Darlene
The alarm went off at the ungodly hour of 5:30 a.m. I dragged my ass out of bed, started the coffee pot in my little kitchen, then swayed with my eyes closed under the shower spray in my tiny bathroom. I had never been much of an early-riser, but a friend of a friend in NYC had pulled a gazillion strings to get me a job at a posh spa in the Financial District. The pay was worth getting up for, but God.
“Is this what being responsible feels like?” I muttered as I dropped the shampoo bottle for the second time.
After showering, I sipped coffee in the kitchen, wrapped in my towel with another turban’ed around my hair, marveling that the sky outside my window was still dark.
Being responsible, I decided, sucked ass.
But after the initial sluggishness passed, I felt more awake than I had in a long time. Ready. The day was dawning on my new life, I decided, and I didn’t even care if that sounded cheesy. It felt good.
I dressed in beige skirt, men’s button-down shirt, thigh-high maroon socks, and my black combat boots. In the bathroom mirror, I put on the usual dark shadow and heavy liner around my blue eyes, gold hoops in my ears, and tied my long brown hair in a ponytail. I still looked like my New York self.
I couldn’t decide if that was good or bad.
Outside, I pulled on my favorite old man sweater and shouldered my purple backpack. The sun was finally climbing out of the sky, and the sheer early-ness of the day was palpable. The street was quiet. Asleep.
An app on my phone told me I needed the J train to take me to the Embarcadero Muni station. Twenty minutes later, I emerged in a neighborhood of condos, modern loft space, and shops with a view of the Bay. My map said the Wharf, and all the fun touristy stuff was just around the corner so to speak, another ten minutes by train. This neighborhood felt quiet, and I wondered if I’d have enough clients to keep me afloat, or if I’d need a second job.
If you get a second job, you won’t have time to start dancing again.
I couldn’t decide if that was good or bad, either.
Turns out, I needn’t have worried. Serenity Spa was a pretty, sleek storefront that screamed expensive, and was bustling with clients inside, even at 6:45 a.m.
My supervisor, Whitney Sellers, looked to be in her mid-thirties, with strawberry blonde hair and hard blue eyes. She eyed me up and down with a furrowed brow.
“Darlene, right?” she asked, as if my name didn’t taste right in her mouth.
I nodded. “Yes, hi. Nice to meet you.”
She reached a hand for me to shake, hard and short.
“I wouldn’t get attached to this place,” she said. “Turnover is high. I’m up to my neck in hires and fires every week. You start in ten minutes and you need a uniform.” She appraised my outfit. “Badly.”
She gave me a pair of white yoga pants and a soft, white button-down shirt with short sleeves. I changed in the employee bathroom and checked myself out in the mirror
“I look like a nurse,” I told Whitney when I came out for her inspection.
“That’s the idea,” Whitney said. “You work in healthcare now, massaging for the therapeutic well-being of our clients.” She arched a brow. It seemed eyebrows did most of the talking around here. “Well? Go. Your first client is waiting.”
It took me all of three minutes to determine that the serenity of Serenity Spa was reserved for the clients. For a place that catered to luxury and relaxation, every employee there looked like they were stressed to the max.
“Do you like working here?” I asked one of my coworkers in the break room after my first appointment was done. The gal gave me a strange look.
“You must be new.” She sighed and rubbed her shoulder. “It’s like kneading dough all day, but what other job can you say you can make this much per hour?”
Selling X at a rave, I thought but did not say.
Serenity Spa was the elegant business of my new life, and I vowed to never go back to the old. I was going to keep myself as clean and pristine as my new uniform. But by the time my shift was over, my arms felt like they weighed a hundred pounds each, and my shoulders and forearms were screaming.
“I just have to get used to it,” I muttered to myself on the street. It was like a new dance routine. At first, your body was sore as the same muscles were worked over and over again, but I’d adjust. No, more than adjust. I’d conquer.
The clang of a cable car sounded, and I watched a sailboat glide across the Bay. A smile spread over my lips. “I did good today.”
And then my gaze landed on a post on the corner beside me, covered in bills and flyers; someone offering guitar lessons, a lost cat sign…and flyers for an independent, modern dance troupe that was having a showcase at a theatre in the Mission District in a few weeks. They were holding auditions. One spot. A female dancer for the ensemble.
I bit my lip. The cable car was rounding the corner, going the opposite direction from where I needed to be. If I jumped on, I might get lost, but I was feeling brave that day.