Antiwit Registered User
Posts: 1
(11/16/03 10:26 pm) Reply
Lounge Singer
My hair is platinum blonde, with about an inch of my natural color showing, and my eyes are caked with black mascara and silvery blue shadow. As the dim spotlight hits my face, accenting the creases near my eyes, my cherry red lips part, revealing bleached teeth, slightly stained with lipstick. I grip the microphone, curling my fingers around it, carefully, as to not let the paste-on plastic nails be knocked off, and readjusting my ring to hide the green stain it already left on my skin.
A voice erupts from my throat, telling the sad stories of people I never knew, sometimes singing lyrics so complex I don't even understand what they're about. That sour offkey voice doesn't say diddly squat about it's owner, whose singing is only tolerated by drunken fools who don't know C sharp from C plus.
I sway back and forth in front of the crowd, partially because of the music, partially because I'm a bit tipsy, stumbling over the words of a song requested by a toothless man drinking a bottle of peppermint Schnapp's.
A couple of the men in the bar appear to be staring through the slit of my black rhinestone encrusted dress at my thighs, abundant with cellulite. They are, most likely, unaware of how unattractive control top pantyhose are to a sober person. It seems that one of the women has joined in with the men, either comparing herself to me, or pondering about whether or not I would date her.
After the show, I sit at the bar with a martini, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. The woman who had been staring at my thing hands a piece of paper to me, and walks out the door to hail a taxi. I look at Chad, my friend, the waiter. He notices, and remembers the drill perfectly. He pours me a glass of water and sets it next to me along with his lighter. I glance at the note, no different than any other one, only a woman's name instead of a man's, and grab the lighter. I let the paper burn until it has almost melted my fake nails together, then I drop it into the water. This is the respect I give to the people stupid enough to listen to my singing of their own free will.
An hour later, everyone is gone except for Chad and me. After I've finished another glass, and Chad has smoked through half of a pack of camels, he offers me a ride home. I take the offer, and get a few good laughs on the way as he tells me what the customers are like when you're serving them drinks instead of music.
When we reach my building, Chad the waiter walks me up to my apartment and continues on to make sure I get to the sofa. Before he leaves, Chad the waiter drops a piece of paper on the table in front of me, pours a glass of water, and leaves it next to the paper along with his lighter, and waits.
Chad the waiter makes amazing breakfast omelets.
welcome. we don't stop by as often as we should, but thanks for posting.
intersting story... the theme of musicians playing in bars is a well-worn road, but we don't often hear the female's perspective.
a few points: you can't buy a bottle of peppermint schnapps at a bar, merely shots of it, and i've never known a toothless man to favor a saccharine brew like that. unless you were trying to make a point with that selection, i'd substitute with a tumbler of tinctured, oaky scotch or biting, smoky whiskey.
also... smoking half a pack of camels in an hour is pretty tough, even when chain smoking. i guess you could do it though.
the relationship of music and liquor is nice, anesthetics for the soul and body.
i like the ending... it suggests hope, taking a chance and being rewarded. i don't know if that's what you were going for.
i think the story could use some polish, but in all, it's an intruiging one. again, take all advice/criticism with a grain of salt... i'm not a real critic or even a good writer, just some guy.
Amoryblaine
Antiwit Registered User
Posts: 2
(11/20/03 7:11 pm) Reply
Re: Lounge Singer
thanks for the help. I knew there were some innacurracies in the story, seeing as how I'm pretty unexperienced in the bar life... but I wasn't quite sure what they were. The more critiques, the better.
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