11. Ambrose—present day
Ambrose—present day
I t’s frowned upon to drink on the job, and my probation officer and boss would no doubt be pissed, but who would really notice here anyway? Everyone acts like they’ve escaped either a circus or a mental institution.
Neon paint lights up the black room as much as the disco ball. Party girls in little more than underwear swing from the ceiling, suspended by ropes, while men prance around topless on moving floors.
Their costumes and makeup make me cringe. The painted-on scars on their torsos speak of made-up trauma. Mine are real and grab the attention of half of the women in this place each night. Their hands are always eager to be all over me, and I fucking hate it.
I hate the feel of sweaty palms running all over my skin.
I’m the only one who does, of course.
There is a reason this place is called The Funhouse.
So, I keep to myself, manning the busy bar, which is a feat in itself when I have no way of communicating outside of facial expressions and hand gestures.
Downing my whiskey, the amber liquid burns my throat but doesn’t drown my thoughts. Dollie. Rotating thoughts of her have clouded my mind all night.
Is she okay?
Did the local assholes enjoy her cupcakes?
Did they have too many opinions about them?
What is she doing right now?
Is Shane touching her?
It’s a struggle, but I divert my thoughts back to the bar, and with a raised brow, I ask the guy next in line what he wants. He chooses a liquor that’s green in color and tastes like poison.
I down a shot with him, praying the disgusting taste of this one will at least numb my emotions and the hint of loneliness I feel. It’s a cruel combination that makes me feel as bitter as the taste.
Roll on 2 a.m.
Six hours to go, and I can’t wait to get the fuck home, despite not being able to stay in the place only two hours ago.
I left early, taking the longest walk of my life down a dirt road to the remains of a destroyed playground. My boots are still damp at the toe from the puddle I stepped in while I let tarnished memories seep into my soul.
Pushing another glass into the green liquor dispenser, I down another shot. Spinning around, I find my boss staring at me with a penciled brow raised halfway to her hairline.
Fuck…
“Come with me. Now!” She—Valaria, my hopefully lenient boss—taps a coworker of mine on the shoulder and instructs him to take over the bar.
I don’t remember his name, but he knows mine because he gives me a look that tells me I’m done for before saying, “Good luck, La’Darragh.”
I don’t hear him with the music blasting, but I read his lips, which move in obvious ways, the words sliding around his chewing gum and into my view.
Squeezing through a sea of bodies, careful not to touch any of them, I catch up with Valaria in her office.
I can’t wait to fucking shower.
Squinting eyes question me from one side of her desk. My fingers trace the edges as I move to the other side and sit directly opposite her in the huge chair that swallows up her short body.
No fear shows in her irritated expression, which is good because I just want to be looked at like a normal fucking person, and so many people see me as a monster that I might as well have three heads.
I swipe a sheet of paper and a pen from her desk. Her eyes follow my squiggles as I write a quick message.
I’m sorry. It’s been a hard day.
“Am I meant to feel sorry for you? I have a bar to run.”
And I’ve been running it single-handedly all night. I’m not drunk, and you can deduct all three drinks from my paycheck.
“Three, huh? I only saw you drink two.”
I had three. Honesty should count for something.
“Let me ask you something, Ambrose.” Her pointy chin rests on clasped fingers. “Do you want this job?”
That’s a hard question. I want a job. This was the only place willing to give me a chance.
I can’t deny that I once had higher aspirations for myself.
But I’m aware that my past prevents me from reaching my dreams. I can settle.
It’s just difficult when half of the people in this place sneer at me the second alcohol hits their lips.
“I can understand why it’s difficult. I really can. Everyone is out there dressed like pretty jesters and freakishly hot clowns. Add that to the slander from the customers, and it’s a lot.”
A moment of weakness approaches, just a second, where my eyes drop to my outfit, to the fake blood on my hands, and open shirt. Unlike the others here, I don’t wear white face paint on Friday nights.
Circus Day is my least favorite day of the week.
“I know your history. I looked you up the second I interviewed you. I won’t drag up your past, but I will say that it was the reason I hesitated in giving you the job.”
So, it wasn’t the murder conviction, then. Good to know, I think to myself.
“If this place is too much, I need you to tell me.”
It isn’t. I’m fine.
“Would you prefer a costume change?”
My eyebrows dip in confusion because I don’t exactly wear the full attire. I wear half of it, and she’s never complained about that.
“For everyone else. Would you prefer we get rid of the circus theme? We can come up with something else.”
I don’t need a costume change. I’m not letting childhood fears dictate my adult life.
“So, what’s bothering you then?”
Nothing really.
The pen clangs as I drop it to the desk.
“Spit it out because nothing really means something is.”
An audible sigh leaves me, and I take a minute before picking the pen back up and writing another note.
I have family in town. My stepsister is back in the family home.
“Is her presence the reason for your drinking problem tonight?”
It’s the first time we’ve had any kind of contact since… I trail off.
“Since your parents. Right. Well, go home. Deal with your shit and come in tomorrow for a day shift. Everyone gets a second chance, but no more. You screw up again, and you’re out.” Valaria is out of her seat before I am.
I pen another message that I carry to the door with me to give to her.
Why did you even take a chance on someone like me?
She scrunches my list of messages and tosses it into the trash in the corner. “Like with the two chances, there are two reasons. One, you look the part. The scars are an attraction. I’m sorry, but that’s true.”
As she talks, my wavy hair falls into my face, and I look through it to see her.
“And two, I don’t know why you did what you did.
I don’t want to. But I know how I almost killed a man three years ago.
He attacked me here in this bar and broke into this office.
He held me down right there on the desk, and I knew if I hadn’t hurt him, he’d have hurt me.
I stabbed him in the throat with a pen.”
My eyes wander back to her desk.
“Don’t worry, not that pen. And I’m not saying our experiences are the same, but I know how hard it is to overcome trauma.
I think your parents would still be here if you didn’t have the childhood you did.
I know how fragile the mind is and how easy it is to break.
It’s a hard thing to learn to live with, memories that haunt you daily.
But I did it, and you’re trying to do the same.
I knew when I interviewed you that you were almost there.
Why push you backward when you can move forward here?
Here, where I needed staff. Two birds, one stone.
Now, go the fuck home, and don’t ever let me catch you drinking on the job again. You got it?”
My head bobs, grateful for the second chance as I slip out.