So I’m sitting next to a guy named Flaco at one of three dive bars in Hell’s Kitchen managed by the guy who promised me a job.  The manager knows my husband and we’ve rented the stage at the back of the bar a few times to produce our monthly burlesque show.  Last night on the phone, he said “come in at 1.  I’ll hook you up.” Here I am, now at 2:15, still waiting, still not hooked up.  None of the staff seems to know where he is, so I hang until something indicates that I should do otherwise.  People get things by waiting, I have heard.

Flaco has two inverted front teeth, a thin, jersey shirt that makes him look slouchy and juvenile despite his obvious 50 plus years.  I think he is making fun of my beer.  As he should, because I am sipping an orange can of Porkslap, the bottom of the barrel, Pabst Blue Ribbon substitute (same price), my kitten heels tapping the bar.  The manager is late by almost an hour, and I don’t know how much longer I want to share my Village Voice with Flaco and his vague insults, as he sips a Budweiser and taps my drink with the neck of his bottle, repeating “no good, no good.”

This is the new frontier of job searching.  Or perhaps the old frontier, the one without craigslist, and minus reliable phone contact.  New to me, this hoofing from bar to bar, this waiting, instead of worrying if I’m the late one.  I kind of feel like I’m earning this potential gig, paying my dues, which is appropriate if I stand to make what I’ve been told.

“I made $300 yesterday,” claimed Tiffany, the girl in the Bikini serving scotch and sodas to a sleepy afternoon crowd at Bar #3.  Yes, I’m vying for a gig at a Bikini bar.  While this may not seem strange for someone who performs the funny/sexy striptease that is Burlesque, it is odd to me.  Me? In a bikini? In a bar? Up until about a year ago, I didn’t even like bars, that is until I got into hanging at lower key locations like the Freak Bar at Coney Island, and divier establishments with late-night bands or just amusing clientele.  Establishments that serve people like Flaco, for instance.

Which is why I think I’ll like this weirdo gig, besides the fantasy money, of course.  But first I need to find the manager.

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