Retail Therapy by Roz Bailey

fan, but the guy is talented.”
    She sucked in a breath. “You’ll see.”
    â€œEither way, I’m at a comedy club for the first time ever, staying up late, and I don’t even have to work tomorrow. Even if I don’t get paid for the day, I’m going to stay up late and I’m going to own it.” Enough of whining and worrying about getting my contract renewed. That was so dumb. Nobody wanted to hear that. I shouted over the applauding audience, “I own this night!”
    â€œYou do that, girl. Take control and enjoy the ride. Somebody’s got to be in the pilot’s seat.”
    Our eyes were adjusting to the dimly lit rows of tables surrounding a stage of white light where a dark-haired woman in a black leather jacket talked about how she worried over her daughter wanting only blond Barbies, blond brownies, and vanilla ice cream. We zigzagged through crowded tables and chairs to our spot. As we went to sit down, someone squealed behind us.
    â€œGirls! Get out! What are you doing here?”
    Alana and I turned together. Marcella sat at a long table with a crowd of women; from the density of their foundation and eye liner, I guessed they sold cosmetics at Bon Nuit.
    Alana gasped politely. “We were dragged here screaming against our will.”
    â€œWe’re friends with the talent,” I said in that insider’s voice. “How about you?”
    â€œIt’s girls’ night out. We do this every month or so, a bunch of us.” She gestured to her friends, then leaned closer to my ear. “Let me warn you, there’s a two-drink minimum, and don’t let them talk you into the frozen drinks. They cost twice as much. Not worth it.”
    â€œThanks for the tip,” Alana said, taking a seat on the other side of the table.
    My seat ended up backing up to Marcella’s, and she turned her chair around so that we could talk. At first I was a little nervous with her. I wasn’t quite as good as Alana at making instant best friends. While other people ask a million questions and try to plumb the details of your life, I’m sort of stuck on small talk, worried about whether it’s too invasive to ask the other person a string of personal questions. “If I want someone to know about my life, I’ll write a book,” my father used to say when people barraged him with questions about where he grew up, where he used to live, what he did for a living.
    But not to worry—Marcella had the conversation covered. She clearly wanted to give me her opinion about the woman on stage, the price of appetizers here, the condition of the ladies’ room, the poor choice of floor tile. Listening to her, I was amazed at the total flip in the situation. Here this woman who had been wrestling with my friend was now giving me advice and telling the waitress I wanted my drink with ice on the side “so’s they don’t skimp on the booze,” she said.
    It was all so warm and fuzzy—my new friend Marcella, my big night out, the lady at the next table who told me I was great on All Our Tomorrows . I felt the urge to hug somebody, but I figured that was probably the tequila kicking in.
    â€œOh, this next guy is good,” Marcella said when she spotted the tall Hispanic man waiting at the edge of the stage. “You are gonna laugh so hard, honey. He’s a total pisser.”
    She was right. I started letting my buzz take over, letting my mind follow the images the comics conjured, letting myself laugh.
    At the break, Alana introduced Marcella to Kyle and Trevor, who insisted that she join our table.
    â€œI would love to!” Marcella responded. “But first let me pay up for my gin and tonics.” She turned back to the table and opened her purse—a smart little beaded bag. Fendi, I think.
    â€œDon’t worry about it.” Trevor leaned over to the next table, and snatched up the running tab. “We’ll take