Chapter 3: ...and 9 to 2

I pull into the underground parking lot of the Starlight Lounge - one of the most exclusive bars in West Hollywood - pull my visor down and quickly apply a coat of mascara to my naturally long lashes to make my deep, chocolate-brown eyes pop. I then apply a layer of lip oil to my moderately plump lips to give them a little shine. I pinch my cheeks a little – a trick my madre taught me – to give my soft, latte skin a natural flush, then I tie my bust-length, dark brown hair up into a sleek ponytail. I give myself another once over and once satisfied, grab my bag, and get out of the car.

I smooth out my black slacks and tuck in my long-sleeve, white, button-down shirt and tighten my black tie. The club has a strict dress code. All servers must wear black pants, a white shirt, and a black tie. At least I get to wear my Sketchers for comfort, but they’re black so they at least blend in. While my diner uniform is cuter, I like this one much better. I think it’s classy and no one can look down my shirt or up my dress, which is a plus. I also think it appropriately hugs and flatters my thin frame and natural curves. Not saying I want to go to work looking sexy, but it’s nice to go to work and not feel like a frump all the time.

I use my keycard to access the service elevator and head up to the Starlight Loung, residing on the top two floors of this twenty-story building. I step out into the dimly lit, red corridor and use my keycard once again to access the staff room. I toss my stuff into my locker, grab my black apron, tie it around my waist, tuck my pen and pad into the pocket and head out to clock in. I walk into the main lounge/dining area to see the club in full swing – emphasis on the swing.

The Starlight Lounge – like everything in West Hollywood – is a modern club with a 1930s style. The first floor is the lounge and dining area with a live jazz band and lounge singer, while the second floor is reserved for VIP lounges, which they call ‘cigar rooms’ for the sake of nostalgia. The interior is mostly charcoal-coloured upholstery and deep mahogany with soft lighting for a dark and mysterious ambience. It gives it this secret, exclusive atmosphere that almost harkens back to the prohibition era. I guess I have a thing for themes since I work in one place with a 1950s theme and another with a 1930s theme. I really gotta step into the 21^st century.

“Lani!” calls out the manager, Lamont, standing by the bar.

I walk over and greet him with a warm smile, “Hey, Monty. Where would you like me to start?”

“If only all my workers were as hardworking as you,” he sighs wistfully. “Would you mind working behind the bar tonight? Marcello called in sick, but I’d much rather have you behind the bar than Karen,” he whispers.

I glance at Karen working behind the bar and lean in to whisper my reply. “Because she’s such a Karen?”

“It’s like parents know what monster their child will become so they name them appropriately, so the world gets an advanced warning,” he says, shaking his head in bewilderment.

I chuckle. “I’ll take care of it. Anything I need to know?”

“Mr Foxx is here tonight, so if you wouldn’t mind preparing a bottle of his favourite for me to take to him.”

“Consider it done,” I say with a smile, giving him a salute.

I walk behind the bar and over to Karen as she cleans the bar top, blowing loose strands of her dirty blonde hair out of her face. Karen is a forty-four-year-old stout woman who stands at only 4’7” but has the attitude of a woman ten feet tall. She’s like an angry, bitter Mrs Pots; the walking embodiment of a Napoleon Complex. Any time she works behind the bar she needs to use a safety step because she can’t see over the bar. Makes you realise that bars don’t accommodate the vertically challenged.

I walk over and greet her with a pleasant smile. “Good evening, Karen. Monty has asked me to take over at the bar so you’re now off the hook.”

“Maybe if he could figure out how to properly staff people I wouldn’t have had to be back here in the first place,” she says bitterly, tossing down her handtowel and storming out from behind the bar.

“Your efforts are very appreciated!” I call out, but I doubt she heard me. I swear, in the time I’ve been working here, I’ve not once heard a positive thing come out of her mouth. It’s like she complains just for the sake of complaining.

I prepare the bottle Monty requested, placing it at the end of the bar, then happily work on serving the customers and filling drink orders. As I work on mixing another drink, the lights darken further, and the spotlight hits the stage at the far end of the room. I smile wide, turning my attention to the stage just like the other patrons, as my friend takes centre stage. Her ivory skin looks luminescent under the spotlight, the diamond earrings and clips in her radiant blonde hair refract in the light making them twinkle like a thousand rainbows as she steps up to the microphone. Her ruby red lips capture the attention of every man in the room as she begins to sing her signature song Some Kind of Mystery – not her own song.

She stands there, her figure swaddled beneath a luxurious black fur coat, hiding her 6-foot form from the lascivious eyes of the men in the room. Her amber eyes connect with each man in the audience flirtatiously, tantalising them, luring them in like fish to a worm on a hook as her voice fills the room. Just like the men, I stare at her completely captivated.

Irina Obraztsov was the first friend I made in America. She’s a year older than me and immigrated from Russia to pursue a singing career. She is one of the most confident, self-assured women I’ve ever met. She can come off as abrasive, and harsh, but she’s just got a zero-tolerance policy for bullshit – or what she deems bullshit. She’s not everyone’s cup of tea but considering everyone in West Hollywood is either lying or kissing someone’s ass, her direct – and at times brutal – honesty, is a breath of fresh air.

When Irina hits the high note of her song she drops her coat, revealing an exquisite cobalt, satin, backless, cowl-neck gown skimming the floor like water and hugging her figure. The crowd cheers and whistles, applauding her talent and beauty as I smile in awe of her.

When the performance finally ends, she steps off the stage, sauntering through the throngs of men all vying for her attention as she makes her way to the bar.

“A glass of my usual please, Lani,” she says, turning to look out at the club as she leans her elbows back on the bar.

“Certainly Madame, would you like a lemon wedge with that?” I say playfully.

Irina smiles back at me, “That would be divine, solnyshkuh.”

I quickly pour her a glass of sparkling water, squeeze a lemon wedge into the glass then drop in a fresh wedge. I place a napkin down and slide it over to her.

“No matter how many times you perform that song, I never get sick of it,” I say with high praise.

“You’re always sweet to me. I hear there’s a big record producer in here tonight, which I really hope is true. I just keep waiting for someone who matters to come in here, see me perform and take a chance on me,” she says, her hunger and determination emphasizing every word as she turns to face me and takes a sip of her drink.

“Don’t you also work here because you need to pay rent?”

“That too.”

I chuckle. “For what it’s worth, I really hope it happens for you one day, but in the meantime, I love getting to see you perform.”

She smiles wide, “And getting to enjoy your company is one of the other reasons I stay here. Who else would I bitch to?”

“Everyone else who works here?” I respond playfully.

She waves a dismissive hand. “They don’t count, they’re nowhere near as fun as you.” She takes another sip of her drink and abruptly halts herself. “Oh, have you heard from your family? How are they?” she eagerly asks.

“I spoke to them on Wednesday, they’re doing good. Apparently, Miguel went and found himself a girlfriend,” I say, wiggling my eyebrows.

“Oh, the young Mr Contreras has decided to venture into the dating pool. Should we send him floaties in the mail?” she teases.

I snort with laughter, “Boy has to learn the dating terrain at some point. He sounds like he really likes this girl though. As long as she treats him right and he treats her right, it’s all fine by me.”

“How old is your brother again?”

“Sixteen.”

“Yikes,” she says, making a face of discomfort. “Here’s hoping his raging hormones don’t ruin it for him.”

“I don’t think guys ever grow out of that.”

“Sadly, my dear, you are right about that.” She looks around the room, catching the eyes of a tall drink of hot chocolate. “Speaking of, wish me luck.” She throws me a wink, puts her drink down and makes her way over to her nameless admirer.

I take her drink, place it behind the bar, and work on filling the incoming drink orders. The rest of the night goes incredibly smooth, and surprisingly quick, like someone sped up time, which is fine by me, just means I get to go home that much sooner…sort of.

I spend the last half hour of my shift cleaning up and closing up the register, then take all the money and night's receipts to the manager’s office.

“That’s everything, Monty. Anything else you need?” I ask as I place everything on his desk.

“Not at all. Thank you for everything tonight, you were a lifesaver,” he gushes.

“Because I saved you from the wrath of Karen?” I tease.

“How can someone so small be such a giant cunt?” he asks incredulously.

I chuckle shaking my head. “I’ll see you tonight. You take care of yourself.”

“You too, Nalani. Have a safe drive home,” he says earnestly.

I gather my things from my locker and head to my car. As I get in I breathe a sigh of relief that my workday is finally over. I know I signed up for thirteen-hour workdays, but that does not mean it’s not exhausting.

I eagerly drive home and as soon as I enter the door, I strip down, go to the bathroom, then toss on my nightshirt, and climb into bed, my feet throbbing and aching from being on them all day. I open up my laptop, hit ‘Continue Watching’ on Schitt’s Creek and snuggle up in my cosy, fluffy bed, ready to fall asleep to the sounds of the dramatic lives of the Rose’s.

As I relax and my eyelids start to feel heavy, I feel Ily jump onto the bed from wherever she was hiding and walk up to me, snuggling up in my arms. I wrap my arm around her and kiss her head.

“Thank you for always welcoming me home,” I say to her.

I think compared to most people I’m incredibly lucky and I value every opportunity I’ve been given, but it’s the nights as I fall asleep all alone, a world away from my family that the loneliness starts to creep in. I miss my family more than anything in this world, but I just keep reminding myself that I’m doing this for them. The aching back, the sore feet, the perverted colleagues; it’s all worth it if it means I can give my family a better life. My life isn’t perfect, but it’s still pretty damn good.