work-study program, but the job fair was held a week ago, and the positions are all filled, I’m afraid. As far as staying on campus? Most students in your position end up finding a job of some sort to pay their way.” She says this as if that much should be obvious.
I suppose this was explained to me, or to Mama, but I was so absorbed by Mama’s fight with cancer that I didn’t pay much attention. And I suppose it should have been obvious, but I’ve never had a job before. I have no clue how to go about finding one. I absently thank Anya Miller and leave the office of financial aid in a daze. I spend the rest of my time between classes that week asking around campus about work, but there are no openings. Even the laundry facilities are fully staffed. I receive an official letter from the university delineating how much scholarship money I have left, laying out the exact tuition, and how much I’ll have to pay every semester if I use my scholarship to pay half. It’s an extraordinary amount of money. I have thirty dollars to my name.
I start filling out application after application for nearby restaurants and bars, shops and stores and boutiques, No one is hiring. A week passes, and then two. I get a map of the L.A. bus routes and start filling out applications farther and farther afield from the university.
Maybe I’m not asking the right questions, or maybe all the jobs really are filled, but I have zero luck. I think have a lead on a job at a bar, but then the manager conducting the interview finds out I have no experience and that fizzles out. The end of the semester closes in. If I don’t come up with a job soon, I’ll have nowhere to live, and my reason for being in L.A.—my film degree—won’t happen.
I ride the bus line farther and farther away, asking anywhere and everywhere if they’re hiring. No one is.
And then I see a “NOW HIRING!” sign.
My stomach sinks when I see the name of the establishment: Exotic Nights Gentlemen’s Club. The hiring notice says, “ Now hiring exotic dancers. Inquire within for details. ”
I may be a naïve pastor’s-daughter and a hick from Macon, Georgia, but I know what a gentleman’s club is, what exotic dancing means.
I keep riding the bus. I stop in at a drive-through taco joint and ask about jobs, no luck. I even find a dance studio, do an audition and ask about working there but the owner just laughs.
Weeks pass. The end of the semester is drawing near. hiring notice haunts me. I dream about it. It’s work. It’s income. It’s the ability to stay on campus. But…it’s a gentleman’s club. A strip bar.
It means taking my clothes off in return for money. I get sick to my stomach just thinking about it. I’ve never even worn a bikini before. No one has seen my naked body since I started bathing myself at the age of nine. I can’t. I just can’t.
Can I?
I can’t ask Daddy for money. I can’t go back to Georgia.
I don’t sleep, can’t eat. I miss a class, and I fail a test. I receive an official notice that my dorm funding is gone. A week after that, I get the letter reiterating how much I’ll have to pay in tuition for the next semester, assuming a full-time class load of at least twelve credit hours. Books are extra.
I cry myself to sleep at night.
I put quarters into a battered, graffiti-covered payphone and dial Daddy’s number, listen to it ring once, twice. I hang up before it rings a third time.
Then, a break. I land a job as a hostess of an Italian restaurant. It’s a job, it’s work. I stay long enough to pull two full paychecks, and that’s enough to make me realize hostessing won’t even come close to paying tuition. I beg them to give me more hours, let me wait tables, anything, but the manager stonewalls me, pointing at my lack of experience. In a few months I might be able to start taking some tables, but not yet.
It’s not enough. I don’t have months; I need income now. I keep hostessing,
I suppose this was explained to me, or to Mama, but I was so absorbed by Mama’s fight with cancer that I didn’t pay much attention. And I suppose it should have been obvious, but I’ve never had a job before. I have no clue how to go about finding one. I absently thank Anya Miller and leave the office of financial aid in a daze. I spend the rest of my time between classes that week asking around campus about work, but there are no openings. Even the laundry facilities are fully staffed. I receive an official letter from the university delineating how much scholarship money I have left, laying out the exact tuition, and how much I’ll have to pay every semester if I use my scholarship to pay half. It’s an extraordinary amount of money. I have thirty dollars to my name.
I start filling out application after application for nearby restaurants and bars, shops and stores and boutiques, No one is hiring. A week passes, and then two. I get a map of the L.A. bus routes and start filling out applications farther and farther afield from the university.
Maybe I’m not asking the right questions, or maybe all the jobs really are filled, but I have zero luck. I think have a lead on a job at a bar, but then the manager conducting the interview finds out I have no experience and that fizzles out. The end of the semester closes in. If I don’t come up with a job soon, I’ll have nowhere to live, and my reason for being in L.A.—my film degree—won’t happen.
I ride the bus line farther and farther away, asking anywhere and everywhere if they’re hiring. No one is.
And then I see a “NOW HIRING!” sign.
My stomach sinks when I see the name of the establishment: Exotic Nights Gentlemen’s Club. The hiring notice says, “ Now hiring exotic dancers. Inquire within for details. ”
I may be a naïve pastor’s-daughter and a hick from Macon, Georgia, but I know what a gentleman’s club is, what exotic dancing means.
I keep riding the bus. I stop in at a drive-through taco joint and ask about jobs, no luck. I even find a dance studio, do an audition and ask about working there but the owner just laughs.
Weeks pass. The end of the semester is drawing near. hiring notice haunts me. I dream about it. It’s work. It’s income. It’s the ability to stay on campus. But…it’s a gentleman’s club. A strip bar.
It means taking my clothes off in return for money. I get sick to my stomach just thinking about it. I’ve never even worn a bikini before. No one has seen my naked body since I started bathing myself at the age of nine. I can’t. I just can’t.
Can I?
I can’t ask Daddy for money. I can’t go back to Georgia.
I don’t sleep, can’t eat. I miss a class, and I fail a test. I receive an official notice that my dorm funding is gone. A week after that, I get the letter reiterating how much I’ll have to pay in tuition for the next semester, assuming a full-time class load of at least twelve credit hours. Books are extra.
I cry myself to sleep at night.
I put quarters into a battered, graffiti-covered payphone and dial Daddy’s number, listen to it ring once, twice. I hang up before it rings a third time.
Then, a break. I land a job as a hostess of an Italian restaurant. It’s a job, it’s work. I stay long enough to pull two full paychecks, and that’s enough to make me realize hostessing won’t even come close to paying tuition. I beg them to give me more hours, let me wait tables, anything, but the manager stonewalls me, pointing at my lack of experience. In a few months I might be able to start taking some tables, but not yet.
It’s not enough. I don’t have months; I need income now. I keep hostessing,
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