I pulled the letters from my school bag once again hoping to find some small detail that I must have missed. A part of me believed that if I looked them over one last time, a solution would somehow present itself. I am still amazed at how much joy or pain a few brief words in a letter can convey.
At the top of the first page was an illustration depicting the old administration building. I knew it well from the university's website. Below that, a tedious wall of text about how old and wonderful the school was. After that, the words that actually meant something:
Amanda Sykes—is accepted
...
Growing up dirt-poor didn't help with being
accepted
. Despite my looks, to my classmates—the ones that mattered anyway—I was a second-class citizen. At Vanderbilt High, wealth and social status are highly correlated. Lately, I had begun feeling like a dunce for pushing my mother to enroll me in a private school. My classmates were pretentious assholes and the expense wiped out her savings.
From time to time, some wannabe frat-boy would ask me to yet another boring house party. I had little interest in being some rich kid's plaything for the night. Acceptance to their clique beyond back room dry humping was never going to happen. I was from 'the wrong side of the tracks', and even worse, I was poor. Acceptance to the university had the potential to change everything.
Unfortunately, the second letter all but canceled out the first. Looking at the two pieces of paper brought to mind those 'Tragedy and Comedy' theater masks. This document, unlike the first, was concise:
grant denied
.
My mother didn't make much working nights at the hospital, yet she made enough that I didn't qualify for federal aid! Paychecks from my job at the multi-national burger-chain weren't going to cut the mustard in terms of
having it my way
.
All this brought me to the mall, were I stalked a display of stunning Adrianna Papell gowns. I was looking for something that would pair well with the heels I had bought with the last of my meager savings. I did my best to look like I wasn't interested. I didn't want to draw attention to myself and look like I was about to do something really stupid—which I was.
Finally, I grabbed the dress and shoved it up under the front of my hoodie. Since nobody began screaming, "
STOP THIEF!"
as I had imagined, I made my way towards the nearest exit. As I reached the imposing glass entry, an alarm went off.
I panicked and froze. I looked beyond the door towards freedom, snapped out of my stupor and pushed on the cold metal bar. I stuck my hands in my pockets and walked at something like a reasonable pace.
I didn't get far before a patrol car whipped around the building on squealing tires. It screeched to a stop and sat in a noxious cloud of burnt rubber. Two security guards jumped out of the little sedan. I tensed and saw evidence of a donut break on the fat one as they ran past.
***
The trip took half the day since the bus stopped on
nearly every fucking block
. I asked about a restroom at the gas station down the street from my destination and was appalled when the clerk handed me a five-gallon bucket. I was relieved to see a key attached to it by a length of wire. Inside the ladies' room, I removed the stolen dress from my worn-out school bag along with a hammer and a roofing nail.
The old bag was bright pink—a color I had outgrown long ago. I hated it with a passion.
Well now that I am a thief,
I thought with a tinge of self-loathing,
I could get a new one whenever I want
. I balanced the nail over the security tag and struck it with the hammer. The tag popped off with a satisfying
ping!
***
I presented myself to a tall, serious man with bright, beady eyes. He reclined himself to an absurd angle and lit a cigarette. Peering at me from between several stacks of yellowing papers he said, "Kneel and tell me who you are." Seeing my confusion, he directed his gaze toward a miniature California license plate propped up on the desk. 'NEIL', it said. I told him who I was and why I was there.
Neil reasoned that if I
really
wanted to work at the
Boobie Bungalow
, I should make an appointment for an audition. His tepid response to my generous offer wasn't something I had considered. This was not how I had imagined our exchange! I was stunningly beautiful and in peak physical condition, sporting a body that caused men, and often women, to gawk inappropriately. I had only recently turned eighteen. I was
WAY
overqualified for this dump. I had planned to ask for a rather large advance.
"If you pass the audition, Mystique can show you around, explain how things work. You'll need to wear something more appropriate." He nodded toward the corner of the room. I hadn't noticed the woman sitting there, cross legged, in the dim, yellow light. It was obvious that despite Neil's optimism, Mystique would prefer not to show or explain anything, to anyone, ever.
I looked down at my expensive gown and back over to Mystique. She tapped on her cigarette and studied me with mild contempt. Her outfit consisted of a surprising quantity of large, ornate feathers.
"We do a burlesque show on the off-nights," Neil offered.
***
Arms crossed, I shuffled awkwardly to the bus stop on my four-inch stilettos. The way it worked, he explained, was that I would pay the club for the
privilege
of dancing there. He called it a 'stage fee.' The whole thing made me feel like dirt and the steady stream of catcalls from passing cars didn't help my mood. I couldn't wait to get out of that awful neighborhood and off of those ridiculous shoes.
An especially old and decrepit car cast me in a long shadow with its one working headlamp. Loathsome comments poured from its black interior as I bent to reclaim my putrid pink knapsack from where I had hid it earlier. The occupants of such cars referred to them as 'hoopties' and it wasn't long before I heard it again. I forced myself to look ahead as it trailed behind.
"Hey girl, you're looking fine!" shouted the driver.
The mating call of the common hood rat—yippee!
The car sped ahead and then stopped. Its doors protested open. Surrounded by five big thugs, I acted the part of a scared five-foot-nothing girl as they hooted colorful observations concerning my physique. I really wasn't all that scared since I was too busy thinking hard about how I was going to get out of this mess.
The biggest one reached out and grabbed me, his huge hand slid down to cover my entire ass. He squeezed my butt as if testing a package of toilet paper for its comfort and reliability. Another thug snaked in from behind, reached around and cupped my breasts. My nipples stood out firm against the smooth fabric of my gown as his rough hands caressed me up and down.
"Come on girl, I'll show you how we do it down here in the
hood
," said the breast man.
No thanks, bro!
"Yeah, come on girl, get in the car. Let's go for a
ride!"
said the ass man, now gripping me very tight.
I hugged the putrid pink backpack to my chest and imagined them tossing me into their hooptie. There might even be a write-up about my tragic disappearance in the local newspaper. Another thug lifted my gown and yanked my expensive new panties down around my ankles.
I bagged like a million fries to pay for those you MOTHERFUCKER!
"Please stop!" I pleaded and began sobbing. The ass man let go of my arm.
I spun, pushed past the breast man and ran like hell, stepping out of my panties and kicking off the heels. I ran until my lungs burned in my chest like two red-hot coals. The ass man was at least a foot taller and had little trouble keeping up with me. I pumped my arms as hard as I could and eventually managed to escape by squeezing through a gap in an old iron gate. I got away but had lost everything—shoes, panties, shitty pink backpack—everything! My new dress was ruined. I was penniless. Suddenly, I missed that shitty pink bag. Now there was nothing left to do but stop blubbering and begin the long walk home.
***
Far ahead, down in the valley, several tidy rows of BMW sedans and SUVs glittered in the early morning light. I knew then exactly how far I had left to go. The bottoms of my feet were raw and black with grime. Weary and demoralized, I decided to cut through the lot, making the remainder of my trip just a little shorter.
I discovered that the cool comfort of an air-conditioned showroom made a suitable place to unwind after walking all a night. I sat at the wheel of a shiny new four-series M Sport convertible and pretended I was touring the countryside.
I'd watched a few episodes of
Top Gear
from time to time and hoped to one day own such a car. Lately, it didn't seem very likely. I sipped lukewarm coffee from a tiny foam cup and imagined the wind mussing my hair. I approached a sharp curve in the narrow road and downshifted.
"Hello Miss, may I help you?" said a shrill, nasally voice.
I stomped down hard on the accelerator, drank my cool, sparkling wine and marveled at the beautiful scenery streaking by. I worried about my hair getting all mussed-up. I was busy.
"Look, Miss, this area is for customers..."
"No thanks, only looking," I countered, being quite reasonable.
"...and you aren't even wearing shoes!"
"I know!" I said.
***
"She's with me," offered a man with a deep, commanding voice.
"Oh, Mr. Masters—really?" said the annoying voiced lackey. "Anyways, as I was saying, we won't have it, I mean, it won't be ready," he droned, still eying me with considerable doubt. "You see, it only arrived..."
I turned toward this Mr. Masters. He, in turn, was looking toward the sales office. Oh my, was he gorgeous—distinguished with broad shoulders filling out an expensive looking suit quite handsomely.
"...and the shop has to..."
I followed Mr. Masters' gaze to where the lackey's boss, standing on tiptoe, was looking back. The supervisor's wave seemed to convey to anyone paying attention that Mr. Masters could have his car whenever he wanted. The supervisor then began waving both his arms, suggesting the lackey should shut the hell up if he knew what was good for him.
