I haven't actually mailed it yet, but whatever. I was exhausted by the exertions of the day. I'll do it tomorrow.
Or never. Again, whatever.
I just finished reading Slim to None, the journals of an anorexic that spent five years going from one hospitalization to the next. They were published by her father almost twenty years after her death at the age of twenty-five. Though it wasn't terribly well written, it certainly did hit close to home, as I am facing the same hospitalization in just a few short weeks. I should imagine that I won't be allowed to read such things while I am in there, so I am reading all the books I can about other anorexics recounting their time in hospitals and institutions. Boning up, I guess, of what to expect, though Slim to None took place in the mid eighties - I hope to Christ they have a better system now.
In other news, I am SO looking forward to giving back the phone to Girl Agent and getting some peace and quiet. Tonight I booked a straight forward, simple strip show for one girl. Sounds simple, doesn’t it? How many hundreds of those have I done myself over the years? So how is it all these other dancers, who have also been doing this job for fucking years, STILL manage to screw up something as fucking simple as that?
Shortly before 11 pm tonight, just as I came downstairs from putting His Little One to bed, The Agency Phone started shrilling from the coffee table where I had abandoned it on my way upstairs. The start time for Sapphire’s show was more than an hour and a half past, so I figured I was safe from any pissed off phone calls from angry clients, telling me their girl had decided not to show up, or had shown up just long enough to steal their TV and their dog, or whatever.
I was wrong.
I ignored the first call, which was from the client himself. But when the phone rang again less than five seconds later, and this time it was from the dancer's number, I knew I would be getting no peace tonight.
I sighed in frustration and snapped up the phone.
"What?" I said testily.
"Hi, Genevieve (my fake name), it's Pretty Boy," said Sapphire's boyfriend.
"What's up?" I repeated. This guy was incredibly pretty, but so fucking dumb. I had no patience for him at the best of times.
"The guys here won't pay us," he said.
"What? As if," I said. The guy’s a fucking drug dealer! I rolled my eyes. He can pay for the show and then buy your mum "Put him on the phone."
"Hello?" Drug Dealer picked up Sapphire's mobile.
"DD, it's Genevieve," I said. "What's going on? They say you won't pay?"
"Yeah, okay, so I pay a deposit of $75, so that come out of the whole amount, righ?"
"Yeeees," I prompted.
"So that mean I owe $100 and...um..."
"It means you owe $175," I interrupted impatiently.
"Yeah, okay. So that should be included in the $500, not on top of it, righ?" he asked.
"Right," I said, bored, then suddenly I snapped to attention. "Wait. What?"
"So she brought another gurl with her, righ?" he said.
Ah fuck, I groaned inwardly. Here we go.
"And they say they do a duo for $500. But the $175 should be included in the $500, not on top of it, righ?"
I sighed. “Put Sapphire back on the phone,” I told Drug Dealer.
I was so sick of these fucking girls! Taking their bookings and doing whatever the fuck they wanted with them, and then expecting ME to pick up the pieces when the client exploded.
"Hello?" Sapphire was on the line now.
"What's going on?" I demanded without preamble.
"Okay, so I brought Isabella with me,"she said.
"Uh huh,” I said, quelling an urge to scream.
"And we did a live sex show for $500."
"A what?!" I demanded.
"A live sex show," she repeated.
She said like she had just stated a simple fact, like, “The cat is on the couch.” As in, without SHAME.
"Oh," I said, momentarily struck dumb. What’s a live sex show involve? I wondered stupidly.
So many thoughts ran through my mind at once - God, there better not have been any goddamn dildos - and then I just thought, Christ, I don’t fucking CARE. What’s the fastest way to get these assholes OFF THE PHONE?
“You know what?” I said tiredly, rubbing my forehead and sinking down onto the sofa. “I really don’t give a shit. This has nothing to do with me.You guys fucked up the show, you’re on your own.”
I hung up the phone and turned it off, then lay down on the couch, utterly exhausted.
I needed to eat, but I really didn’t want to. I had binged and purged so many times already during the day, if I tried to eat something now, I would just end up doing the same thing, anyway. And I couldn’t guarantee that I could stay awake long enough to throw up whatever I ate. So it was better if I just didn’t eat at all.
Whatever. I really needed was just some sleep.