Another Show (Kenz)

[The Exodus]

Madeleine de Chandon

“Knock ‘em dead,” Madeleine murmured into one of her dancers’ ears before slipping out of the backstage area.

Once upon a time, Madeleine had been sensible enough to pre-game before going to one of her own shows. They were always painful for her to watch. She was a racehorse, turned out to pasture before her prime. And there was nothing more painful than watching girls ten years your junior do your signature moves without your signature smirk. She’d once lit this very stage on fire and working as the Moulin Rouge’s choreographer often felt like a consolation prize for a curtailed career. She needed a drink or five and she needed them now.

Actually, she needed them about an hour ago. But that made her sound like an alcoholic.

Madeleine blended in with the patrons of the Moulin Rouge in her tight, black dress and spiky heels. The women here came in three varieties: tourists hoping to catch a glimpse of Ewan Mcgregor, jealous wives tagging along with their drooling husbands, and sexily dressed misses trying to compete with the burlesque performers on stage. Madeleine was the latter. Definitely the latter. And the occasional head-turn her direction told her she was doing better than merely “competing” with her dancers. With the right swivel of her hips, she could lure eyes away from the stage.

She sidled up to the bar and without looking at the bartender, she said in a teasing, exasperated tone: “I would kill for a margarita right about now.”

She meant that she would kill to be laying poolside at a tropical resort with a sexy cabana boy or two, since it was the height of summer and all sensible Parisians had fled the city for holiday. She said the same thing every year. How much she hated the tourists, how much she needed a vacation. Mysteriously, every year, she was stuck in this godforsaken cabaret. But whatever. She expected to see Suzette with her blond bob or Andre-the-muscle-man behind the bar. But instead, there was an unfamiliar, dark-haired girl tending the bar. Madeleine cocked a single eyebrow and straightened up on her barstool.

“Ah, new blood,” she said, mildly interested. She pulled out her employee ID that would ensure her drinks were free. Maybe this summer wasn’t a total wash just yet. Her eyes swept over the girl. She was built like a dancer - a ballerina, not a burlesque girl – and that surprised Madeleine. Lithe limbs like that should have been put to better use. “It’s about damn time, too. Margarita, on the rocks.”

OOC: I suck at titles... BIC:

[thebeautifulstranger]

They always spoke, back home, about the amazing "City of Lights". They murmured of romance of culture, of food and drink and eye-candy, of rolling green pasture and impressive stone statue, and they sighed as they did all this talking with dreamy, far-off expression in their eyes. They neglected, always, to mention the putrid stink of the city, the rampant second-hand smoke and the loud tourists jostling you out of your seat for a better glimpse at things. They never mentioned the filthy state of the public transport, the gagging, cloying, clinging feeling you had when you got off of it later in the evening to hoof it all the way to your place of employment, only to be shoved in a mindless black outfit and handed a name tag before being thrown to the thirsty drunks loitering bar stools and cat-calling for your attention.

It was a good thing Kenz wasn't one for romantic notions, or she would have been bitterly disappointed by the gut-wrenching truth of the place.

She spat into the glass, just out of sight, before filling it whiskey and sliding it along the bar to the dirty old bear that had commented on her size. It wasn't much of an act of rebellion--she sorely needed steady employment, "honest work", and this place hadn't looked too closely at the petty charges on her record before sending her out that night--but she needed to get the rage out of her system somehow. Resentment she could handle without starting a fist-fight on her first night; outrage? Not so much.

When the older woman sat herself at the bar, catching enough eyes to give the rebel-turned-bar-lackey a second to breathe, Kenz almost couldn't have been more grateful. Almost.

"Should I fetch your pipe and slippers with the order, sweetheart, or are you good with just the booze?" Her catty half-smile fell naturally on her face, even as she pulled out the glass and started making the drink. She had never taken well to being ordered about--honestly, if that employee card hadn't been flashed under her nose, she probably would've tossed tumbler at her and told her to make her own damn drink. She rolled her eyes but soldiered on, like the good little wage slave she was trying to train herself to be.

"Give a newbie a tip; how does anyone make scratch from behind this bar, huh? The tourists tip in small change and half of 'em try to weasel out of paying full-price for the drinks to begin with; the regulars walk in smelling pretty stale and they only get worse as the night wears on, but by the time they leave, their pockets are empty paying off the tab! It's a mad house, and no one's getting ahead in this game." The booze she was told to work with was far from top shelf, even by American standards, and the drinks overpriced for the quantity given--even the house was coming up goose-eggs, in the grand scheme of things. No one paid more than they needed to for a cheap buzz.

[The Exodus]

Madeleine de Chandon

The girl behind the bar smirked. It wasn’t exactly a friendly sort of smirk, shared between coconspirators, but it brought an ironic sort of grimace to Madeleine’s face. The grimace was less ironic and more genuine when the bartender opened her mouth.

American.

Madeleine had never had the best of luck with Americans. In her experience, they lived up to the hype: boorish, brash, and uncultured. Two of her most recent lovers had been American. Her ex-fiancé, who’d gotten his hands on this place for a time – as well as on her – before disappearing without an “au revoir” for something like the third time in her life. Her ex-girlfriend, too, was American. They’d remained on good terms until they stopped speaking altogether. They’d been cute in their American-ness, both ex-fiance and ex-girlfriend, if only because love was blind and deaf. Madeleine’s eyes and ears were open to this girl. And the accent made the smirk a complete grimace.

Why – Why?? – was everybody in this godforsaken city American? They’d invaded even this place, the Moulin Rouge, which had long been the epitome of French entertainment.

It was definitely time for a vacation. To where, though, Madeleine couldn’t say. No doubt the Americans had claimed all the best cities for themselves already.

"Give a newbie a tip,” the American girl said as she set to work making Madeleine’s drink. “How does anyone make scratch from behind this bar, huh? The tourists tip in small change and half of 'em try to weasel out of paying full-price for the drinks to begin with; the regulars walk in smelling pretty stale and they only get worse as the night wears on, but by the time they leave, their pockets are empty paying off the tab! It's a mad house, and no one's getting ahead in this game."

“Get a better bra,” Madeleine said. “You’re competing for tips and attention with burlesque dancers. You’d be surprised what a good pushup will do for you.”

She nodded towards the stage where a couple girls dressed in a peacock blue, corseted number were doing fan-kicks. They were getting whistled at and applauded; after the show, no doubt, they would get tips from the wealthy regulars who treated the Moulin Rouge like a cross between a dance hall and a bordello. Madeleine turned a blind eye as long as they did their business after hours and her girls stayed healthy, happy, and up-to-scratch on stage. She’d been one of them once-upon-a-time, after all. She knew how to augment a meager dancer’s salary. Hell, she’d even done her time behind that stupid bar once or twice. And even that was a performance of sorts. You needed the right costuming.

[thebeautifulstranger]

"Get a better bra." Kenz choked for a moment on words, coughing a little as she tried to riddle that one out from beneath the thick French accent. The choking turned into outright laughter, turning her partway back and sticking a hand over her mouth to hide it. This one wasn't playing around--she knew what was up! Maybe not the sweet French hooker she had been expecting, dressed like that, but definently a French something or other with 'tude enough to gain some respect from the American Sass Queen herself. She straightened out, forcing a lid on the laughs but unable to halt the smile burning bright on her face, gleeful and mischievous and somehow beautiful. She didn't smile often--not like this, not with sincerity and genuine joy--but she used to hear as a child, when she had smiled often, that it lit up the room and caught the eye better than any sparkling ballgown. She leaned in to the other woman, her new friend in cattiness, resting her elbows easily on the bar.

"You know what's what girl; I can respect that." She held the smile a moment longer before dropping it and her eyes to the bar's surface, pushing up to balance on her hand and idly swipe at a chilly wet ring. "But, uh, I don't do the sex-kitten act when I can avoid it. Bad memories, bad mojo--whatever. You get the point." She looked back up with a small sigh, mostly internalized and almost silent. "So it's the pauper's life for me."

Down the bar came an abrasive whistle, the call for a bar tender's attention and remedy. "'Scuse me. Don't go anywhere." She offered a much waner smile, less pleasant if only for the lack of real joy, and a wink. "I'll be right back." As she looked after the costumer her mind wandered off. Affording an apartment here might be the death of me...maybe this whole "pauper's life" thing can be turned around. How many of these fellas are actually gonna miss their wallets, I wonder, with the dances going on full swing and enough booze in their bellies to rot their livers in seconds? Maybe the locals...but the tourists? She handed the refreshed glass back over, more seriously contemplating the thought than before. She didn't want to lose her job, but she couldn't afford to lose her respect. What was the worst that could happen?

[The Exodus]

Madeleine de Chandon

Madeleine smirked. Of course she knew what was what. She’d been doing this sh*t for far too long, after all. And in this industry, a good pair of shoes and an excellent Wonder-Bra were a girl’s best friend. She leaned against the bar comfortably. Clearly, New Girl and her were gonna get along just fine.

"But, uh, I don't do the sex-kitten act when I can avoid it. Bad memories, bad mojo--whatever. You get the point."

Madeleine wished she did. She nodded anyways, though, because – Hey, to each their own. If New Girl wanted better tips, though… In a place like this…

"So it's the pauper's life for me."

“You’ll-“

But a whistle from the other end of the bar – the annoying, piercing kind that was meant to flag down an errant waitress – cut Madeleine off mid-sentence. She glowered over her shoulder at the guy. Another American, no doubt, but this one was greasy and wore a t-shirt that said “I j’daore Paris” on it in broken Franglais. Just one of the many, many reasons she hated high tourist season.

"'Scuse me. Don't go anywhere," New Girl said with an anemic smile. "I'll be right back."

She left Madeleine alone with her unfinished sentence. She’d been about to say “You’ll change your mind eventually”, but it didn’t need to be said. Madeleine traced the rim on her margarita and collected salt crystals on the tip of her fingernail. She smoothed the salt over her lips and took a taste, shutting her eyes. “Pauper’s life”. Madeleine cold remember the days. Back when she was just starting on the line. She’d been paying off her remaining medical bills, trying to pay for the apartment she was sub-letting, and trying to survive. As she walked out the stage door a patron copped a feel. Twenty-something Madeleine hadn’t made a show of offense, instead, she turned and said sweetly, “That’ll be forty euros, monsieur.” And that had supplemented her salary until she rose up the ranks on her talent.
She hadn’t thought of herself as “that kind of girl” before then. And even now, she didn’t. You did what you had to to get by.

And nowadays, she didn’t have to turn tricks to pay for her gorgeous, Parisian flat. She’d always played by her terms, then and now. And it had paid off in tenfold.

She hadn’t thought about all that in a long time. Madeleine took a swig of her drink and then fished in her purse for a cigarette and lighter. Technically, she wasn’t supposed to smoke in here, but nobody ever really cared all that much.