The longer we live together, the more I learn about her. The biggest thing that surprised me was how old she is. I’d assumed she was a lot younger than me, but I was shocked to find out she’s actually thirty years old—five years my senior. She doesn’t look a day over twenty-two, but who knows if that could be because of good genes or a good doctor. One major thing I have noticed is that she is a bit of a slob. Most days I end up spending a few hours cleaning up the place after she wakes up at the crack of noon. Ricca works six nights a week at a local bar, so I get evenings to myself watching television.
The only bad part about being her roommate is that she comes home nearly every night drunk as shit and passes out wherever she lands in the house. I have no clue how she can live like that night after night, but every single morning she wakes up perky and ready to take on the day. The few times I’ve drank in my life I was so sick that I vowed off drinking for months. I sure as shit never woke up blissfully happy after an appearance by Jack Daniels; that bastard ruins everything. I’m grateful that Ricca at least has a steady boyfriend so I don’t have to deal with the walk of shame from some random guy she picked up at work the night before. I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Enrico yet, but she thinks I’ll like him. Yeah, we’ll see about that.
Tonight’s her night off and, as usual, she’s back on my case about applying for a waitress position at the bar with her. She started on this topic the second day I was living here. It’s not that I don’t want to work with her, but it’s the exposure I’ll get working in a bar. I really don’t want to work in a public place but after six days of California living, I’m down to $200 after going ahead and paying next month’s rent. The bar is the only job that I’ve been close to finding that will pay me under the table, other than topless house cleaning, and that’s a fuck no in my book.
“Come on, Dani,” Ricca pleas. “Just come with me! I promise it will be fun! We can even ask my boss if he has a job for you. He won’t be able to say no once he sees your sexy ass. I bet he'll drop to his knees and beg you to come work at the bar.” Rolling my eyes at her, she crosses her arms and tries to give me the sad puppy eyes. Like that will work.
“I said no, Ricca. Bars aren’t my scene. Why the fuck would a bar called Red Rockets be the kind of place I would want to work? It sounds like a fucking strip club,” I yell from the kitchen. No way in holy hell am I going to work there, let alone drink there. I’ve noticed she isn’t one for giving up her arguments and frankly, running this low on cash is starting to cloud my decision-making process. There’s no mistaking that I am strapped for cash and nearing the point of desperation, but I’m not that desperate to work in a shitty bar.
“Dani, you need a job and Red’s offering to give you a shot plus pay you under the table. What's the harm in coming in with me on my day off and just checking the place out?” Ricca stands her ground as I try to bypass her in the kitchen door.
“Let me by, Ricca. I’m not going!” She doesn’t budge. God dammit! “Move, Ricca, or I’ll move you.” Her eyes narrow and she plants her feet against each side of the door frame.
“Admit it, you’re curious, Dani. It’s just one night out. Stop being such a fucking baby and just come with me. I’ll get you all dolled up to make Red and all the boys in the bar purr and we’ll have fun! You do know what fun is, right?” I forcibly shove against her blockading body again. She’s keeping me from the couch and the DVD I picked from her collection—I’ve seen Hunger Games before, but it’s the only good movie she has that isn’t porn or a cheesy B-grade slasher movie. Yet, Ricca isn’t moving. I really don’t want to give up trying to get out of this, but she’s bound and determined my mac n’ cheese date with Peeta and Gale is going to be cancelled.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Ricca. If it lets me out of this kitchen, fine! I’ll go.” She jumps up and down screaming before bolting down the hall into her room, no doubt picking out the skankiest clothes she owns. “But, I will not go looking like a hooker!” I scream down the hall at her. What the hell did I just agree to? I guess the worst that could happen is that I find a shitty job and get felt up by low-life drunks. Oh, that’s not bad at all, I think sarcastically. Just as I sit down to take a bite of the gooey delicious mac n’ cheese I made during Ricca’s staged protest, she walks in the room and jerks the spoon out of my hand.
“No time to eat! It’s time to get you looking bootylicious!” she shrieks. Fuck my life.
Three hours later, I emerge from Ricca’s room painted and stuffed into a flimsy silver and black mini dress that barely covers my ass. I feel so uncomfortable in this outfit, but she got pissed at me earlier for saying I should just go naked because what she forced me into couldn’t be classified as clothes by their lack of coverage so I have to deal with the outfit she gave me. My hair was another battle with her since I wanted to leave it down, but the fashion police vetoed that idea. Instead, she braided my long, unruly hair into a side braid that ends over my left shoulder. After declaring me fit for public display, Ricca shoves me in front of the full-length mirror in our shared bathroom and I barely recognize myself. The makeup on my face highlights the olive undertones of my skin and accentuates my deep brown eyes. Since Ricca and I are so different complexion wise, she could only plaster my skin with a Cher amount of silvery glitter eye shadow and lipstick. I look like a cross between a stage-ready drag queen and a clown, but I can’t tell Ricca that without hurting her feelings. At least she was right about the dress; it does hug my curves tightly while accentuating my chest. My boobs are pushed up so high I feel like Wilson peering over the fence on the Home Improvement reruns I used to watch with my mom growing up.
Thinking about my mom and what she would think about how I am dressed brings the darkness rushing in. No, Dani. Not today. You need to find a damn job, I tell myself. Suck it up, buttercup. It’s just one night like Ricca said. What’s the worst that could happen?
Ricca prods me into her Jeep after forcing a pair of black stiletto heels onto my feet. I have no idea how to walk in these things, but Ricca assures me that they make my ass look great. Her logic seems a bit convoluted to me, but it’s the heels or flip-flops. I’d rather have the flip-flops than these potential neck-breaking death traps she strapped to my feet. She hops in the driver’s seat and flies down the street. Red Rocket’s is only a few miles from the house so it doesn’t take long to get there. The bar looks like a dump from the outside. The grass is dead and brown, but that seems to be a trend in Southern California with the water shortage. It could use a good coat of green paint to make it look just a tad bit less seedy. The parking lot is filled with potholes but nevertheless, it is full. Ricca pulls her Jeep into the employee parking lot out behind the bar and parks it next to a row of shiny black Harleys.
“You ready to have some fun, Dani?” she asks with excitement sparkling in her eyes. I try to put on a poker face, but my mouth to brain filter fails before I can reign in my sarcasm.
“Oh, Ricca, I am overjoyed to be going out tonight looking like a hooker in this fine establishment. What’s next? A trip to the emergency room to get the roofies pumped from my stomach and a tetanus shot?” Her smile fades into a scowl. “Fine, yes, I am so excited,, “ I lie.
“See! That’s better. Now push those tits up and let’s go eat, drink, and be merry. I bet Red gives you that job before you even tell him your name.”
She walks around the car and pulls me out of the seat. Ricca drags me up the door and the bouncer waves us in without ever checking my ID. Walking into the bar, I can instantly tell that this place is a dive with its scuffed and dirty wooden floors. As we walk farther through the door, the smell of greasy fried bar food hits my nose. The food might have smelled good if I had been drunk, but it reeks like week-old road kill sober. I don’t know how anyone sitting at the bar is holding back from throwing up from the stench of the kitchen... Scanning the room, I see a group of scary-looking bikers looming in a secluded corner surrounded by scantily-clad women. Two very drunk middle-aged women are twerking against each other on the dance floor to some Rihanna song before one of them falls on her ass. A man dressed in a leather vest from the biker group scoops her off the floor; her drunken giggles pierce my ears as they pass us out the door. Ricca parks me in a seat at a high-top table near the bar and orders us two tequila sunrises before I can protest.