Cigarette Girl

As a cigarette girl, you live as a servant to those who blow smoke in your face. The men that wave you over with their thick hands and throw a couple of dollars onto your tray. They call you ‘doll’ in order to sound like a gentleman, though you know they are the farthest from it. You’re the girl who wanted to perform, but showed up too late to the showgirl auditions. You work in a dimly lit establishment where the only lights are on the stage. There are local singers and performers that come each night, know the clientele, but they don’t bother to notice you. When you walk around with that obnoxious tray strapped to you, you can hardly see through the haze of smoke. You prance around in that ridiculous outfit all night, hardly saying a word. You trip over the eight inch stiletto heels you are supposed to wear, or maybe it was your dreams. Who can tell? You’re tired, but that’s on you. You want to go home, but your boss screams your name, trapping you into the caged environment. When you leave, your nose is forever stained by the strong concoction that is the mixed aroma of cigar smoke and cheap alcohol.

And that is what I have been doing for so much of my life; allowing myself to become enslaved to this intoxicating scene. My life hasn't exactly gone the way I would have liked it to. It is the result of a combination of the stupid choices my negligent father has made and the way in which I have had to deal with them. I like to think that my life is all his fault and everything that happens that I didn’t want happening, is because of him. But really, when you think about it, it is his fault. He was the one that got me wrapped up in his gang when I was hardly even a teenager. Now with a criminal record, there aren’t a lot of jobs that want me so I went for the ones I knew would hire me. Not because of my qualifications, of course, but because of my natural skill which is unattainable beauty. However, I have been brewing on a few ideas that might erase some of my issues. But that’s a story for another time. Right now, I want to give you a little insight on what it looks like to be a cigarette girl. And what it looks like when you’ve had enough of it.

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“Alexa! Alexa! Get over here now!” My crogdy boss yelled from across the room.

With a roll of my dark, make-up-caked eyes, I reluctantly obeyed his tyrannous command. Hearing the clink clink of my stiletto heels walking up to him, I put on my best ‘unfazed expression’ as he gave me a task.

“I need you to clean up table fourteen, fifteen, and sixteen.” He scratched, his voice a flashing advertisement for the damage smoking causes.

Annoyed and without thinking, I retaliated, “But I’m a cigarette girl, not a waitress. Have one of them do it.”

Appalled that I would ever talk back to someone such as himself, his untrimmed eyebrows furrowed in disdain. “Excuse me, young lady, you do not talk back to me! Though it is none of your business, I’ll have you know we are short staffed tonight so you have to play clean-up-girl and cigarette girl! Now get on it!”

With a sigh that was lost to the empty oblivion with the rest of the ones I had futility given and those of so many of the other girls who worked here, I did as I was told. As I picked up the empty plates and empty glasses that once were overflowing with cheap beer, I thought about how much I abhorred this place. I couldn't take it anymore. It was so typical of my life to go this way. I had wanted to become a world renowned model but here I was, working as a nameless cigarette girl, currently working my job and that of another. There had to be a way out of this place. I just had to find one.

Then, when I thought I had finished the task my boss had insisted I do, I could hear him yelling for me again. Naturally, another sigh escaped my heavily lipsticked mouth. I threw the last few pieces of crummy silverware, if you could even call it that, onto my tray from the last table and reluctantly made my way back over to him. Looking annoyed and frazzled, his grayish eyes looked even more glazed than normal.

With his voice soaked in irritation as though he had hired me out of the kindness of his heart, not the fact that every cigarette girl he hired only stayed for a very short period of time so he needed as many as he could get, he said, “Can’t you move any quicker? I need you to watch the food on the stove! Now get going!”

Before I could even get out a quick rebuttal, he scurried away to yell at another one of his employees. It was always one thing after another. He always acted like he had previously told me about the next thing he wanted me to do when in reality, it was always thrown at me like a wet rag. When I got to the stove, there was a pot of something boiling. I had no idea what was in it. I had never worked in the kitchen before and cooking had never really been my thing. Picking up the spoon beside me, I dipped it in. Once it had submerged, I pulled it out and then held it up to my nose. The aroma was hearty, with hefty earth tones penetrating my senses. It smelled like a warm, lovely Christmas morning. Well, at least that’s what I would imagine a happy Christmas to smell like. Yet, at the same time, after you smelled it for too long, it began to take a more potent turn which smelled a lot more like my Christmases.

As I stirred the soup, I stared as the vegetables got caught up in the whirlpool I was creating. Honestly, for the first time I was mesmerized by the smell and appearance of food. Something about it was relaxing me and yet at the same time fueling me with the courage to do what I had wanted to do for years: Get out of this place. Looking around the kitchen, I saw the cast iron stove. Little flames were beginning to grow under it, dancing beneath a pot. As I watched the mesmerizing flames flicker and spark, I began to cook up something of my own.

Scanning the room, I knew that if I was going to do this, there would have to be no one in the kitchen. However, lucky for me, there was hardly anyone there since we were short staffed. There was only one man cleaning dishes, and one man preparing the food. Putting on the acting skills I had so naturally acquired, I approached the chef.

With a frightened expression and a shadow of confusion in my eyes I said, “Uh, excuse me sir, there is someone at table six who is very unhappy with their order. They said that they wanted to speak with you. They sounded pretty upset. I didn’t know what to do. I-”

He cut me off just as I had anticipated he would. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll go out there,” he said, whipping his hands on his apron.

As he scurried out of the kitchen, I made my way over to the older man washing the dishes. “Boss says you can leave. I’m washing the dishes now.”

I started to wash dishes as he shrugged and left. No one in this place needed any excuse to leave. The second I saw the door close, I ran over to it and locked it. No one was going to get in my way. With adrenaline flooding my ability to think, I turned all the burners on high. Flames violently erupted like a volcano that had been dormant for years, waiting for the right moment to burst. I gazed at them in awe, letting them reflect in my own eyes. Or maybe those were new ones that had started to grow.

Knowing I would never have to search for a lighter in this place, I took one out of my pocket. It was a gold one with the logo of the establishment on it. I held it in my hands, dreaming about the irony that I was about to create. Flicking the lid off with my sharp, black nails I ignited it. Unable to help myself, a mischievous smile began to creep its way onto my lips. And with one final movement, I threw the lighter onto the stove. Immediately, I turned and walked out the back door. Behind me, as though I was in an action film, the flames grew wilder. Smoke began to seep out from the walls of the building as I walked down the dark alley. I could hear the sounds of chaos coming from inside as a result of my act. Everyone ran out the front as a way to get away from the smoke.

But I was only giving them what they deserved. For years, I had paraded around, trying to navigate the smoke. A hundred times a day, I was asked if I had a light. And I did, so I used it to light my own fire this time. Really, I find this all to be very poetic. The place gets burned down because one of their cigarette girls decides to take a stand and uses the lighter they gave her as her means in which she did it. Now, I believe that soup smells like justice. The delicious smell of freedom was on my nose. I had always heard people say that cooking was a great way to express yourself. And they were right. I may just have to take up cooking as a new hobby.