Until your back is up against a wall, you never know what you'll do to survive, and you never know if your desperate choice will destroy you, or be the key to your future.
I aged out of the foster system when I turned 18 in April, and was kicked out of my foster home immediately after high school graduation in June. I was desperate. It was November, and the worst of winter was coming. For the moment, I had a closet-sized room in a transitional women's shelter, arranged by the child services people when I was released from my final foster care home, but I had to be in the shelter by 8 p.m. each night when the doors locked. To make it worse, my six-month limit at the shelter was fast approaching. I had just less than a month to find permanent housing.
Problems? The only job I could find at the moment sometimes had me working until 9 pm two nights a week. On those nights I slept wherever I could. I was making friends at the coffee shop where I worked as a barista, and they'd let me couch surf, but I was on the verge of wearing out my welcome. I had a small savings for first, last and deposit for rent, but I didn't earn enough to qualify for "three times rent" requirement for many rentals, and the waiting list for low-income single housing was - long.
Which meant, in a month I'd be joining the other homeless in a tent under a highway somewhere. Life for a young woman on the streets was, well, my best bet would be to find a protector, probably some slimy guy who hadn't showered properly in months, in exchange for my virginity and ongoing "favors."
Ick, ick, ick. There had to be another way.
"Kyra, come out with us tonight. It's "80s night at Club Raine, and cover is half-price if you're in costume," Megan invited during a break between customers.
I looked down at my thrift-store clothes under my apron. Yep, 80s. My current grown-out strawberry blond pixie cut was there too, at that weird in-between stage where it looked like a wild layered 80s rocker hairstyle. I also wore an old concert tour t-shirt - they were plentiful on the thrift store racks and I didn't care if they ended up covered in spilled coffee.
It was already 7:45, and there was no way I was going to get to the shelter in time tonight. I didn't have work tomorrow, so maybe I could party the night away in a dry, warm club, and forget about my life for a night. It would be a new experience.
"I'll do it," I agreed.
Two hours later Megan, Jazz, Izzi, and I were standing in line at Club Raine. Jazz wore vintage acid-wash denim jeans and a jacket, and a crop top, which she said she stole out of her aunt's closet. Jazz was in a zebra print skater skirt and a black crop top over a neon yellow microfiber tank that might have been a leotard, while Izzi did the 80s prom thing, with a mid thigh-length satin neon-fuchsia strapless bubble dress. I rounded out the bunch with my old rocker t-shirt, jeans and about a half-dozen studded black belts Megan loaned me.
The line was insane, completely around the block, and the usual Seattle clouds were threatening to douse the gallons of hairspray worn by the night's club hopefuls. The main doors to the club were still closed, but the thumping of the bass rhythm from inside could already be felt more than heard.
"Is everyone here really going to get in? I eyed the line, and the huge bouncers who stood at the door. There was a VIP entrance at the other end of the building, and people were being escorted from fancy cars and through an equally well-guarded set of double doors.
"Hell, no," Jazz shook her head. "They have people who pick who gets in. You never know who it's going to be. Some nights they go for the supermodel types, or other nights it's all nerdy people, or the girl or guy next door. Everyone wants to be picked, and those who get in totally rave about the club later. I've gotten in three times in the last year."
Izzi giggled. "It's all in making sure you're with the theme of the night. They announce it on social media each morning. They also have gay nights, or lesbian nights, and even Daddy and other kink nights once or twice a month, so don't show up without checking what the theme is. You might get more than you expected. They've been doing this for three years now, and it's the hottest game in town. I heard they're opening similar clubs in Portland and San Francisco."
"Daddy nights?" I asked. "Like, the whole role playing sex games thing?"
Jazz laughed and wrinkled her nose. "Yep. I drove by, and all the women had pigtails with bows in their hair, and were dressed in babydoll dresses and stuff like that. Super creepy, if you ask me."
Having lost my own father, could see the appeal of having a "daddy" take care of you, but pretending to be a young girl was definitely not my thing.
Megan shrugged. "It's a good time, if you can get in. If not, we can always do a late movie."
For about ten minutes we laughed and judged the costumes of others who stood in line with us. Some of the women wore 80s-style sexy short dresses, some clearly cheap costumes, others probably vintage. Many rocked the Cher, Madonna or Cyndi Lauper looks.
Just the people-watching was fun. "This is like Halloween, but better," I told my co-workers. Friends? Maybe.
Never mind I only had real Halloween costumes maybe three times in my life.
A ripple of exclamation moved through the line. Two huge black bouncers were walking the line, and occasionally stopped to pick out an individual, or a small group, and sent them toward the entrance. Once they got closer, I realized they were putting wristbands on each person they selected, of different colors. I wondered what the colors meant.
They reached our group, and I realized exactly how big the bouncers were. They were like almost-matched bookends, and had to be somewhere around six-six or six-seven. One had long, glossy box braids that hung heavily over his shoulders, and the other wore his hair short, in an almost military-tight cut. They both wore blazers over navy blue t-shirts with the club logo, ball caps with the logo, and dark wash jeans. The outfits did nothing to disguise their massive shoulders and arms, narrow waists, and long, powerful legs. I'd bet the shirts hid washboard abs.
I had no idea how they communicated. It was almost like they were psychic. They'd spot someone they liked, and one would hold the rope while the other indicated which hopefuls were selected, then they'd attach the wristbands.
Finally they came to our spot in line, and the one with the braids met my eyes. I never saw a signal, but the other guy lifted the rope, and braids guy took my hand to pull me under it. I turned around to the girls I arrived with. I didn't want to leave my friends behind. I was only there because they invited me.
After a moment's hesitation, the pair escorted a squealing Megan, Jazz and Izzi under the rope. A few moments later they all wore aqua-blue wristbands; mine was white, and made of a different material; thicker, and had a different kind of clasp, the kind you couldn't take off without destroying the wristband.
"We're in," Izzi nearly danced her way toward the entrance, and held up her wristband for the bouncer at the door, who waived her toward the cashier behind a window. Jazz and Megan followed. When the bouncer saw my white band, he motioned me through another door, which took me directly inside, skipping the cashier.
The girls joined me inside, where "Another One Bites the Dust" thumped through the sound system.
"Holy shit, you got in free. Now, what about you did they like so much you got white? I've never seen white before. Turn around!" Jazz instructed. I turned slowly for their inspection.
"What does white mean?" I asked.
