Chapter three: Desperate times, desperate measures

Trigger warnings for those who need them

substance abuse,

I take the long route. Avoiding as many ladders as I can while making my way to a run-down pawn shop with a box under my arm.
Theaters will have some costumes made special for a character but wigs and make-up are up to the performers to have and manage. It’s a hygiene thing. But wigs aren’t cheap. A good wig needs to be handmade by capable craftspeople and will set you back at least fifty coppers if not more. They’re the biggest expense to a performer and a sign of status even. So I must be able to fetch a tidy sum for this.

“No thanks.”
I blink at the pawnshop dealer in disbelief “Are you kidding? This is a theater wig, it’s handmade, it’s- “
“It’s brown.” The man shrugs and pulls up his nose. “Brown is out of fashion. The wig-weirdoes are into blonde now. I can’t sell this.”
He takes a drag of his pipe and turns his head away to exhale.
But my own hair is blonde! Why would I own blonde wigs, you imbecile!? I want to shout at him but bite my lip instead and wait to collect my calm voice. “Look Sunny, all I need is ten coppers. You know that’s nothing for a wig and I’d be very grateful-“
The old fucker rolls his eyes at me and smacks his lips. “This is a store Valentine, not a charity-“
“Okay, fine!” I bite. Then take a moment to think. “How about you take this cig tin?” I ask him pulling it from my pocket. “It’s nearly brand new. That’s gotta be at least fifteen coppers right?”
His eyes narrow “More like five, take it or leave it.”
Fucking vulture.
But at least it’s something.
“Deal.” I concede.
He lifts the tin from my hands and slaps open the till with a smirk on his face. “There you go, have a nice day.” he beams at me as he hands over the money.
He could at least have the decency try to sound less happy about ripping me off.
“Yeah whatever.” I tell him.
The money feels sticky and cold.
But I guess that’s half the rent sorted.
Only five coppers left to go.

Maybe I can drop the wig off elsewhere? I think as I drag myself down the road sucking up my last cig.
But then I pass the tunnel that connects the North-side to the South.
‘there’s always Barlymoore’s.’ The voice of that pretty lady back at Tripsies shoots through my mind.
The idea makes me sick to my stomach.
I’ve never even been to Barlymoore’s as a customer, never mind an entertainer.
But desperate times ask for desperate measures, I guess.
At least I can still dance.
I’ll just ask for the fee to be deducted from my earnings, and once these worms see me dance they’ll finally know what true art looks like.
I’m doing them a favour really.
I approach carefully. Trying to looks nonchalantly at the posters lining the wall while two guys in work-clothes smoke down their cigarettes.
Long-faded posters are only half covered by bright new ones showing off the assortment of acts on display.
Will I end up on one of these when I get hired?
I’ve been on posters before of course, and when it’s Magnolia’s company logo on the right bottom of the poster it’s an honour but…
What if Donna or Tonya were to pass through this tunnel and spot me amid the sea of advertisements?
“I’m heading off, enjoy the rest.” I overhear one smoker tell his friend.
“Get home safe.”
“Thanks.”
I avert my face as the man passes me by. Then wait a bit longer as the other goes into the building again.
I collect my courage, step over to the door and knock.
A little flap opens up and the voice beyond it screeches “Ticket!” in an unpleasant cadence.
“I’m here for a job actually.”
“Applications are done Friday morning at eight.”
“Seriously?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
“But I need the money now, please miss, I’m about to lose the roof above my head.”
“Ticket or piss off.” The woman sneers before dragging on her pipe and sending the smoke down the hatch.
Then it shuts with a clank.
Harpy.
I look at the box under my arm.
I guess it’s back to trying to sell you off again.

Unsuccessfully.
I’m pretty sure this wig is cursed. Part of me just wants to throw it away, be rid of this extra weight after dragging it with me for hours on end.
But I won’t, of course I won’t.
Maybe the wig-weirdos are into brown next week.
I slink back to my room in the depth of night, praying to the Good one that Benji’s already off to bed.
Just give me a couple more days this one time and I’ll go to mass like a good boy next time. I pray to the good one as I twist the key and swing the window back.
Pretty plea-
“Hey, you’re back late.” Benji tells me nonchalantly from the comfort of his sofa.
Fuck. Did that bastard even move since yesterday!?
“H-hey Benji.”
“I want my rent Valentine.”
“I sold my cig tin today but I only got five, and I’m going to Barlymoore’s on Friday but they don’t do auditions till then.”
“Uhu.”
“Look I really tried! I know, I said I’d pay today but I didn’t know that I’d have to wait to audition and-“
My landlord sighs. “Fine, just pay twenty at the end of this week.”
“Really!? Thank you! Thank you so much, I -“ My hands are trembling, my voice shivering.
“I’m going to bed now.” Benji gets up.
“Right, good night.”

I return to the tunnel three days later.
Wearing the brown wig and hoping not to run into anyone who recognize me.
There’s a line going all the way up to the street. All desperate losers who have nowhere else to go.
I want to regards them with pity and move on.
But instead I queue up at the end of it with lead in my shoes.
And wait.
I expected the line to take longer than it did. There were a lot of people queued up but it only took about fifteen minutes for the whole thing to dissipate.
I walk through the door.
That same woman from before is sitting behind a little desk.
“What’s your talent?” The woman asks in a disinterested grate.
“I’m a ballet dancer.”
“We already have a ballet dancer.” She takes a drag from her cigarette. “Next”
“Already have one?” Who? Oh! “That’d be Otto right? Look, I’m leagues better than that guy. I’m a li- used to be a liadro I’m-“
The woman raises her finger at me to shut me up. “The customers like Otto. I don’t need two ballet dancers.”
“But-“
“Next!”
“At least let me dance. If you’ve seen me dance you’ll change your tune I-“
A pair of heavy hands comes down on my shoulders. “When the lady says next, that means you leave.” The man’s voice is big, low and doesn’t take no for an answer.
I suck my teeth, “Fine, but you’re missing out!”
“Uhu.” The man responds sounding less that impressed.
Jerk.
So that’s it right?
Three coppers in my pocket, already slinking with the cost of living in this godforsaken city and no job to make that number go up.
I need a cig.
I’ll lose my house one way or another.
Might as well dull one pain before enduring the next.

The road to the cul de sac feels all the longer with the aching in my leg. It’s not a sharp pain, just a dull drone. Whining and complaining and never allowing me to forget it’s there.
And it’s exhausting.
Almost there. I tell myself.
Maybe I can even play my cards right? Buy the cigs on credits and still have money for food.
“Hey.” I tell my dealer.
“Hey.”
“Can I maybe have some cigs and pay after?” I try.
The man doesn’t even sound surprised by the request, merely asking, “How many do you need?”
“Oh, I need like…five cigs and-“ I chuckle to myself.
The guy raises an eyebrow at me.
“A job, I need a job. Five cigs and a job please.” I laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, even though I want to just crumble down and cry. The guy just looks at me blankly. “If you need a job, you need to talk to Theresa.”
My strained laugh turns to a cough, then dead seriousness. “You have jobs?”
My dealer shrugs. “I mean, it’s not legal.”
I huff. “I don’t care. I just need money to pay for a roof over my head and get high some more.”
The man hums in understanding. “Then you’re at the right place. Follow me.”

The guy leads me down some alleys and doors I didn’t know could actually open without keys and then I’m in a bar that smells of whiskey and smoke. My dealer puts a hand on my shoulder and points into the crowd. “She’s in the back. If she likes you, tell her Raoul sent you.”
“Your name is Raoul?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Valentine, it’s funny you’ve been my dealer for forever but I never thought to ask your name.”
He huffs, apparently unimpressed by the irony and walks away unceremoniously.
Oh but my cigs-
Fuck.
Well, I guess I’m doing this instead.

The woman at the end of the room is wrapped in pearls and draped in precious stones and gold. Her hair is black and captured in countless thin braids that flow from her shoulders and end in yet more gold.
Two men in similar finery are waiting on her hand and foot, handing her drinks and lighting her amber, cigarette holder.
Upon seeing me, she pulls the lavish pipe from her mouth and asks. “Who are you?”
“I need a job, Raoul sent me.”
She hands the pipe off to her manservant. “Got any skills?”
“I’m a ballet dancer.”
“Got any useful skills?” She specifies.
Dancing isn’t useless! I mean- “I’m light footed.” I try, ignoring the eyes that stare at me from all the corners of the room.
“Know how to pick a lock?”
“No.”
“Then all I can really use you for is as a courier.”
My ears turn red. The eyes are laughing at me, I just know it. I ball my fist and push down my pride. “Sure.”
“Be here at three a.m.. Don’t be late.”
“Three a.m.!?”
“Did I stutter?” A smile curls around the woman’s lips.
This is a test. It has to be. “No ma’am-“
“Call me Theresa.”
“No, Theresa.”
“Good.” And with that she pops the cigarette holder back into her mouth and that’s that.
I guess I have a job now?