’

The picture changes to a toilet selfie that hides some of the birthmark. Much less fun, but it makes sense that someone Moriarty's age and temperament wouldn't take kindly to cartoons being bandied about by grown men. All caps will become a running theme.

If the boss is so careless about sounding like a dick, that is probably as dickish as he gets, I think, while trying to remember what sort of Italian liquor is what. He walks past as I'm interrogating bottles, gliding over the floorboards like a shark on crack, with a tiny bit of a stop-start motion mixed in, like he busted a knee at some point. The bike idea is looking more and more likely. As he sails past he watches me and Gob out of the corner of his eye, without sayin anything. Weird, but everyone has their quirks.

“So, tell me about this place, honey. I never knew it was here. Shame on me. But there's so much I never knew.” I say to my colleague (ha! Colleague. Feels good). That's a safe topic for sure. Everyone likes to bang on about their workplace, especially if they've been there for a decade. But Gob shrugs, his steady cleaning of a glass making it squeak. 

“Mister Moriarty's grandfather set it up, way back. It's for men, and a bit rough sometimes, so I'm not surprised you haven't heard of it.”

“How old is he, by the way? I can't really tell.” Stupid me! Don't mention age. But I've began going down this route now, may as well see it through.

“Who?”

“The boss.”

“Forty-four. Seven years older than me.”

“He looks younger.” I say, like I know what forty-five year old men typically look like. I've never been a good judge of that stuff, and collagen loving, man-child infested LA has a way of messing your agedar up for life.

“Mmm. Good genes. His dad was the same.” Gob’s eyes flick up and to the left and right, not pausing on me. They come to a stop near the ceiling, fixing on nothing, his ears taking over the cautious scouting. Looking past the birthmarks, he’s nicely shaped and not too skinny or too fat, but still unhealthy looking somehow. There's something a little worn and neglected about his clothing, his shirt is supposed to be white, but it's the grey of lightly used bathwater. Everything about him screams ‘overwork’. But times are tough out here. Especially in this city. 

“Was? Is he not around anymore?”

“Nope. But there's photos. If you stick around long enough, you'll see them.” small brown eyes leave the ceiling to land on me. Thirty-seven may as well be eighty-seven, but this guy doesn't project the authority that comes with age. All his muscles are tense at all times, including the ones in his face, and his breathing is loud and like he's dragging air through a straw. He licks his lips, nervously, looking like he wants to say something, but can't get himself to pony up the courage. Eventually he forces his sad, mopey voice out, but I can tell he's not saying what is on his mind. “You’re pretty. Couldn't you have got another job?”

                                                                                                                🥃🍻

 Since it's my first day, the boss man says I can leave before Happy Hour arrives, but I want to prove that I'm not some flunky, so I say I'll stay, if he'll have me. Instead of looking surprised, his eyelids lower till something like a lustful goblin is crouching on his face. It leaves almost instantly, and at the time I don't think anything of it. 

“Is it, lass? Well then, you can flip the light switches. It'll amuse you. Then I'll introduce you to my head waitress. She'll get you up to speed. She's also the manager, so be good.” 

The light switches do amuse me. Once they're flipped, the dive bar almost fully elbows the respectable Irish pub out of the way. Neon shamrocks come to life, some of them going the whole hog by dancing jigs across the windows. That would have attracted my attention, if I'd come past here at the right time. And yeah, the after work clientele is on average much younger than their day time counterpart. Still seedy though, seedy in a more fragile, ephemeral way. Like drug overdoses rather than liver failure are on the horizon for them. I'd describe Moriarty's as a May-December romance between its two halves.

His head waitress slash manager is a hot chick in her late twenties, gothic, six feet of gorgeousness, bottle black. Like me she favours eyeliner. Like me she gives off the air of rolling with the punches. I saw her in the group, kowtowing to Moriarty with the rest. 

“Morticia, fill this one in on the process.” He’s tart, snapping a dish towel at her before stalking off toward the kitchens. Morticia, such an epic name. 

“Hey.” I say. 

“Hi.” she says back. 

The process is the same as everywhere else, I think. You seat a customer, give them menus, tell them the stuff the boss wants them to know, bring drinks, bring food, the end. Oh, and clean up. Not hard.  

Except it is, because you've got timing to deal with, you have to rely on your own memory (or handwriting, if you use a notebook like me), energy and agility. And then there's difficult customers and a demanding boss. Things get busy before I'm halfway sure of myself, but Morticia is no ball buster or one to expect miracles of a newbie. She even says as much. The experience is kinda like bein in a battle, running to and fro with dishes whose names I've never heard of before, tryna not to catch a pissed off stare from somebody, tryna not to stick my thumbs in the food, and by a couple hours in I feel as close to her and the other girls the same as if we'd been sisters in arms at Verdun (see, I do know some things). It’s sorta fun, but I plan on only being here for a month maybe, till I can get something more respectable. Something set in an office, maybe. Something I can call a 'career'.

We set to chatting during her break, which I take with her in an alley which also serves a sandwich place, a sandwich place I gotta check out when I get paid. We both smoke, but my cigarettes are down to three.

“I like your makeup, doll.” I say.

“Thanks, it's MAC. Halloween special.”

“Suits your name. I wish I had such a cool one.”

The supercool chick raises her thin, sharp eyebrows, which were shaved off and then penciled back on. The eyes underneath swing around to me through a cloud of smoke, but only stick for a sec before returning to the bricks in front of us. Out in the dank and smelly crack between buildings, we look tiny and so unimportant. Looks can be deceiving though, cause what she says next proves importance can be quiet and invisible to the rest of the world, but no less important.

“Mister Moriarty gave it to me. My real name's Amy. And Gob, his real name's Fred, well, Federico, technically. But don't call us by our real names or Colin will get mad.”

“Seriously? Why’d he give you new names.”

“Dunno. Finds it fun, or funny, I guess. He's a bit of a control freak, but don't let him catch you saying that. He likes to seem casual.” She shrugs, then let's down her hair before tying it back up - effortless, sexy semi-loose flyaway. High level chic. You gotta be born with that style, that's the thing. Like talent...I think I ain't that good of an actress. I couldn't pull off what she just did for the camera and have it look natural. And there's nothing worse than awkward pretense. Anyway, whatever, something burns in my chest. I want a new name. A cool name. One chosen for me by someone who's looked at me long enough to come up with something suitable. It's like guys giving each other nicknames, there's something real, something small town and like you matter, in that. If you have a nickname, people remember you.

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 I don't get out till after the metro shuts down, so I've gotta catch a bus, cause I don't know the guys at this place well enough yet to ask for a ride, and there is no way in hell I'm hitting up Lacey and asking her to ask Sam. They're definitely zonked right now anyway, away with the fairies. So I do the sad girl thing of standing on the sidewalk outside the bar, under a light, looking at my phone like someone's coming to get me when I'm actually checking bus routes. Most of the employees pass me by, scattering kinda like roaches, all in different directions, with a few pairs or groups. The chef power walks away. Ain't surprising. From what I glimpsed he's your stereotypical part gloomy prima donna, part raging drill instructor. Also with an Irish accent, but not the same one as the boss, and not so hardcore. 

Speaking of him, that (Dublin?) lilt livens up the night to my right, coming at me on a cloud of sweet cigar smoke. Yeah, the boss is leaning against a lamp post, smoking a cigar on the freakin street like he owns it…I can't help but admire the chutzpah. I can only aspire to those levels of Don't Give a Shit. 

“Need a lift, lass?” says Moriarty, around the thing clamped between his teeth.

I open my mouth to say the polite-

“Course ye do. Come. I don't like to see a female unaccompanied after dark.” keys jingle, he pushes off from the post, and takes off down the street, hands in pockets. Now it would be rude of me not to take him up on his offer, so I all but have to follow. I think that is called ‘social conditioning’. It does most of a predator's work for him. 

The walk is awkward, for me, but I'm proved right when in a private garage just down the road from the bar I see a bike. And a car. But the bike proves me right about the boss. I assume he owns it. He smiles at it like he owns it. What it is, I don't know, but it's big, all shiny and chrome. I don't know what the car next to it is either, but it's black, long, and has a huge big flaming gold bird on the wideass bonnet. I guess it proves me right twice, cause that's a young man's car from, like, the Seventies. 

“Pretty, aren’t they?” he asks, still puffing away on his cigar, snake grin extending around it like a cartoon villain’s.

“Yeah, real pretty.” they are, I'm not just agreeing to agree. Usually when old guys come with swanky stuff and leather it's makes you want to cringe right out of your skin, but my skin’s not peelin yet. But that could change in an instant, nearly always does, Usually when an ex wife and her kids show up and it turns out he's not paying child support. Guy looks like the type to have multiple ‘families’. He ain't wearing a ring, but that doesn't mean bull crap.

Getting in the car is doubly as awkward as arriving at it was. Coming round to the passenger side, he opens the door for me, still smiling, then waits till I climb in and get comfy before closing it and strutting round to the driver's seat.

I've experienced old fashioned chivalry like that before, but every time it's been from guys who are boiling inside, violence sitting just under the surface. Not insecure guys like Sam, a different sort. Much more dangerous. But I'm here now, and I doubt Moriarty would try anything when we just met. I feel bad even thinkin such a thing and put it out of my mind. That's no way to live. It's so unfair to half the population.

Inside his sweet ride it smells good, sandalwood and…jasmine? Mmm. It's spotless, leather like he just bought it, no wrappers and trash like I'm used to. The car exterior was also gleaming. Makes sense then that he stops smoking before getting in. What doesn't make sense is telling me to put my seat belt on with a hard edge to his voice, like if I don't then we ain't moving a single inch. You'd think someone signaling that they're a bit of a rebel, wouldn't even know what the word ‘seat belt’ means. Looking true what Morticia said, that he's a bit anal.

The night’s quiet now, but there's still people ambling up and down the neon flooded streets. Kids on electric scooters still whiz about, almost running folks over. Where are their parents. Probably where little Sammy's parents are. Passed out on the floor of the hole they rent from some bloodsucking landlord.

“So, how did you come to stay in Shaw? It's not the neighbourhood for a girl like you.” says the boss, after I give him directions, his eyes like wet, neon lit marbles as he looks past me down the street. That's nice of him to say, but it definitely is the neighbourhood for a girl like me. So as to not navel gaze, his driving style attracts this gal's attention. He drives like the car is a beloved horse, caressing the wheel when he turns it, smooth as butter, making it seem a living thing to me. Or maybe that's my romantic nature talkin.

“I'm staying with my cousin. Lacey. At her apartment. She offered after I told her I was coming home.”

“Just her?”

“Her boyfriend and kids too.”

“That must be cramped, surely? Other people's brats? Screaming, crying, throwing shit at the walls? No, thank you. But it's alright for some, it seems.”

…Yeah. 

“If I were a female, I'd not be pleased about living with a couple, either. Can never trust young guys. They haven't got any sense. It's all testosterone all the time. I feel sorry for you ladies, I really do.”

…Me too.

The car swings around a corner into ‘my’ street like it's made of liquid metal. Quicksilver, mercury. It’s a toxic element, ain’t it? Moriarty huffs, glare following what looks like a streetwalker, her tight red dress making me want to shiver.

Once the thing comes to a stop outside Lacey’s building, he turns to fix a full look on me. “By the way, how old are you, lass?”

Crap. I was sorta hoping my age wouldn’t come up. “Nineteen.” Will he be pissed? I’m not old enough to drink, but I’m old enough to work. I can look older. I do look older. Clearly he and his barman were fooled.

But his smile turns into a smirk. “Naughty, naughty! I'm morally injured. Could have got me into trouble here in Prohibition Land.”

“No one asked for my ID. I don’t like waving it in the face of every random person like it's their right to see it.”

“I feel the same. No one gets a look at mine, that’s for sure, BUT, best show yours now, dear, since you deceived little old me and mine so callously. Besides, I need it for your job.” he sounds jovial, but that concrete is just there. His voice is like an empty pool. In the dark it looks full, but when you turn on the light, you see what awaits you if you take a blind leap. 

It's not like I couldn't give it to him in the daytime, but whatever, I hand it over. Almost greedily he takes it, holding it to the light and studying it without blinking, his back curled like it's a treasure or ancient text he's poring over. Eventually he gives it back. “Aaah, what a pity. So you are nineteen. A little lamb. No bartending for you, baby girl. Not just yet. But that's okay, Gob is lazy enough as is, he doesn't want help.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Aaah, it happens. Forget about it, nobody cares. Just don’t do it again. Not to me anyway, hahaha.”

There’s zero amusement in his clacking laugh, but before I can think about what it reminds me of, knuckles rap sharply on my window, almost sending me to the afterlife. As it is, I hit my head on the ceiling of the car. As it is, Moriarty slides out his side, quick as a weasel. 

“Woah, woah, woah!” yells a familiar voice. Sam. Must’ve heard the car, seen the light, or just been peeking through the window. Not through the blinds, cause he and Lace don't have any.

“Who the hell are you, lad?!”

“Wooooah, man, chill! Put it away! I ain’t doin anything! Just checking on Mia!”

“You have a gun?”

“Yeah. Course.”

“Place it on the ground.”

Sam’s stained blue Smurf nightshirt passes my window, then again as he stands up.

“Happy?”

“Mmm.” Moriarty walks around the front of his car like he’s SWAT or some shit, his gun glinting. He doesn't look like a paranoid as heck meth addict, but you never know these days. 

Eventually the drama is sorted, and we're all standing on the sidewalk, guns put away.

“This is the boyfriend then. Huh.” My new boss does not look impressed. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, lass. Let’s say same time as today. You’ve still got a lot to learn, heh heh heh.” Message delivered, he climbs back into his car and takes off, performing an illegal U-Turn as he goes.

“Who was that insane asshole?”

“My boss.” 

Chapter Text

 Morning light washes over a city of filth. Last night's parties, and the nights and days before, have left souvenirs, tidal waves of trash, collecting between sidewalk and road, in bushes, overflowing from bins. Still, the beauty of dawn makes looking out the window, while smoking, into an Event. Moriarty pulling a gun on Sam has made my flatmate jittery and disturbed. More disturbed, petulant. It's funny. He went to bed whining that the city is not what it used to be. Immigrants prancing about, refusing to assimilate. I'd say the boss has assimilated very well.

“Who the eff is he?” demands a pyjama short wearing Sam while the sun is still busy winching itself over the horizon. I don't think he's slept at all. Leprechauns with pistols running through his head all night. 

“I dunno. Some guy.”

“Some guy? You don't even know who you're gonna be working for? You need to be more aware, Mia! There's tonnes of big time creeps in this city, and he’s one of them.” Funny how sometimes greed can look like concern.

“If you have a better job to give me, Sam, I'm all for it. But even if you did, right now I'd rather work for him than you.”

The scumbag looks shocked. Well, half of his face does, the other half twitches as he tries to stop it from giving away that he knows what I'm talkin about. Even in gray darkness, I can see it. Yeah, he's no Moriarty, this fella.

“What's that supposed to mean, bitch?”

“I dunno, hon. What does it mean?” I really shouldn't be doin this, but guys like him grow a bit of a spine when their targets do nothing to stand up to them. He can't do much while Lacey and the kids are in the next room, I hope, and even if he does, I can hurt him a little, if I don't freeze first. 

But, after his face wrestles with itself a bit, he decides not to push it. 

 Waking up and getting ready to schedule again takes a little getting used to. It's shift work though, so it's not like every day is going to be exactly the same, not that there's anything wrong with that. I'm tired of waking up every morning not knowing what to expect or whether I'm going to get that one special call. That one special call that will be the beginning of all my dreams coming true. It'll also be nice to watch people party without having to party myself. Even good times can go to shit if there is too much of them.

Makeup goes on (sitting on the sofa) extra careful, extra ‘just woke up’ style. Can already tell there's goin to be a ‘lite’ look for day, and a heavier look for night. As for clothing and hair, no one said anything about my style, so I go with the usual, only takin more care with it.

“What's this, Mia? You got a job? Well done!!” Watching Lacey light up, literally jump up, from the bedroom floor where she was painting her toenails, is like seeing time rewind. Back to when she was happy to have me around, no strings attached. “At the bar, yeah? Told you!”

“At the bar, not behind the bar. Too bad, their Cosmo is fabulous.”

“No shit…What? Didn't they ask for IDs?”

“Nope.”

Lacey's grin widens. “Yay. They're still cool then. You're gonna love it. Just watch. Lots of great people hang out there.”

Behind her her boyfriend lounges on the mattress that passes for their bed, smoking, shirt off, beer bottles within reach. He pretends nothing's going on, in the room, or anywhere else. A plate smashes in the kitchen, followed by a child voice saying ‘oops’. It's not this that gets Sam to exit his narcotic bubble.

“The owner is a legit lunatic, Lace. That's why he don’t check IDs. Last night he pulled a gun on me in the frikking street. Mia should look for another job, unless she likes being shot for no damn reason.”

That light bulb that was lit inside my cousin? It goes out, her eyes narrowing to strips, her face setting like poorly poured concrete. It's kinda scary to watch.

“You're either talking shit, Sam, or you did something that warranted him pulling a gun on you.”

“I tapped on his freaking car window! I thought he was getting up to shenanigans with your precious cousin! All I did was tap a couple times and he leaps out like greased lightning, waving a piece about and screaming in Irish! Where's my sympathy?!”

“You can't tap on a guy's car, Sam. That's his castle.”

“But I did, and I can.”

“I'm not surprised you were almost shot.”

Once they get started arguing, it don't end till they're busy producing another kid, so I leave. I wanna get to work early anyway. 

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 I forgot about the con artists selling junk and snake oil on the metro. Even that feels more authentic somehow, than anything in LA. Con artistry behind one layer only? What a relief. 

I also forgot how diverse DC is. The Boss’ funny accent is just one of hundreds of funny accents that wash in and out of the city. I wouldn't be surprised if some people intensify or put theirs on in order to stand out. 

Anyway, I only get half lost on the way back to Moriarty's, strolling along pretty tree lined pavements, free as a bird. I'll have to walk it one day. Have a look around the area on my lunch break…lunch break, do I get one? Apart from smoke breaks, I don't think anyone took a break yesterday. Oh, I hope they do, cause I don't want to be ‘that guy’ who insists on his rights and makes himself unpopular with Management. 

The face of the ‘saloon’ is like a beautiful woman who doesn't wear makeup - stately, quietly superior to the painted pimps and whores around her. I guess it's an old building, because only old buildings have that sort of living weight to them, like they have roots instead of foundations. Door's open already, offering a cool shelter from the dreadful humidity of a DC summer. A little shamrock (or is it a three leafed clover? What's the difference) in the window is aglow with neon, hinting that this handsome old woman has a wild side. Taking a moment to admire the scrollwork over a cigarette, I try and memorise the spelling of my boss’ name. Probably a good idea. As I’m going along the loop de loop, a goldy coloured curtain beside the second ‘r’ twitches, like a cat yanked at it. Although people must live up there, being reminded that I'm looking at their windows kinda puts an icky feeling in my stomach. Didn't mean to be a creep, I swear.

Inside the place, ‘Gob’ and ‘Morticia’ are the first to greet me, cause they're the first folks I come across, standing behind the bar where I'm not allowed to go now, but where I probably still will if what Lace said is true. ‘Cool’ - translation : they ain't overly concerned with hypocritical rules. I like that. A lot. Either that or Moriarty knows people. People like the senator.

Speaking of the boss, I want him to see me so he'll know that I'm motivated and taking my shit seriously by showing up to work early, but he doesn't appear in person for more than two hours, and when he does, he walks straight past me and Morticia where we're cleaning booths, whistling, car keys swinging from a finger. In the instant when I'm looking away from his retreating back, I catch the tail end of my colleague rolling her kohl lined eyes. Red appears under the pale powder on her cheeks when she sees me looking, but she doesn't elaborate, and I don't know her well enough yet to just start gabbing on. The interest is there for me though, for sure. Rolling one's eyes at the boss’ back is a simple thing that has like an entire encyclopedia's worth of explanation behind it. 

Whatever, with him out of the building, and busy time not yet begun, she gives me a tour of the place.

“And this is Kevin, second class asshole.” she says, indicating the chef leaning against his sparkling counters, legs crossed, arms crossed, smoking, his long blond hair not at all captured by his hat. He flips her off and turns around, proceeding to check ingredients. He's nicely built, tall for an Irishman. Way taller than his boss. Not that I know anything about Irishmen whatsoever. All I know is that they like to drink, fight, and wear green.

“Doesn't he have a nickname?” I ask, thinking it should be ‘Bruiser’ or ‘Simon Cowell’. 

Kevin and Morticia exchange looks, then burst out laughing. They don't say what's so funny. In-jokes, that takes me back to set. Woe to you if you show up where everyone knows each other. You'll never know what's going on, and that laughter will sound like it's coming for you soon enough. I don't think these guys are like that, but they are definitely not as loose lipped as I'd like. 

“This is Colin’s office.” Morticia says, drumming her nails on a closed door with no sign on it indicating that it's an office, or the boss’. We're in the backrooms now, where I briefly was yesterday on the way to my smoke breaks. “Don't try and get in here when he's not around. When he is around, he doesn't mind so much, so long as you're not slacking.”

“Why would I want to visit him in his office?” spending any time with a boss that you don't have to is the worst thing ever. The worst thing. It's like hanging with a friend's parents. 

The cool chick looks at me with this semi-pitying, semi-angry expression, which kinda takes me aback. She's older than me though, so I guess she's annoyed at my stupidity and ignorance. 

“Well, he's HR, isn't he? If you have a problem, you've got to talk to him, and he's easy to track down here.” her eyebrows flick up briefly, her lips jerking sideways off her teeth as she clicks her tongue, her eyes sliding to the opposite wall. It's a hardcore, Tough Chick expression that I know I ain't gonna be able to copy. “Plus, his office is nice. Real nice. Good to hide in when customers become…rowdy.” she looks at me again, tough expression falling off to shatter on the corridor floor (real wood!). Her nails drum the door again, a wonderful sound. “Remember that, Mia. You can come hide here if customers are…rude. That's one thing I'll say about Colin. He doesn't take shit, anybody's shit, and he'll look after you, if you work hard. The customer is always wrong in his book.”

She forgets to add the second half of that sentence, which I'll later find out for myself: Everyone is always wrong in his book. 

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 ‘The daytime regulars are fascinating.’ ‘Lots of great people hang out here.’ So I says to myself. What they are is a bunch of old drunkards, gradually leaning closer and closer to the bar as they lose control of their muscles. There is no such thing as ‘had too much’ at Moriarty's. Nope. A guy passes out and falls off his stool, and Gob moves round and picks him up with the help of the other customers, placing him in a booth, taking his drink and selling him more booze when he regains consciousness.

“Nineteen, huh? I remember those days.” sighs the bartender, sounding as world weary as a ninety year old. More world weary than any of his customers, who look as though they have moved past the stage of hopes and dreams and exist only to keep their blood alcohol level (way) above the legal driving limit. 

Moriarty finally acknowledges me when Gob passes me a glass of ice water (on the house), the man appearing out of the storeroom behind the bar, his narrow face and greying hair catching and devouring the light, light which gradually grows more and more garish as the day wears on.

“Ah, ah, ah. No bartending for you, baby girl. Not just yet.” he says playfully, moving me away from the bar with a hand to my upper back. As we're walking, that hand slides to the centre of my back. Kinda comforting. “Come, dear, let's get your paperwork sorted.”

I get to see inside his office. It is nice. Like the bar - decorated to resemble gentleman's clubs back when they were for important English men and not Californian strippers. Brass, dark wood, those green shaded lights, a huge and heavy desk. Very swanky. Smells good too, like expense.

Once he takes to his leather throne behind that desk, business replaces playfulness, but the smirk remains, coiled up in the corners of his lips like a spring. “So, I'm trying you out for six months, and then, if I'm satisfied that you're a good fit for me, we can talk again. Sign this.” he slides a piece of paper and a pen across to me, then lights a cigar. I know I ought to read it, but from a glance it's all good, all legal gobbledegook and I don't want to give the impression that I'm difficult, or suspecting him of being a slave driver. Plus, it's only temporary. After six months I'll have a dream office job. Maybe a call centre. Somewhere I can sit down all day. Plus, Moriarty watches me, his face gradually hardening with every micro instant I take to decide. Can't have that. Can't have it set into dislike. Can't go back to Lace and say I effed up again. 

Once I sign the thing, a big jagged M followed by tiny squiggles, the playfulness returns, double fold. With compliments, and a can of coke from his mini fridge. “Looking grand, dearie. You've got style I haven't seen before. Not in this self conscious town full of pseudo important wannabes.” he says, sitting on the edge of his desk and folding his arms like a Cool Guy. So many great people here, Lace wasn't wrong. I wonder if he hosts Christmas staff parties. I bet they're legendary. 

“Thanks. You too.”

The rat trap of a smirk deepens.