But movies never made you famous
All your dreams got lost or traded
An all you ever cared about got lost
But you were surely still an actress
Older men would find attractive
And all you ever dreamed about was the cost
Where there's gold, there's a gold digger
--Dashboard Confessional “Where There’s Gold”
“And then I am gone, oh oh, and then I am gone…” I finish the song with a long G chord, and the café is silent, drinking in the fierce combination of my powerhouse voice and the whisper of my guitar. Then applause breaks out, and I take my bow. The soft lights reflect off my dark hair, and I know I look like the star I’m meant to be. I raise my hands and take another bow, then walk off the stage, guitar still slung around my neck.
The moment my feet hit the ground though, the magic evaporates. And I’m just standing in a dimly lit room, just another amateur performer. No one special. I shift my guitar strap so that it stops digging into the skin exposed by tank top and make my way over to Jerry at the bar. By now we’re on a teasing, first name basis because I come in to play at open mic night every time. Once I clamor onto a stool, I drop the instrument on the ground and order my usual Sam Adams.
“You were great tonight, Kiran. Almost as good as Mariah,” he says and tosses me the icy bottle, which I snatch out of the air with one hand. Twisting the cap off, I take a couple of long swigs. The alcohol goes down smoothly, and only when I’ve taken another few gulps do I manage to choke out a retort.
“I can only hope my music is much deeper than her cheesy pop crap.” He laughs, and I slam my bottle down on the counter, the perspiration sliding down the side and pooling on the wood.
“Hey, you can’t say anything about cheesy pop crap. Remember ‘Walking in High Heels’?” I groan at the mention of my first and only baby-step into the acting business. Out of thousands of girls, my dark, pouty looks landed me the role of Brynn Landon’s best friend in the movie. Your classic chick flick, girl moons over guy even though she thinks he’d never notice her, so she gives herself a makeover and he does and everything turns out fine in the end. I thought I’d be eclipsed by Brynn’s already shining star, but I’d been wrong. For fifteen minutes, I was Hollywood’s it-girl. But then the Viper scandal happened, and I would’ve been lucky to get a part as an extra.
“Shut it, Jer. I’m tired and thirsty and I just needa chug this thing before I gotta go to work. Besides, you know that I can’t do any more cheesy pop crap or even dark, dramatic crap because Hollywood hates me. Remember?”
It was Hollywood slamming the door in my face that turned me to music. I began writing to let my feelings out, and the writings became songs once I bought a beat up guitar at a garage sale and lovingly restored. And now songwriting and performing are my only escape from the hell that I call my life.
“Right, I remember.” Jerry pulls out a towel and wipes up the small puddle of water that my beer has left on the bar. He’s avoiding the topic of my work, as usual. “Wanna leave your guitar here tonight again? So you don’t have to carry it?”
“Thanks again, Jerry,” I manage a wan smile and drain the beer, then put it back down. As he tosses the bottle in the recycling bin, I stoop and pick up my guitar again. “Should I just give it to Maria in coat check?”
“That’s fine. See you later, Kiran. And be careful.” He says the same thing every time, knowing that there is no way to be careful in what I do. I try, I really do. I always keep protection with me, and a few other things in my bag as well. I can only hope it’ll be enough. Giving him a final wave, I slide off my stool and cut through the crowded café as some Goth girl reads a poem about death. Maria stands at her normal spot, outside the closet they claim is coat check, but is really an empty room lined with shelves.
“Hey Maria! Can I drop off my guitar and pick up my bag?” She hmphs and shifts her curvy body to one side, so I can slip into the room and grab my stuff. Lovingly setting down my guitar in a far corner, I dig through the pile of patrons’ belongings until I find my black backpack buried under a white messenger bag with Marilyn Monroe’s face silk-screened across it. The neon colors burn my eyes as I pull one of the straps hard, until it pops out from under the mess and everything collapses to fill in the hole my bag had left. Just like it’d been for me.
Pulling my wallet out of the bag, I take the last few dollar bills and divide them between Maria and Jerry. They nod gratefully, and I duck out into the inky black night. The latest in trashy rap pours out of a car window, and its steady beat and inappropriate lyrics resound throughout the many alleyways of New York City. Shadows dance on the walls in the flickering lights of dying neon signs in store windows.
This part of the city isn’t featured in all those brochures, this decrepit and desolate part. Here, streets are lined with graffitied apartment building, faded designs and drips running down the sides. Over there is a deli, on that side there’s four strip clubs, all in a row. I stare at them with an aching longing, jealous of the girls inside. Because their work is so much easier than mine. The money isn’t great, but they can go home every night and not be afraid of tomorrow. They don’t have to sign confidentiality agreements and pretend not to know the faces that stare at them hungrily. Pretend like everything is okay.
Wrapping my arms around myself, I briskly walk through the streets, glancing around every now and then to make sure no one’s following. I repeat the address over and over in my head to make sure I don’t forget it and quicken my pace. I’m supposed to be there and changed by the time he gets there. Apartment 11F, 1289 Lynch Street. Apartment 11F, 1289 Lynch Street. I turn a corner, and then the building is right in front of me. It’s not as crappy as the other buildings, and is nice enough to have a doorman, if a lazy, fat doorman.
“Name, miss? Who you here for?” He says, eyeing me in a way that can’t be misinterpreted. And I’m not even wearing my uniform.
“Lena Davies. And I’m here for John Drake.” I use my false name, plus my client’s false name. This is a business where real names are rarely used, and everything is conducted in secret, away from the harsh lights of reality.
“Lena Davies for John Drake…” the doorman runs his finger down a pad he pulls from his pocket, and then jabs it with his finger. “Ah, you’re right here. He went out but he said to let you up once you came. And if you have any time after, I’ll be here.” He winks at me, and I shudder in disgust as I pull open the door and step into the lobby.
Inside it’s barely lighter than outside, the light bulbs in sconces on the wall are moments away from burning out. My plain black pumps click on what was once a grand marble floor, and the eerie silence betrays the fact that once there was music and life in here. The elevator button lights up and the doors slide open with a creak. I step in, thankful for the slightly brighter light, and press the button that reads 11 in glowing numbers. With a shudder, it begins to move.
The ride up is silent, save for the rattling and groaning of the elevator itself. It makes me feel like it could break at any moment, and I could plummet to my death. Not that it would be a bad thing, given the circumstances. I watch the floors flick by on the monitor, each one bringing me closer and closer to work. Or hell, whichever you want to call it.
Once the doors open again, I step out and into the hallway, which is just as dreary as the lobby. It has faded blue carpets; the golden design there that was once shiny is now as dull as dirt. The walls are cream colored, they’re streaked with mud and who knows what. Behind closed doors, I hear moans and groans, of people or animals or something else I can’t tell.
The brass number on apartment 11F sparkles in the low light; it feels like it’s taunting me. Pushing gently on the door, I find that it’s open, and the inside is clean, albeit bare. It’s obvious this space has one purpose and one purpose only. Living isn’t one of them. The bed is clean and made, the plain white sheets almost glowing in the dark. There’s a tiny bathroom and kitchen area, and that’s it.
I drop my backpack on the bed and inhale the scent of clean sheets while it lasts. By the time I leave the sheets will be sticky and wet with sweat, and smell like it too. With a sigh, I reach in and pull out my outfit and wince. It’s a typical outfit, and a lot tamer than plenty of other girls, but still does its part in booking me jobs. The white, lacy and short leaves an inch of flat stomach between it and my thong, also white, lacy and tiny. Then come the white platform heels and white fishnets, and I’m dressed. I always try to pretend that I’m in a bikini and going on a well-deserved vacation somewhere warm, but it doesn’t work too well. As I’m stashing my bag beneath the bed, now stuffed with my street clothes, a sliver of light opens into the room, and then he’s there.
“John Drake” stands in the doorway, his silhouette illuminated with the flickering hall lights. He’s tall and muscular, and as I come close I can tell he’s pretty handsome. For a guy who looks to be about forty-odd years old. He steps into the room and tosses off his suit jacket, it lands in a crumpled heap on the floor. His eyes sweep over me, standing there, and a smile breaks out across his face.
“Now this is what I’m talking about. That photo didn’t do you any justice.” He sidles over and puts an arm around my shoulder, half-copping a feel in the process. I want to scream, but I force myself to stay stiff and silent. “Come on over here and sit down. Let’s talk price.” He pulls me onto the bed and sits next to me, his arm still casually draped around me. “A thousand an hour you said?”
“Two thousand, actually,” I manage to say, thinking of the money and only the money. It’s the one good thing that comes out of this torture.
“I guess you gotta pay for the good ones. Now come on babygirl, gimme a little show.” I know what he wants me to do, but I freeze the moment he calls me babygirl. The last person who called me babygirl was the one who ruined my life. Memories I’ve kept hidden for months come flying back to me in a swarm no matter how hard I fight to keep them away. The Viper. One of the many parties I’d been invited to in L.A., one of the many clubs I’d been to. The room rank with sweat, foggy with drinks, filled with laughter and love.
He was there, the guy I’d been crushing on for years, before I became famous. The guy every teenaged girl had on her wall, and kissed every night before bed. But he’d been there with his girlfriend, Brynn. We’d been there in a group together, talking and drinking and laughing. He’d slipped away for a drink; I’d wandered off to make a phone call in the alleyway behind the club.
In the dark I didn’t see him coming, didn’t notice the dark shadow creeping up behind me. But when he took the phone out of my hand, whirled me around and kissed me, I didn’t resist. But when I realized he wanted more, I tried to fight him off. He had half my clothes off, and I was kicking and trying to scream while he covered my mouth with his hand and whispered things to me in low tones.
“Babygirl, it’ll be alright. You’re just so hot…”
He promised me that if I stopped fighting, it would all be okay. If I let him do what he wanted, he’d let me go and we could pretend it never happened. But then the door opened, and I knew my life was over. Because Brynn was standing there, watching her boyfriend try to rape me and not knowing it he was forcing me and not me going along with him.
“Kiran? How could you do this to me???” Her eyes blazed with fire and hate, and she lay all the blame on me in eight little words.
“But, I didn’t…”
“Brynn, babygirl, I’m sorry! I was drunk and she just came onto me! Don’t listen to her!” He pushed me away from him and I fell sprawling on the ground. The name he called me to quiet me down was now used on Brynn as well, but with a different tone. His tone to me was cajoling and taunting, to her it’s just like a gentle caress.
“Brynn don’t listen to him! He tried to r…” But as I tried to form the word, Brynn kicked me with her stiletto and spoke, her words razor sharp in the still night air.
“Get out of my face you boyfriend-nabbing slut. And if you ever show your face in this town again, I swear to God I will make sure it’s the last thing you do!” Sobbing, it was all I could do to stand up, get back home, pack my things, and book the next flight to my home-city: NYC. That one night, one mistake, had landed me here, doing exactly what got me into trouble in the first place.
“Babygirl? I’m waiting.” I’m broken out of my reverie by John, still lying there impatiently and watching me with hungry eyes. I stare back at him. All of the sudden, I realize how wrong this is. I realize that I’m better than this; I don’t have to do this to earn enough for a lame-ass apartment over a deli. I can go back to Hollywood if I want, or I could even sing. I could pull through. One bad night doesn’t need to change my life. It’s like an epiphany.
“No?” It comes out a question, before my mind can stop my mouth. Then I realize how sweet the word tastes, having not said it for almost a year. “No!”
“What the hell?” John is incredulous. He comes towards me, an arm outstretched. He grabs my wrist, tries to pull me towards the bed, but I laugh. I laugh like a crazy person and pull away, dance away.
“No! I won’t!” I sound like a kid, but I couldn’t care less. I feel like a huge weight has been lifted from my chest, like I could just soar.
“I’m paying two thousand bucks an hour for you, and I will get what I paid for!” He tries to grab me again, but his arms close over air as I duck down and grab my backpack.
“Keep your whore money! I’m not a whore!” I’m laughing still, hysterically, madly laughing. The look on his face is just so funny, I can’t help it.
“Then get out of here you crazy bitch!” He tries to punch me or hit me or something, but I won’t let him. I kick him where it hurts and laugh some more.
“Don’t worry, I’m gone!” While he’s still rolling on the floor, I throw open the door and race out of the room. I take the steps down, running down flight after flight as my head clears. The doorman tries to catch me as well as I dash past him, but I don’t stop moving my feet until I’m two blocks over.
Collapsing on a bench, I suck in deep breaths of air. Some people look at me strangely; a few guys and one girl try to offer me money to do what I just ran away from. But I turn them down. I turn them all down. To keep other people from asking, I pull my long tank top over my uniform, then settle back down on the bench.
My head is clear. Clearer than it’s been ever since I got kicked out of Hollywood. As I sit there, trying to figure out what to do, a melody begins to run through my head. I follow it silently, put words to the melody. And then I pull out my songwriting notebook and put the words to paper. And when they’re done, I sing them to myself. It may not be to a crowd, and there may not be a round of applause when I’m done, but it’s enough.
“I’m leaving it all behind
No longer out of my mind
And I’m ready
Finally ready
To go home”