Chapter Two: Three Gigs, One Breakdown
At nineteen, nearly twenty, I packed my life into a battered suitcase and pointed my car toward Hollywood. My small California hometown faded behind me, each mile of freeway a thread cut from the safe but stifling tapestry of my childhood. I remember glancing in the rearview mirror and seeing my father’s stern face flash through my mind—a memory, a warning, a challenge.
“Pay your bills on time, Rylie. Miss a payment, the car is mine.”
That mantra echoed through my adolescence. My car wasn’t just a vehicle; it was my ticket to freedom. It got me to the beach, to the edge of LA, to every late-night shift that paid the bills and, sometimes, the rent. I’d worked everywhere—stocked produce in fluorescent-lit grocery stores, inhaled coconut-scented air in tanning salons, played gatekeeper at various front desks, and pulled long shifts at that infamous all-girls restaurant, where secrets traveled as quickly as tips. Every job added another scrap of independence, another lesson in survival.
But freedom, I realized early, is something you wrestle from the world. It’s earned, fiercely protected, and—sometimes—demanded. Maybe that’s why I was so quick to rebel when my father handed down his ultimatum.
“If you want to keep living here, you’re paying rent,” he told me one night at the kitchen table, his hands folded, voice soft but unyielding.
I remember meeting his gaze, stubbornness flaring in my chest. “Fine. I’ll find my own place.”
That same night, I scrolled through apartment listings in LA, heart pounding. The city had shimmered at the edge of my dreams for so long, and now, with a fresh cosmetology license in hand and a restaurant transfer falling neatly into place, the universe seemed to be nudging me forward.
The months that followed were a blur of effort and adrenaline. By day, I swept hair and learned the subtle art of reinvention from the sharp-tongued stylists in Beverly Hills. At night, I waited tables in Santa Monica, balancing trays and soaking up stories in the neon buzz. Bills loomed, but I managed, keeping a careful tally and feeling the rush of pride with every check I wrote.
Until, suddenly, I didn’t. Eight months in, my world shifted. The restaurant let me go—no explanation, just a polite phone call and a void I could feel in my bones. I sat on the stoop outside my apartment, staring at the city lights, fighting the urge to dial home and ask for help. I’d promised myself I’d make it on my own.
So I stitched together what I could: evenings behind the counter at a Bel Air coffee shop perched high above the city, weekends working cocktail trays at sprawling, glitter-drenched LA events. The money barely stretched. Still, I was stubborn—I’d rather drown than ask for a life preserver.
One night, exhausted and restless, I found myself scrolling Craigslist, the blue glow of my laptop flickering against the wall. There it was: Cocktail Waitress Wanted. Exclusive Gentlemen’s Club. Flexible hours, excellent tips. My grandfather’s voice echoed in my memory, a sly grin tugging at his lips as he mentioned “those titty clubs” during long drives to San Diego.
A curious thrill pulsed through me. What really went on behind those velvet curtains? I clicked “reply.”
The interview was a haze—mirrored walls, low lighting, a manager with a voice like gravel and cologne thick in the air. I barely remember what I said, only that I got the job, and before I could second-guess myself, I was donning black heels and learning to carry champagne with the practiced poise of the women around me.
The club was a world apart: waitresses who were actresses by day, dancers who could have stepped out of a Fellini film—statuesque blondes, petite brunettes, curves and grace and the unmistakable confidence of women who knew their own worth. They fascinated me. Among them was Julianna, a Portuguese beauty with a melodic laugh, who confided one night in the dressing room that she’d started dancing to help her boyfriend keep his real estate business afloat.
“I play a goddess here,” she smiled, fastening a shimmering earring, “but at home, I’m just me. Sometimes, both are real.”
That line stuck with me. I became a careful observer, studying the sway of a dancer’s hips, the sly glances, the moments when a patron’s bravado slipped to reveal a longing for connection, not just a fantasy. The club was its own society, a place where vulnerability and power existed in a careful, candlelit balance.
With time, something in me shifted. I began to embody the confidence I saw in the women around me—not as a mask, but as an awakening. I learned to honor my own femininity, not as something to perform, but as a quiet, powerful sense of self. I realized, in those mirrored rooms, that the world outside rarely saw the depth of what truly happened inside: acceptance, longing, the desire to simply be—without judgment, without shame.
It’s strange, looking back, how everyone warns that curiosity will be your undoing. But I found the opposite was true. In those hidden corners of LA, under velvet lights and the weight of my own questions, I discovered the truth:
Curiosity doesn’t kill the cat. It brings her to life.
To be continued…