I’m jolted awake by the jerk of the subway. Apparently I’ve been out for a while, because I don’t recognize the station. I exit the nearly empty subway and head for the platform, disoriented and confused.

Late afternoon has turned into evening while I’ve been passed out on the subway. I must’ve been really freaking tired. I’m also in a sketchy, unfamiliar part of the city. And I have to pee like nobody’s business.

I find what looks to be a bar called EsQue. It’s open, so I go inside. The hallway is painted deep burgundy, and a steep set of stairs lead to a glowing sign with one of those flashing arrows. Drunk people must break a lot of limbs here. The need to pee supersedes the need to find an alternate location.

I rush down the stairs only to get stopped by a bouncer. “ID, please.” He holds out his hands.

I shuffle from foot to foot, kegeling to prevent an accident as I root through my bag for my wallet. I’m hit with a horribly pungent, revolting smell. The same revolting smell that’s been following me all day. It’s like a rodent crawled in there and died. I gag when I skim something mushy and drop my purse. I shove my face into the crook of my arm to prevent the smell from invading my nostrils more than it already has as I crouch down.

Bouncer man makes an unimpressed noise but doesn’t offer to help as I hover at crotch level—his, not mine—and try to navigate my purse without touching whatever is creating the offensive odor, while still trying to make sure I don’t pee myself. Opening it only serves to magnify the smell.

He ushers three men in suits around me without carding them, although they’re all silver foxes, so that might explain it.

“You got ID or not?” Bouncer man asks, irritated.

“Do you have a flashlight? I can’t see a thing!”

He blinds me with the flashlight on his phone before aiming it at my purse.

Surrounded by lipstick tubes, a few pens, a couple of pads, and a wad of napkins, I spot my wallet. And three Ziploc bags.

It’s then that I remember the appetizers I hoarded at Amie’s engagement party all those weeks ago. Following the flu episode, I’d forgotten all about them. I haven’t touched this purse since. They’ve been marinating in here for weeks. The contents appear to have liquefied during their rotting period. One of the bags glistens, and it seems to be the main source of the putrid smell. I manage to retrieve my wallet without disturbing the bags and flash the bouncer my ID.

“Cover’s twenty bucks.”

“I just need to use the bathroom.”

“Cover’s twenty bucks,” he says again, his expression remaining neutral.

My situation has become dire. I don’t have time to find another bathroom. I grudgingly part with twenty dollars, then rush through the bar toward the bathroom sign. I’m fortunate there’s no line for the women’s room. I take the most amazing pee of my entire life. It’s the physical manifestation of the word relief. So worth the twenty dollars.

When I’m done I carefully remove the appetizer bomb baggies from my purse and leave them in the trash. Then I wash my hands four times. The smell seems to be stuck in my nose and a leak in one of the bags has left a small stain in the bottom of my purse. I use paper towels to clean that up, aware I’m very fortunate that none of the baggies burst while rolling around in there, especially since I have things like tweezers and emergency scissors. Sadly, I have a feeling I’m probably going to have to throw out my purse, which is a bit tragic, since it’s nice and I can’t afford to replace it.

On my way out of the bathroom I nearly collide with another woman. I step aside, and mumble an apology. Her expression morphs into disgust as she passes me, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.

“It’s horrible, isn’t it?” I don’t want her to think it was me who destroyed the bathroom, even though it was. Since I’m already in the bar, and I’ve paid the cover to get in, I might as well get something to drink while I figure out the best route home.

The lack of line for the ladies’ room should’ve tipped me off that this is not a normal bar, but it’s also not that late, so I just assumed I’d beaten the crowd. Also, the urgency of my overfilled bladder prevented me from taking in my surroundings. The room is full of mostly men with only a handful of women scattered throughout.

At first I think I’m in a strip club, but the women dancing on the stage aren’t getting naked. Well, not totally. They’re scantily clad, but they’re clearly costumes. The distinct lack of poles is another tipoff.

It takes me a few more seconds to put together that I’m at a burlesque-style show. Not true burlesque, but a modernized variation. These women aren’t up on stage getting naked. Sure, their costumes are extravagant and skimpy, but it’s more about sensuality. There’s no pole to hump or swing from. I tried out for a role in a burlesque play recently. That was the time I fell on my face. Part of me wondered if karma was trying to do me a favor, but sitting here now, I know that it really was just karma giving me the middle finger.

I take a seat at the bar and order soda water because a real drink will cost too much and I’ll be tempted to drain it in one gulp. The show is actually fairly classy, classier than the play I auditioned for. Any loss of costume pieces is strategic, and at no point does it become bawdy or pornographic. The dancers know what they’re doing, most of them, anyway. They appear to be professionally trained, but something is off about the routine. It looks like maybe they’re missing someone.

I sip my soda water, but I’m thirsty, so it doesn’t last very long. The bartender comes over and asks me if I want another one. I check my phone, pretending I’m not sure if I have the time to drink more non-alcoholic beverages in a bar.

She drops another drink in front of me without waiting for an answer. I open my purse, but she waves me off. “That one’s on me.”

“Thanks?” I give her a questioning look and she just shrugs. “I must look pretty pathetic.”

She tips a half grin as she wipes down the bar in front of me. “I saw what happened at the door. Figured you didn’t mean to end up in here. And yeah, pathetically sweet seems to be your deal.”

I laugh, then sigh and take a sip before looking back at the stage. “They’re all trained, aren’t they?”

“Most of them. Two of the leads went to burlesque school, the other girls have a dance background.”

I watch the girl in the center. Her form is incredible. “What do the dancers make here?”

“Depends on the girl, how many shifts they work, the crowd they draw.”

“It’s not just an hourly wage?”

“They can make a lot in tips on their solo numbers. Why? You looking for a job?”

I glance her way. Her expression tells me she means it as a joke.

I focus on the stage again. I have the training and the skill to learn those moves. They’re not outside of my repertoire. I probably watched Burlesque three million times. My father would have a heart attack if he found out I ended up having to take a job in a burlesque-style show because I don’t have money or alternative job prospects. Which might not be a terrible thing. If I can shame him enough, it’s possible he won’t allow me to work for him.

I realize I’ve yet to answer her question. “Do you know if the manager’s hiring?”

The bartender sizes me up, her gaze shrewd and assessing. “What kind of experience do you have?”