Chapter 3 – Pookie
CHAPTER THREE
POOKIE
By the time I arrive at Mr. Pinks the next day, the excitement of finding a job has worn off.
It's been replaced with a dread in the pit of my stomach.
I wonder if this is what a walnut feels like.
My nerves are frayed, and I find myself completely out of my league.
A job as a bartender is already well out of my wheelhouse, and that same job with fucking cameras? Fucking reality TV...
I'm not exciting enough for this shit.
"Fake it till you make it," I whispered to myself in the windowed reflection of a financial firm on my way over.
My stomach was already nauseated when I passed the same homeless man sleeping next to a fresh puddle of piss.
I almost threw up on the poor man. I'm sure the cameras would have loved to pick something like that up.
The signage above the blacked-out windows at the front of the building is switched off.
Instead of a neon pink, it's a muted pink with visible wiring inside the letters that spell out Mr. Pinks.I make my way down a narrow side alley to the back entrance.
There's a decent-sized patio back here, with pink couches and tables parked beneath closed pink umbrellas.
The back door erupts outward, screaming on its hinges.
"You must be Pookie," a man says flatly, his face equally dry. His hair is darker with shades of dirty blonde highlights separated about an inch from his dark roots. He drops a hand on my shoulder and guides me inside. "You're late."
I raise my phone just enough to catch the time. "Actually, I'm right on time."
He comes to an abrupt stop and turns to face me fully with a frown. "This is showbiz. The definition of being on time is being an hour or two early." He glances up and down, sizing me up. "You're a fucking mess, and we have our work cut out for us."
"Thanks," I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Are you like... in charge or something?"
"We run a tight ship around here. So all you need to know is that I'm an executive producer for this dumpster fire.
" He grabs my hand and shakes it quickly before retreating.
"I'm Talon, by the way. But you can just call me—" He cuts himself off.
"Just fucking call me Talon. Don't make things weird. "
If neurotic were a person, it'd be this nitro espresso on wheels standing in front of me: on edge and reeking of cigarette smoke. The type of guy to burn out by age forty, tired by the unnecessary energy he spends in his youth worrying about things he can't control.
"Okay, Talon," I say, coming to a stop next to a pink—what other color is there—door.
"I appreciate the enthusiasm, but can we please slow this horse race to a crawl?
" I scratch the side of my head, digging at the skin beneath my hair.
My nerves are on fire. "For example, can we just begin with pleasantries and then tell me what the hell it is I'm supposed to be doing because, if I'm being honest, I'm lost as hell. "
He rolls his eyes and opens the pink door beside us, leading into a gaudy dressing room with padded pink walls and brass edges.
A long mirror covers the far wall with bright lights aimed from the ceiling.
There are eight stations in front of the mirror, each looking as if a tornado has recently passed through.
I spy with my little eyes: hair spray, water bottles, crushed beer cans, empty liquor bottles, scattered makeup, stained socks, towels, and a box of Magnum condoms. Beside six of the chairs are matching pink cowboy boots, each branded with the same names as the backplates on each of the chairs—Maverick, Boone, Dixon, Gunnar, Kolter, and Braxton.
Talon snaps his fingers in my face. "Where are your clothes?"
I drop my eyes to the wrinkled white shirt and gray sweats I'm wearing.
"You can't be bloody serious," he exclaims. "I'm not British, by the way.
I'm just trying this new thing where I'm not cursing so much when I get overwhelmed.
" He huffs and disappears into a suite on the right side of the room.
A moment later, he rolls out a mobile closet and leans against it.
"The only time you wear white here is during the wet underwear contests—"
"The what?" I squawk, eyes narrowing on him. "Is this a bar or a strip joint?"
He drags a long inhale until he's spent. "You have no idea what you've walked into, do you? Just pick something from this rack that fits."
I let out a sigh as I peruse the selection of jeans and find a pair that'll fit.
I sling them over my shoulder and flip to the backside of the rack where there isn't a single shirt to be found.
There are a few pink vests, but they're far too big for my slender frame.
I grab one of many brown belts, and beside them, there's a selection of pink jocks, thongs, and briefs—all with the tags, so at least they're brand new. Thankfully, I won't be needing those.
"There are no shirts."
"Oh." His eyes widen. "What an astute observation.
" He mutters something else under his breath as he shoves the cart back into the other room and comes back to me with his hand on his hip.
"Mr. Pink thinks this is his show, and he's half-right.
However, he doesn't have his finger on the pulse of reality TV.
He swears he sees something in you and swears even more so that you're a perfect fit for the job, but he and I do not share the same sentiments. "
Curiosity wins. "What does he see in me?"
He stares at me. "He thinks you're desperate, and hey, I've seen enough Housewives to know desperation can be the key to high ratings. Just the same, it can light an entire production on fire with inauthenticity that will have viewers tuning out faster than a Kid Rock concert."
My mind is stuck on the first sentence.
"He said I was desperate?" I scowl. Sure, he's right. I'm as desperate as one could possibly be, but how the hell does he know that?
"He says a lot of things. It's best if you listen to him when you really need to and brush the things you don't need to listen to aside. He's one of those old, eccentric gays. One of the ancient ones who lived through all the trauma that predated our somewhat comfortable existence."
"Like the AIDS pandemic?"
"And the riots. Police brutality and all that shit.
The reason you can go inside this establishment and dance half-naked on the bar is because of people like him.
Still, he has a... how shall I say this...
propensity to say some outlandish shit. It's best to just brush those remarks off.
Us young folk..." he gestures in my direction, "well, you know we have to break our backs keeping our mouths shut. "
"How old are you?"
"A lady never reveals her age," he stammers with a forced inhale, and then quickly corrects himself with a smile.
"I'm twenty-six. Yes, I know I look great for my age.
Yes, I know I'm more accomplished than most twice my age.
Yes, I know you're thinking I've lost my goddamn mind.
Yes, you're right. I lost it about..." he raises his wrist to the air, checking a non-existent watch...
"Ten minutes ago when you showed up late. "
"I wasn't late," I grumble.
He ignores my protestation and pulls at the waistband of my jeans, taking a peek. "Well, at least you got the pink underwear memo."
"I see the lack of personal boundaries is contagious around here."
"If you're looking for a safe space, I suggest you walk out now and come back as a patron. This isn't daycare. This is show business, and whatever boundaries you think you have? They will be crashed, wrecked, stomped, smashed, slammed, and every other word that ends with -ed that you can think of."
"Are you saying you don't have boundaries?"
"I'm saying you're a show pony. You're going to be ridden until your hooves fall off, which sounds borderline awful.
However, if you ride that horse right, your life is going to change forever.
" He rips open a closet behind us and grabs a box of electronics.
He carries it over to an empty station in front of the mirror and drops it on the counter.
"As for my boundaries, they're pretty simple.
Don't make my life more difficult than it needs to be.
Show up on time. Don't hold anything back, and if you get an inkling in that flat-toned belly of yours that a scene is boring, do something to fix it. "
I cock a brow. "Like start a fight?"
"Maybe you're not so boring after all."
I kick off my shoes and climb out of my sweats, standing before Mr. No Boundaries in my stolen pink briefs. "Who said I was boring?"
"I plead the fifth."
I grab the jeans off my shoulder and pull them over my legs, leaving them unbuttoned for now. "Pleading the fifth is usually called upon to protect yourself from liability."
He passes me a knowing wink. "Exactly."
I don't know if it's because all I've had is a bagel this morning, but I feel the familiar feeling of aggravation creeping up my esophagus.
I grit my teeth and pull the belt through the loops of my jeans as Talon grabs a small black box from the cardboard box and steps back to me, circling around my back.
He clips the box onto the back of my belt.
"Raise your arms," he groans, and I do as instructed. He pulls my shirt over my head and disposes of it on the counter. "This is your mic pack. This stays turned on at all times."
Good thing I don't even know how to turn it off, or on for that matter.