Clave on the Downbeat

Content warning: Profanity, sexual harassment

The lights came back on. Carlotta breathed easier.

Anything could happen during Clave’s nightly three-minute blackout. She spent countless shifts treading the perimeter of the club’s dance floor in her four-inch heels. Her eyes acclimated to the strobes and blacklights like a prey animal. There was nothing she could do in the total darkness but freeze.

Most nights, she put her body between the clientele and her drinks cart. Antonio did not approve of anybody getting away with a free drink. If she got groped in the process of preventing the brazen theft, so be it. That was the nature of her job.

Once in a while, she was left alone. On those nights, the darkness was a shield from the eyes— the club goers, the bartenders, her boss. For one hundred and eighty seconds, Carlotta lifted her chin, forgot her responsibilities, and let the ceaseless salsa beat move her body.

Tonight went the way of most nights. She felt the telltale pressure of sticky fingers, clumsy palms at the small of her back, and a sweaty chest colliding with her shoulder in the dark. The plunging cocktail dress of a bottle girl offered little armor from these advances. Carlotta was numb to the antics and wise in the way of improvised weaponry. The handle of the bar cart served a swift body blow, and toes could be crushed under its rickety wheels. If all else failed, a well-placed heel to the instep was an effective deterrent. In any case, it was over when the lights went on.

Closing time imminent, she rolled her cart behind the bar and slipped out of her shoes. The knobby bar mats massaged her high arches as she padded toward Joel, her favorite bartender.

“Got any tips for me?” She pressed herself against him, draping her arms around his waist. Her head rested between his shoulder blades, feigning weariness. He smelled like a Cadillac margarita; sweat and citrus.

Joel dropped a lime into a brass mule and lined up a coupe glass for the next pour. Carlotta loved watching his hands dance along the delicate glassware and manipulate the multitude of ingredients. He let her rest there while he worked, his body still and supportive. Smiling as his customers left the bar, he turned to face her.

“A tip? Keep your shoes on behind the bar. There’s broken glass down there.” He rested his chin on her dark curls. “Besides, you’re taller with them on. I can actually see your pretty face.”

Carlotta rewarded him with a laugh and held out her hand.

“Pay up, Joel. Antonio won’t let me accept tips on the floor.”

With mock reluctance, Joel extracted a wad of cash from his apron. Carlotta weighed the pile and grimaced.

“You’re not holding out on me when I have Christmas bills to pay.”

“Don’t we all. What’d you buy that boyfriend of yours? Another gold chain?” he teased. “I see he didn’t get you anything pretty or you’d be flaunting it.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” She never talked about Evan at work. That was another tip from Joel: bottle girls are always available without being available.

“Don’t make that face, that’s all for the night. Tomorrow is New Year’s Eve. You’ll make a bunch and kiss that credit card debt goodbye. But Carlotta—” Joel’s brown eyes searched hers earnestly. His hand drifted to his back pocket, brushed his wallet, then returned to the bar as if magnetically attracted. “If you’re ever short, you can come to me. As a friend.”

“You’re a great friend. Thanks, Joel,” she said, quickly kissing him on the cheek before disappearing into the locker room to stow the cash.

Carlotta tugged her duffle coat closed in the high desert’s near freeze and sidestepped an upturned potted palm. A Toyota Corolla idled on the curb, Clave’s neon sign reflected in reverse on the hood. Ethan grinned from the driver’s seat. Three gold chains glinted beneath the collar of a Raiders jersey marinated in the smell of beer, greasy food, and stale cigarettes. She crossed her legs in the warm passenger seat and as Ethan slid a hand beneath her coat.

“How much did you make tonight, babe?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Average. How did you do?” Did he have money on any games today? Were there games on Tuesdays? She couldn’t keep up with the holiday schedule or Ethan’s appetite for risk.

His delight died. “Fucking Raiders lost again.”

“Don’t bet on them if they’re just going to lose. This is our money, babe. We have plans for it.” She had plans, anyway.

“It wasn’t a total loss. I won some back because Jeanty hit two touchdowns over 50 yards each,” he muttered. “Where’s your pride? Hometown team, ride or die.”

She sighed. Pride was a jewel that dulled over time. It took resources to keep it brilliant.

“Let’s get out of here. The long way, please.”

Clave faded in the Corolla’s rearview as they crawled down S Las Vegas Blvd. Despite the late hour and low temperature, the sidewalks teamed with life. The Bellagio fountains danced, reflecting the neon and LED from every billboard along the strip. Though she’d seen it all before, Carlotta studied each marquee, coveting the line of the dancers’ legs, the grace of their poses, the glamour of the diamonds and feathers.

Ethan stroked the purple scar framing her knee. “You’ll be up there someday, babe. You’re just as beautiful. More, even,” he corrected himself.

Carlotta ignored him. It wasn’t beauty that made a dancer. Beauty could be manufactured with makeup and careful lighting. Dance was skill and strength, a blend of training and instinct. She’d given her money and body for the training. She was born with instinct, dancing salsa and bachata from the womb.

Casting directors took one look and passed her over: from the artistic theater venues to the less high-brow revues. Yet an old surgery didn’t exempt her from seven hours at a salsa club. It was a dream she couldn’t let go of. Even when the odds were stacked against her, with enough practice and exposure, she’d find her way onto a stage. Any spare change not stolen by the Raiders’ losing record went to audition clinics or studio tuition. And whenever Antonio wasn’t looking, Carlotta marked dance patterns behind the bottles of Bacardi.

“Besides, I know a place where you can practice.” Ethan’s glee returned, thinking of money saved on exotic dancers. He jerked the wheel onto the 15 and they headed for their West Las Vegas apartment.

###

“Carla. My office— now.” Antonio pulled her off the floor in the middle of her shift. He led her to his office: a cramped room with a shoddy safe, a swivel chair behind the desk, and a case of champagne.

“Carlotta,” she corrected as she perched on the foil wrapped corks. Carla appeared on her employment paperwork, but Carlotta was her stage name. Everybody called her that except her boss, despite the number of times she'd reminded him.

“I’m letting you go.” Antonio handed her a letter folded in thirds.

Carlotta opened it and a check fluttered to the floor. You’re fired was printed above Antonio’s bold signature.

“I’ll just collect my things,” she stammered automatically. The bottles rattled beneath her.

“Not now. It’s an hour until midnight and we’re over capacity, so you’ll need to finish your shift. Besides, that check includes your work for tonight.” His eyes fell to the slip at her feet. They both knew her tips eclipsed the paltry sum.

“You can’t fire me without cause,” she protested, her thoughts a half-beat behind. “There should be advance notice, or a performance improvement plan.”

Antonio crossed to the office door. Carlotta flushed. It had been open the whole time. Her former co-workers rushed to and fro, eyes averted.

“Actually, no. You’re a performer; an independent contractor with at-will employment. I need you on the floor, so get over to the bar.” He nudged her out of the office with a pat on the ass.

The dance floor surged, bodies pulsing to the congas and timbales. Carlotta longed to submerge herself in the rhythm and let the anonymity of the crowd pull her under. But apparently, she still had a job to do.

“Joel. I’m calling in that favor,” she rasped. “Can you add your tips to mine tonight? I’m desperate, please.”

She sidled up to him but he stepped away, free-pouring tequila into a line of a dozen shot glasses. He was off and moving before the last drop splashed, filling a tiered tower of champagne flutes.

“It’s not a good time right now.” His voice was hard, harried. “Stock is low and Antonio already has us cutting the champagne with water. He told me to withhold your tips, so…”

“Okay.” She turned on her heel and blindly grabbed a few bottles to restock her cart. She must have selected the scanty champagne because she could hear him shouting, his words indistinct over the unrelenting percussion.

No tips made the night worthless, just like this job. Just like her life. Being a bottle girl at Vegas’ only salsa club was at least dance adjacent, and she had nowhere to go from here. But it was New Year’s Eve, the zenith of the holiday season. People wanted to indulge before the bitter cold and self-improvement of January set in. She needed to make it count.

The predictable sticky fingers found her as she opened all her bottles at once. Instead of defending the merchandise, she stepped aside and studied the dancers. Most were sloppy, stumbling behind the beat and tripping through cross body leads. If she were out there, she’d do better, snapping her heels in a neat cha-cha or scraping out an extra rotation in a free spin.

Her attention snagged on a couple in the center of the floor. Though their feet were sharp and quick, they switched positions smoothly like they danced on a moving platform. The man sensed her gaze with animal awareness, his dark eyes cutting through the crowd to find hers. He collected his partner into a frame and smiled at Carlotta over the woman’s shoulder. She’d recognize that invitation anywhere.

Her hips propelled her in his direction. Antonio and Joel watched behind the bar with sour expressions. Carlotta stopped, self-conscious. What was she doing? Was she planning to cut in on this couple? They were dancing in a shadow position now, the woman facing her, confused by her presence. Carlotta made a big show of exiting the floor and retreated to the locker room.

She wasn’t staying. The damage was done. If she returned to her cart, she was sure to find it empty. With check in hand, she owed nothing to this place. She texted Ethan.

Pick me up. Let’s celebrate together.

A piano intro floated into her consciousness, but Carlotta tried to ignore it while she waited for a reply. Three dots appeared, then disappeared as the crowd clapped and whistled in recognition.

Can’t. College Football Playoff. Big night.

Horns blared, covering Carlotta’s huff of frustration. She typed back angrily, pounding the screen, relying heavily on autocorrect.

I got fired. You’re gambling with everything we have. Come get me.

The three dots appeared again, then nothing. She closed her eyes, desperate to quell the feeling of panic. A conga line of faces danced behind her eyelids. Casting directors’ blank stares. Antonio’s impassivity. Joel’s contempt. Ethan’s apathy.

Carlotta opened her eyes and stepped onto the floor alone, arms raised above her head. She’d heard this song thousands of times and knew where to find the musical accents. Her hair swung loose behind her when she turned once, twice, three times, whipping her neck around so she didn’t get dizzy. The crowd ceded her space, her shoulders swiveling in time to the piano’s chord progression. When the trumpets hit their high notes, she threw her body backward and rolled up slowly. The lights went out.

An arm snaked under her left shoulder blade. She fumbled in the darkness, her right hand finding its home in a rough palm. Her heartbeat mirrored the claves as she followed her partner into the darkness.