Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
Blake
The next evening, Ethan stopped by Blake’s apartment after his shift at the diner, still wearing his Heyday shirt. He dropped his backpack by the door, kicked off his shoes, and joined Blake on the couch, where takeout containers and a six-pack of beer were already waiting.
Over a dinner of kung pao chicken and egg rolls, Blake outlined his dream in broad strokes.
He shared his love of burlesque and showed Ethan video clips of the performers who’d inspired him.
Excitedly gesturing with his hands, he described the style of burlesque he envisioned for his club: high energy and gritty, dripping with raw masculinity.
Now, relaxed and comfortably buzzed from the beer, it was time to dig into the details.
“I didn’t realize the club had this much usable floor space,” Ethan said, sipping his beer and studying Blake’s rough sketch of The Firehouse.
Excited, Blake scooted closer to Ethan, until their hips touched. He pointed to the runway bisecting the club. “We could take out the runway and rebuild the stage to make room for more seating.”
Ethan pointed to the large room behind the stage, marked with DR on the map. “What’s this room used for?”
“That’s the dressing room. But I thought…” Blake shuffled through the stack of loose papers on the coffee table. He handed Ethan his rough sketch of the club’s second floor. “Here. Upstairs are these old dormitories that are just storage right now. One of them could be the dressing room.”
The coffee table was piled high with the record of Blake’s daydreaming. Along with his stuffed inspiration binder were notebooks with hastily scribbled ideas, pages torn from magazines, sketches of costumes, and swatches of fabric. It was a hopeful jumble of every idea he’d ever had for the club.
“If the stage ends here, we’d have plenty of room for general seating and a VIP area with its own private bar,” Blake said.
“You’ve been thinking about this for a long time.”
“I have.” Blake opened his sketch pad and walked Ethan through pages jam-packed with costume concepts and prop designs. Next to set lists of music were notes about choreography and staging. He might have to update some of the song choices, but he had years of musical numbers planned out.
Ethan flipped through the sketchbook, quietly studying every page. With his brow furrowed, he took a sip of beer and leaned back against the couch. “It’s impressive, but––”
Blake tried to conceal his wince at the word but. “You think it’s a silly idea.” He closed his sketch pad and set it on the coffee table.
“No, I don’t.” Ethan rubbed Blake’s thigh. “It’s just risky. Nightclubs are notoriously challenging businesses to make profitable. Most of them don’t make it past the first year.”
“The Firehouse already has loyal customers.”
“That’s true, but the type of entertainment you want to offer is different.”
“Not that different? It’s still sexy dancing.”
“Burlesque is more performance-oriented, though, right? Singing, dancing, suggesting rather than showing? It’s different from stripping. Some of the current customers will probably keep coming. But you may have to build a new clientele that likes burlesque.”
Blake opened his inspiration binder to the earliest pages, yellowed with time, which he’d written when he was a teenager.
“Ever since I was a kid, I’ve wanted to be a pop star. I know I’ll never be a Nick Jonas or a Taylor Swift, but…” He closed the binder. “This might be the only way for me to get close to that dream.”
Ethan gave Blake’s knee a squeeze. “I hear you. I really do. But it won’t be as easy as hanging up a new sign. You’ll need start-up capital for renovations and rebranding. There’s hiring and training dancers, overhead costs. A lot of moving parts.”
Blake hung his head. Every point Ethan raised made his plan seem more and more like a childish fantasy. “I get it. I don’t have any experience. I barely made it through high school. This club sounds like a crazy dream.”
Ethan leafed through the sketchbook a second time. Blake could see it in his face. Ethan wanted to be supportive, but he couldn’t see the vision yet.
Maybe he needs a little help with that.
After setting his beer on the table, Blake stood and offered his hand. “Come with me.”
Ethan put down his own bottle and took Blake’s hand. He stood, regarding Blake with curiosity.
“We’re going out.”
Ethan looked down at his coffee-stained Heyday T-shirt and faded jeans. “I just got back from work. I’m not really dressed for going out.”
“Where we’re going, it’s come-as-you-are.”
Ethan
Blake drove them to the Castro, tapping his hand on the steering wheel in time with the pop music on the radio. Every few minutes, he’d peek over at Ethan with a wide grin on his face.
He still hadn’t mentioned where they were going, and Ethan was getting antsy. It’s not that he didn’t like surprises – they were okay every once in a while. But if they were going to a place with a lot of people, he wanted to mentally prepare himself.
“Where exactly are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
The neighborhood’s sidewalks teemed with weekend revelers. Groups of twenty-somethings ducked in an out of noisy bars, chatting and laughing. Teens zoomed by on scooters and skateboards. A few couples strolled hand in hand, enjoying the mild evening.
“Are we going to a club?” Ethan asked.
“Kinda.” Blake pulled into a parking spot and cut the engine. “It’s just up the road.”
Ethan stepped onto the curb and scanned the block’s sleepy shop windows. There were no signs of a club nearby – no lights, or lines, or throbbing bass beats.
Blake came around the front of his car and wrapped his warm, strong fingers around Ethan’s hand. As they walked along the sidewalk holding hands, Ethan stood a little taller, his chin held high. It was the first time he’d held hands with a boy in the city’s largest gay neighborhood.
After passing a few storefronts, Blake stopped in front of a gift shop. “We’re here.”
Ethan cocked his head to the side, and peered into the shop. Beyond the thoughtfully designed window displays, the place was dark. “It’s closed.”
Smiling, Blake pointed out a street-level door to the left of the main display window.
On the sidewalk, a black A-frame sign advertised The Baritone Lounge.
The sign was so simple and unassuming, Ethan would’ve walked right past it, never noticing it.
It lent the establishment an air of unpretentious exclusivity: I don’t need to announce myself. If you know, you know.
The staircase behind the outer door was simple, but remarkably clean. It led up to a small lobby furnished with a vintage velvet couch and a rubber tree plant. Muted but upbeat piano music danced in the air around them.
Blake reached for the knob on the heavy oak door with its frosted glass inset. “Ready?”
When the door swung open, the piano music sprang to life, its cheerful melody rising above the background buzz of conversation and off-key singing. The Baritone Lounge had all the trappings of a sophisticated jazz club from a bygone era.
Although there were booths along one wall, most of the seating was more intimate – small tables with two or three chairs, each with a flickering candle inside an amber jar.
The bar itself was mahogany, polished to a mirror shine. Behind it, a stunning Art Deco sunburst in stained glass stretched across the back wall, its jewel-toned rays framed by glass shelves stocked with high-end liquor.
In the center of the club was a grand piano, bathed in soft light from a crystal chandelier.
The piano player, an older man with a bushy mustache and an easy smile, swayed and sang as he played.
Whenever someone dropped a dollar bill into the glass fishbowl perched on the piano’s lid, he winked and worked their name into the song lyrics.
Blake pointed to an empty table on the far side of the club. “Go grab that table, and I’ll get us some drinks.” He weaved through the maze of tables on his way to the bar, greeting and hugging men along the way.
Ethan slipped his hands into his pockets and kept his gaze locked on the free table as he walked through the club. A few men bowed their heads in greeting as he passed.
The crowd leaned older. Men with salt-and-pepper beards, crow’s feet, and round bellies sat in small groups, nursing martinis and fancy cocktails. They exuded the grace and quiet confidence of men who’d outgrown the party scene.
Despite Blake’s assurance that it was come-as-you-are, most of the guys were well-dressed, sporting sedate jackets and sleek loafers.
Ethan was happy he’d insisted on changing into one of Blake’s nicer Henleys.
Even though it was too big for him, it still looked better under his hoodie than his dirty diner shirt.
Blake dropped off their cocktails, licking some spilled whiskey off his thumb. “Drink up,” he said with a wink.
“What’s going on?” Ethan asked, but Blake was already on his way over to the piano player.
“Tony!” Blake called out, approaching the piano with his arms outstretched.
The piano player lifted off the bench and pulled Blake into a hug, patting his back. “Blake, my man, good seeing you!”
Their conversation continued in hushed tones. Although Ethan could see their lips moving, their words were swallowed up by the club’s ambient murmur.
Tony looked over at Ethan and smiled. He flipped through a book on the piano’s music rack and smoothed open its pages before cracking his knuckles and returning his hands to the keyboard.
Blake dropped a bill into the tip jar and stepped to the microphone stand near the piano.
Oh no, what in karaoke hell is happening?
The club fell silent, and Tony played a short intro, its layered melody immediately recognizable as “Both Sides Now.”