Chapter 4 – Pookie
CHAPTER FOUR
POOKIE
I should throw up. I need to throw up.
I stare straight into the camera lens as Jules instructed me, and it's an awkward affair. It's natural for my eyes to drift to the man behind the camera, or to Jules, who stands behind him, but every time I do, Jules snaps her fingers, guiding my eyes back to the mark.
"I'm going to need you to relax," Jules says with a huff. "We need to get you out to the crowd before showtime."
"Showtime?" I arch a brow, curious as to what she means. However, I think I have a pretty good idea based on everything I've been told. At this point, it wouldn't surprise me if the entire operation was a smokescreen for a whorehouse. "What's the point of this anyway?"
"It's a confessional," she says flatly.
"I'm aware," I snarl, matching her energy. "But what could I possibly have to talk about?"
She shrugs. "Some shows record the confessionals on the scene.
Others bring the talent back a few months after filming is complete.
It's easier and cheaper if we just do it on the spot.
It's also more authentic to capture your reactions in real time.
So, let me help guide you so we can get this show on the road.
Are you excited about your first night on the job? "
"I guess."
She wriggles her nose as if she smells something foul in the air. "That doesn't sound very enthusiastic."
"I thought you wanted authenticity. I'm sure the camera is picking up on my trembling limbs, and that microphone above my head probably hears the pitter-patter of my boots against the floor. I've never done this before."
"Do you know what the viewers will see when they notice you're nervous?" She steps around the cameraman and kneels in front of me. Soft hazel eyes peer up at me. "They'll see someone who has something to hide, so tell me, Paul..." She places her hand on my thigh. "What are you hiding?"
I squirm in my seat, fidgeting with my fingers. "I'm not hiding anything. I'm an open book."
She smiles as she rises to stand. "That's what I want to hear. So tell me again, are you excited about your first night on the job?"
I'm not one known for performing, but I spend all the energy I can to blurt out a response, "I'm so fucking excited."
She asks a few more leading questions. Nothing too crazy, but it feels weird talking about myself.
It's always been a firmly held belief of mine that you can't appear on a reality show without at least a little narcissism in your veins.
Either I'm a closeted narcissist, or I'm entirely out of my league. Time will tell.
She asks where I'm from, and I obfuscate the truth by just saying I'm from California.
She asks about my dating history, and I respond by saying I prefer to be single.
There isn't a chance in hell I'm handing her an abusive ex storyline on a silver platter.
She asks about my coming out experience, which seems both intrusive and presumptuous.
Look, I'm gay. Unfortunately. Based on my sordid dating history, I would not be attracted to men if I had any choice in the matter.
But this question was never asked of me.
Is it that obvious? I bite my lip and tell her that my coming out story is complicated.
It wasn't so much a story that was told.
It's a story that was ripped open with the flinging of a bedroom door that, in my horned-up state, I forgot to lock.
My mom found out that not only was I gay, but that I was a submissive bottom when she walked in on a man five years my senior plowing me from behind.
She closed the door and didn't dare breach the subject for another year. I was sixteen, by the way. Do the math.
Life back home in Cinder Row was a humid sweatbox of despair.
My sexuality was a problem too heavy for my mom to deal with, so she buried it deep beneath the dirt and sand in the wasteland of California's forgotten trailer park.
Secrets were a form of currency in a community that suffered under the constant weight of oppression.
When life was grim, the sordid lives of those around you proved your life wasn't as miserable as it could be.
The longer who I was remained hidden, the less of a threat it posed to the fragile facade she presented to the world.
Jules wraps up her questioning and ushers me out of the confessional room. She points down the hall. "Your destiny awaits, Pookie."
Destiny? I think about the weight of that word.
I was born into nothing, was told I'd always be nothing, and found a whole lot of all the things I was never supposed to have in the companionship of my ex.
The world was my oyster, and the only price I had to pay was bruised flesh. Over and over again.
Destiny.
What if this is my chance to right the wrongs of my past? What if walking out into that bar right now irrevocably changes my life for the better? What if it changes for the worse?
Destiny.
I whisper the word off my lips and swallow it whole, choking on it as I take my first step down the hallway.
The cameraman follows after me, filming my descent into the chaos.
As always, I've forgotten his name. I'm not good at remembering names.
I looked it up on Google once and diagnosed myself with a condition called face blindness.
If Brad Pitt swears he has it, then that's enough to convince me it's a real condition.
Seriously, I struggle with remembering names.
I've always been like this, for as long as I can remember anyway.
Back in school, it'd take me a full week or two to remember all my teachers' names.
People I've only met once, twice, or thrice? Forget about it.
The air thickens with every step I take down the hall, the thunderous echo of the crowd beyond the door ahead contouring around the back alleys of my mind.
In my short time as an adult, spanning a little over four years, I haven't been one for the bar scene.
That can mostly be chalked up to the fact that my ex would never allow it.
We lived a quiet life in dark dining rooms and private clubs.
We didn't dare mingle with those he said were commoners.
I pass the kitchen that's in the process of closing down for the night, and past the storage rooms and refrigerators where the liquor is stored. Up ahead is one final pink door. As I approach, I drop my head and inhale.
Destiny.
What the fuck am I doing?
I lift my head and the breathing techniques I learned from a TikTok video are doing jack shit to calm my quaking nerves. My nerves are on fire, my heart threatening to beat out of my chest. I wonder if the microphone strung around my neck is picking up my heartbeat.
I'm not ready for this.
I'll never be ready for this.
I place a hand on the door and push it open, the hooting and hollering of the boisterous crowd deafening me as if I've stepped into a wind tunnel.
The lights are bright, highlighting just how packed the bar is.
People—mostly gay men—are packed like sardines at a concert.
There are cameramen behind the bar and in front of it, with another few waiting up on the second-floor balcony that overlooks the dance floor.
Behind the bar, the boys are nowhere to be seen.
Instead, there are two women dressed in pink plaid shirts tied at the belly button, too-short denim shorts, and pink cowgirl boots.
I shuffle up to the girl closest to me. She wears sleek blonde hair, light and airy over her shoulders.
Her cheeks are chalky and pink, and her lips are painted a deep cherry red.
She spins in a quick circle, grabs a bottle of dark liquor off the shelf behind her, and turns back around to pour a line of four shots into boot-shaped shot glasses.
I make the mistake of nervously brushing up against her, and her eyes twist sideways with a glare as she collects a wad of cash from a tall, older gentleman.
"First time behind a bar?" she scowls.
"Yeah, actually it is." I shake my head and stumble over myself trying to get one word out, "No."
"Sure as shit looks like it." She flicks her hair behind her ear. "You must be the new guy."
"Paul—" I stammer, but immediately correct myself. "I'm Pookie."
She raises an inquisitive brow. "Gay or straight?"
A lump swells in my throat. I cock my gaze to the right, catching the lens of a camera pointed directly at my face. The girl gives her head a violent shake, gesturing for me to look away from the camera. "Gay, gay. Like really gay."
"Goddammit," she sneers. "Us ladies can't have anything nice."
"Sorry?" I say sheepishly, unsure if she's complimenting me. "What's your name?"
She sighs, not even attempting to mask her disdain. "I'm Tamra, and for the next fifteen minutes, this is my bar."
"Nice to meet you," I lie through my teeth, but it feels like the proper thing to do. I search the crowd with my eyes. "Where are the guys?"
She smirks sideways. "They're hiding."
"What the hell for?"
"Look, new guy, either get to work or get out of my way.
" She nudges past me, shuffling her body against mine, and leans over the bar to take another man's order.
I watch her as she works, chewing seductively into her bottom lip as she greets the customer wearing a crop top and shorts.
She knows that man is gay, right? She has to...
I roll my eyes and get as far away from her as humanly possible, making my way towards the other girl who is sun-kissed with deep freckles and dark copper hair with attentive emerald eyes.
She wears the same getup as Tamra, but it looks more authentic on her.
Like, Tamra is cosplaying as a cowgirl, but this girl is a cowgirl.
I make the second mistake of the night by stepping on the other girl's foot.
"Shitfuck," she shouts and jabs me in the stomach with her elbow. "Like hello to you too. Christ on a stick, I know I'm a but I'm not fucking invisible."