About that place in the valley (shudder...)

I never went back. I worked a grand total of three shifts. I spent my last shift posted up by the second stage, surly and cross-legged. I made one last, choking, sputtering attempt to talk to one of the pretzel-spitting misogynists at the bar, and it went a little something like this:

Me (leaning over from prime seat next to stage 2): Hey, how's it going?

Him: Good. You look nice.

Me: Oh, thanks.

Him: You're kind of quiet, huh?

Me: Well, I don't really know anyone here. (The place was populated exclusively by regulars.)

Him: Yeah, but you're not really talking to anyone to get to know them.

Me: Yeah...

End of conversation. I half-assed rolled my eyes and then turned back to the stage. Fuck that. I'm tired of people telling me I need to smile, or be nicer, or make more of an effort. I don't have any effort left in me to talk to uninteresting, vile people, and I'm sick of pretending that every idiot who walks into the place spits gold when he speaks.

I left early that shift, which is always exciting. But I left pretty fucking tore up. There had only been three girls working, which meant that I went onstage every fifteen minutes or so, for THREE SONGS AT A TIME. For five hours straight. So, picture it: My dogs were barking, my hair had long since gone from prettily curled to smashed in on one side and held in place by sweat. I stank. I was tired. My knees were a wreck, I had somehow cut my stomach while writhing on the poorly-maintained stage, I had a splinter in my pointer finger. In short, I was a hot mess.

I yanked my bag out of the overhead locker, letting it fall onto the shelf below. I ripped off my bikini, got dressed (slowly, painfully), splashed some water on my face and wiped the blood from my stomach. I paid the house.

"See you Monday," said the manager.

"Yeah, see you then."

I walked out into the sunlight. It was about 5:00 p.m. and I had to go to LAX to pick up my boyfriend. I knew then that I wasn't going back.