Pool Party aired

I was thrilled to hear portions of Pool Party read on Diverse TV Everyone tune in and listen too:

Also, a few more pages from the Belinda novel:

“How’s The G Zone?” One of those trendy clubs that came and just as rapidly went.

“Busy. I could get you in if you want.”

“All it does is Friday and Saturday.”

“And Thursday. I make more in three days there than I did here in five.”

“Tempting,” Belinda agreed. Then she could try for that lunch job Yvette said she should get and make more money still and not be tired. What if, though, she didn’t find a lunch job and the G place went bust? Which would leave her on the job market at thirty. “But pass.” Christy was younger and could still get hired when places went belly-up or got sold. Plus, she’d gotten fake tits, which had practically become a requirement. “I need something stable.”

“You’ll die here. You’re dead already. Take a chance.”

“That’s what you get with younger men,” Yvette blamed.

“Ray was older.”

“By a year. That’s pretty much the same age. An older man’s more responsible. You could meet one if you found a lunch job downtown. Even if he was married. He might set you up in an apartment.”

“This isn’t the eighties. And an upscale place might not want my low-life experience.”

“You never know till you try. You’re older now. Make yourself look the part. Get dressed up. You can act. Or at least, you tell me you do every night. What have you got to lose? Because, according to you, you’re being crowded out by twenty-year olds. Downtown might want someone more mature who can actually do the job right.”

At the Leer, all the new girls were twenty. They put up with more shit and were easier to boss around and control out of fear and ambition. Meaning her time there was limited. Every day, Rusty tried provoking her into quitting, to make room for fresh eyelashes and silicon tits; girls who could raise the hope of the regulars that they could take those breasts home if they just hung around long enough and kept drinking. Like those losers needed a lot of encouragement, though most of them, as they got older too, had given up hope after too many failures, and preferred just watching sports on the big screen TV or listening to the bands. “Yeah,” Belinda agreed. “Maybe.”

“Then do something instead of moaning you’re nothing and going nowhere.”

Except sinking lower. And she did have something to lose. If Rusty found out she’d taken a day job, he’d cut her hours for sure. Though how would he know? Few new employers ever called references. Butting her cigarette, she stretched out on the couch to unwind with a crossword puzzle for a minute before getting ready for bed. Then remembered her message. She pushed play on the answering machine. As predicted, Yvette. Singing happy birthday. Belinda pressed stop and let herself fall asleep for a nap before getting ready for bed.

3. Nothing Ventured….

Belinda woke up to loud knocking. Squinting in the combination of lamplight and sunlight, she shuffled to the door in her slippers, getting a static shock on the knob. Even Calgary’s dry air was intolerable. “Can’t you remember I work late?” Belinda opened the door. She didn’t even know why she answered it. Well, she did. Because the noise of the knocking had startled her onto her feet before her brain could kick in and tell her not to bother getting up; plus, she’d never get back to sleep anyway, with Yvette pounding on the door. She believed people should be up in the morning, even if they got home in the middle of the night. Like there was some merit to seeing the sun rise—after going to bed.

“Happy birthday!” Yvette held a box wrapped in birthday paper, while Belinda massaged a kink in her neck. “You fell asleep on the couch again, didn’t you.”

Another serious breach of morality, and obvious, because Belinda was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. “What time is it?”

“Nine o’clock. Here,” Yvette thrust to box at her.

“It’s heavy.” Belinda brought the parcel to the couch and tore off the paper, revealing a duct taped electronic typewriter box. “What’s in it?”

“Open it.”

Curious, Belinda sawed at the tape with a nail file and lifted the lid. An electronic typewriter.

“You know I’m moving to Vancouver,” Yvette reminded.

“Yes.”

“I’ve been going through my stuff and getting rid of what I won’t need. Gerald has a computer, so….”

A used gift. And useless. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

“You could type up your resume.”

“Waitresses don’t write resumes. They fill out applications.”

“Not anymore. Or downtown. How long has it been since you’ve applied for a job? And I don’t want to hear you’re too old. You aren’t for the good places. When Gerald takes me out, we’re always served by waiters over thirty.”

“Waiters. Men. How many thirty-year-old women do you see waiting tables?”

Yvette thought for a minute. “Okay, none, but most women your age are home with young families. You don’t see them out working anywhere.”

“Men aren’t discriminated against for being old. Women are.”

“Only if you believe it. You have to believe in yourself.”

“In yourself,” Belinda scoffed. “That’s a good one. What would you be doing if you hadn’t met Gerald?”

“I met Gerald because I made certain decisions. I requested the downtown store. You need a restaurant where that same type of clientele eats.”