I looked up at the clock by the cashier stand. It said ten-thirty. I remembered that I had to pay Rajeev by one o'clock that night if I wanted a bed again. He said he'd hold it for me. I didn't know how he could feel good about charging fifteen dollars a night for that smelly dump, though, and the sheets were an extra two, and I definitely needed the sheets to cover up that bloodstain in the middle of the bed. During the night, I kept on dreaming I was sleeping on a giant wet maxi-pad, and no matter how much I wiped the blood off of me, new blood kept seeping up from the mattress. When I got up in the morning I couldn't get into the shower fast enough but I jumped right back out when I saw all the black fungus growing on the tiles, thick and clumpy. It gave me a chill just looking at them, so I decided not to. I put my sneakers on and got back in there with my eyes shut. It helped a little, but it still felt like roaches were climbing all over me. Even the water smelled. I walked around all day with wet spongy feet but that was okay since it rained anyway.

And it was still raining outside. The front door of the club opened and an old oriental man rushed in, brushing the rain off his shoulders. After taking a good look at the place, he took off his jacket, draped it over his arm like a waiter, and walked up to the cashier. All the girls snapclosed their compacts and sat up straight. You couldn't hear a single gum pop. The old man checked us out (I peeked up from my book), and he pointed me out with his eyes and a nod. He paid in cash; I wondered how much time he'd bought. He kinda looked like my Dad, except my Dad was handsomer around the eyes. Not that the guy was a complete toad or anything. He was around fifty, skinny, with a wide, moon face and a basketball for a stomach. He had guppy eyes, half-sleepy, and he was gonna be my first customer. The music got cut off. Over the speakers the cashier girl called my number, then the table number. The girls on the bench came back on again, standing up and lighting up and talking about how they didn't want no sorryass chinaman anyhow.

I hid my number sign and my book behind the bench and went up to the cashier girl who was also Miss T's daughter. She had on a tight t-shirt that said I Love L.A. and was playing with the TV antenna-a Love Boat rerun was on. "Your date's name's Eugene," was all she said without turning her head. I said thanks and walked toward the tables, passing the bar where Bic sat on a stool with his feet up on the counter, his eyes still married to the paper. A slow song came on,,,,She's out of my lifeŠ and some people got up and danced but most of the girls sat at their tables drinking and being real nice to their dates. Marilyn had her arms around both her guys, leaning in close to one, then the other, as if playing telephone, and when they were done Marilyn stood up, fixed her breasts, and led the guys across the dance floor and into the back hallway. Lana stood at the end of the bar, smoking, her eyes sealed on Marilyn. I walked by trying not to look at Lana, which was something like trying not to scratch an itch on your nose. I made it to the table.

 "Is anyone sitting here?" I asked, and like Miss T. told me to, I smiled as big as I could. But the old man, he pretended like he hadn't seen me coming.

"I'm sorry, did you say something?" He heard me okay but you could tell he wanted me to say it again, once more with feeling.

"Can I sit here," I said, now my smile completely gone.

Disappointed, he put out a hand toward my chair. Over his shoulder, just behind him, I could see Lana at the bar, leaning her chest and body toward the counter, one leg vining the other, and she was saying something to Bic who had on a face that said he'd heard it all before. But then he gave her something, pulled it out of his pants pocket, and Lana popped it into her mouth.

My date sat there silent, stirring his drink with the plastic sword, one way, then the other, and focusing on his glass like he was waiting for his fortune. I'd pissed him off already, by not talking right. The light from the disco ball skated round and round his bald head and a full minute went by, and nothing. Except a couple of sighs here and there. Maybe he didn't like the way I looked up close. Or maybe he wanted a different girl, but him not saying anything made me feel kind of sad. Like he'd picked me because he'd felt sorry for me. I was definitely the worst dressed girl there, my skirt had a ketchup stain in the back, and I didn't have any make-up on. I checked my nails real quick and saw they were clean and that made me feel a little better. Say something nice about his clothes-Miss T. said this would get things going, but what could I say about a brown terry cloth shirt. Maybe I'll ask him what his best subject in school was or about his favorite TV show. My Dad only watched cop shows, like Kojak and Colombo, even though he didn't understand a word of it. He understood action and I guess that was enough for him.