Lola scrolled up and down the long list of employers. “There has got to be something right for me amongst this immense sea of bullshit”. Every job description projected her to an evermore constricting and suffocating reality. She saw herself walking into an imposing office hall, with braided hair and a grey pants suit muttering stuff like: “I know my background is quite atypical but you’ll find that I’m a very fast learner… It is clear that management solutions is a stretch from my curriculum but there are definitely links to be made… I never really saw myself as a communications strategist but there’s an interdisciplinary component to my resume that could really benefit your company,” and the cherry on the cake, broadening a bright fake smile: “yes, I am very active on social media”. The banality and platitude of these sentences made her nauseous.
She had spent the last year of her life following women in public bathrooms for her thesis. She had jotted down behavior patterns, personal quirks and individual habits. A short version of the resulting paper had been published in the New Yorker under the title : “Extraordinary Women in Ordinary Places”. Through this she had accumulated 6.6K twitter followers and 4.4K on instagram. But this wasn’t enough, it was time to start making real money. Nobody was going to support her lifestyle. Now, she had to do so herself. “What the fuck am I going to do?”.
Her phone buzzes, enough torture for one day. Some friends are working a private party at the bowery. As long as she stays behind the bar or the dj booth she can drink and party for free. Lola walks out ready to grasp every opportunity the city has to offer.
She is standing at the bar. The base is outrunning the rhythm of her pulsating heart. How many shots can alleviate the weight of unemployment pressing against her conscience? Entering the labor force, alienating her soul, pseudo marxist notions are suddenly wavering around her head. The party is sponsored by a south american alcohol -pisco. A bit harsh at first, now it’s going down very smoothly. “I won’t do it” she screams. Some guy must have mistaken that for “wanna dance?” He rushes her to the dance floor. Lola is moving furiously. Every movement asserting the will to live, the joy to just exist.
She wakes up on her friend Vince’s couch.
“Morning babe, Kiki fell on her face last night and was sent to rere-hab.”
“Lol, if I was a twat I’d tweet that.”
“You wanna sub for her?”
That is how between the dimness of day and the bright lights of night, Lola chose to start working the door of one of the most popular clubs in NYC.
TO BE CONTINUED…