The bell above the door really was a nice touch, the lilting sound a pleasant invitation that belonged at the local malt shop and not in the entrance to one of the most popular illicit bars in the city. The club had moved three times in the last ten years and still its disguise remained one of the best, complete with secret compartments and entire hidden rooms that even the coppers couldn’t find. It was famous for its extensive liquor selection, had never once been busted in a police raid, and was surprisingly empty at the moment.
Ciana felt out of place simply walking into such a ritzy joint, and the silence only added to her discomfort. She shut the heavy door gently behind her so she wouldn’t disturb the few patrons dotted around the room enjoying a cigarette and a drink before the evening crowd flooded in.
The chairs had already been taken down from the tables and pushed to the fringes of the expansive room in preparation for another eventful evening, the dark and polished hardwood flooring gleaming despite night after night of dancing. Ciana herself didn’t frequent any joints, not because she didn’t want to, but because she couldn’t afford to. Even still, she could picture the club at its peak hours, men and women hoofing all night long as if they really were as carefree as they looked and could forget the world that waited patiently for them outside.
Ciana approached the bar as slowly and deliberately as she could, softly clearing her throat to prepare her accent and reminding herself to pitch her voice low. Her jeans were too long even rolled up and she readjusted her thick men’s jacket, hoping the borrowed clothing would be enough to hide her curves.
The bartender either didn’t seem to notice her presence or he simply didn’t care, too busy wiping down the counter and arranging pint and wine glasses for the evening’s patrons to bother with her. Ciana looked young as a girl and even younger as a boy; undoubtedly too young to hang around a bar, even an illegal one.
She tapped her foot as she waited, the boot she wore heavier than she was used to and thudding much louder in the quiet than she had expected. The man glanced up at her, his thick black eyebrows giving the impression that he was perpetually glaring.
Ciana could feel her cheeks redden and hoped the man attributed it to the cold and not her embarrassment. “Um, hi,” she tried, regretting the words as soon as they left her mouth. Scemo.
The bartender raised a bushy brow at her before returning to his cleaning.
“I’d like a job. If ya have one.” Her accent still needed work, but she had almost gotten the tone down.
“Look, kid, I ain’t got time for this. You’re too young to work here, so go try somewhere else.”
“I have tried somewhere else—lots of places, actually. Else I wouldn’t be here.”
The man put his cloth on the bar and finally gave Ciana his attention. He looked her up and down, confusion plain on his face before he frowned and his eyebrows knit together.
“You was in here the other day,” he started, anger coloring his words as he put two and two together. “You’re that girl who broke my glasses!” He raised a stein in the air as he spoke to illustrate his point before returning his attention to cleaning and Ciana cursed him for seeing through her disguise so quickly. Scemo. Sciocca ragazza.
“I just want—”
“Are you deaf, girl, or just dumb?” the portly man said without looking up from the bar. “I said go away, I ain’t hiring.”
Ciana stood her ground from across the counter, fighting the urge to cross her arms as she watched him wipe the rag in circles around the same section of faded hardwood as if he could eliminate the history of every stain or smudge of grime. Calm. Professional. Confident. “I ain’t…,” she exhaled and cleared her throat. “I’m not either, sir, I’m a hard worker and’ll do anything if you just—”
“I got plenty of men working already, girl. I don’t need ya in the way, messin’ up and breaking shipments ya can’t lift. Ya want work, go find it someplace else.”
“But—”
“I said go away,” he demanded, firm and final.
Ciana glared at the bartender, willing him to meet her challenge. Her hands itched for her elbows, lips tugging downward without her consent. But he kept his eyes fixed to the bar, content to forget she even existed, the worn wood as polished as it was ever going to be no matter how much attention it received.
The soft chime of the bell above the speakeasy door that had greeted her when she entered was indistinguishable when she stormed out, the slam unnecessary but satisfying. And after so many rejections in a row, all from men who seemed to think her ability to work was tied to her appearance, Ciana felt entitled to her small act of vengeance on the door.
That rotten, no good, selfish…urgg! She needed something to hit. Something short and round and balding and bigoted. Didn’t he understand that women needed jobs, too? That Ciana needed a job? It wasn’t just her stomach that growled late at night when she tried to sleep, and going home again empty handed…. Ciana didn’t think she could continue to face her cousins’ disappointment every time she walked through the front door.
She stomped down the street, feet nearly jumping out of her too-large work boots, no particular route in mind as long as it got her home. She knew it would—if there was one thing she could rely on, it was the predictable grid of streets and alleys that sliced the borough into memorizable chunks. She had wandered several blocks from home during her search, but the walk would do well to clear her head of another day’s misfortune.
Longshoreman, waitress, bellhop, secretary. All of the jobs she didn’t have—couldn’t have because judgmental stronzi stood in her way—plagued her thoughts while she walked. Ciana knew that she couldn’t really blame anyone for turning her away, even if they did happen to be prejudiced—there hadn’t been nearly enough work to go around for months. A lot of places couldn’t afford to hire her even if she had been a strong young man. Still, she couldn’t help but notice the way they refused to make eye contact, the way they assumed she couldn’t keep up with the other men.
Her accent probably wasn’t helping, either.
The signs in the windows of the shops and restaurants and apartment buildings that lined the streets she walked repeated the same message day after day: Ciana wasn’t welcome in this city. None were as numerous as those warding off the Irish. The poor saps were instantly condemned once the Americans, unwilling to share the city with anyone who came in by boat or airship, realized they couldn’t find jobs when the Crash broke the city and defaulted to blaming their favorite scapegoats. But really, anyone who was different had become a target, and Ciana’s Italian accent instantly pegged her as different.
Ciana pulled her tattered scarf up to her ears to ward off the chill in the air and quickened her pace. The temperature had dropped with the sun, and although the days were gradually getting longer night still fell far too early. By the time she hit West 46th Street only the gas from distant stars and evenly spaced streetlamps lit her way home.
Even in the dark the route wasn’t a difficult one. She had walked these streets often enough, day or night, to know the quickest way home from almost anywhere on the island: straight down 5th Avenue and a jaunt along Broadway would take her most of the way home. A sheen of fresh snow speckled the ground, but still the streets bustled with activity. Even after nightfall anyone with cash to spare hurried to and from work, to speakeasies and shops, and to the markets before they closed.
Ciana didn’t have any money, so she just kept walking.
Ciana felt out of place simply walking into such a ritzy joint, and the silence only added to her discomfort. She shut the heavy door gently behind her so she wouldn’t disturb the few patrons dotted around the room enjoying a cigarette and a drink before the evening crowd flooded in.
The chairs had already been taken down from the tables and pushed to the fringes of the expansive room in preparation for another eventful evening, the dark and polished hardwood flooring gleaming despite night after night of dancing. Ciana herself didn’t frequent any joints, not because she didn’t want to, but because she couldn’t afford to. Even still, she could picture the club at its peak hours, men and women hoofing all night long as if they really were as carefree as they looked and could forget the world that waited patiently for them outside.
Ciana approached the bar as slowly and deliberately as she could, softly clearing her throat to prepare her accent and reminding herself to pitch her voice low. Her jeans were too long even rolled up and she readjusted her thick men’s jacket, hoping the borrowed clothing would be enough to hide her curves.
The bartender either didn’t seem to notice her presence or he simply didn’t care, too busy wiping down the counter and arranging pint and wine glasses for the evening’s patrons to bother with her. Ciana looked young as a girl and even younger as a boy; undoubtedly too young to hang around a bar, even an illegal one.
She tapped her foot as she waited, the boot she wore heavier than she was used to and thudding much louder in the quiet than she had expected. The man glanced up at her, his thick black eyebrows giving the impression that he was perpetually glaring.
Ciana could feel her cheeks redden and hoped the man attributed it to the cold and not her embarrassment. “Um, hi,” she tried, regretting the words as soon as they left her mouth. Scemo.
The bartender raised a bushy brow at her before returning to his cleaning.
“I’d like a job. If ya have one.” Her accent still needed work, but she had almost gotten the tone down.
“Look, kid, I ain’t got time for this. You’re too young to work here, so go try somewhere else.”
“I have tried somewhere else—lots of places, actually. Else I wouldn’t be here.”
The man put his cloth on the bar and finally gave Ciana his attention. He looked her up and down, confusion plain on his face before he frowned and his eyebrows knit together.
“You was in here the other day,” he started, anger coloring his words as he put two and two together. “You’re that girl who broke my glasses!” He raised a stein in the air as he spoke to illustrate his point before returning his attention to cleaning and Ciana cursed him for seeing through her disguise so quickly. Scemo. Sciocca ragazza.
“I just want—”
“Are you deaf, girl, or just dumb?” the portly man said without looking up from the bar. “I said go away, I ain’t hiring.”
Ciana stood her ground from across the counter, fighting the urge to cross her arms as she watched him wipe the rag in circles around the same section of faded hardwood as if he could eliminate the history of every stain or smudge of grime. Calm. Professional. Confident. “I ain’t…,” she exhaled and cleared her throat. “I’m not either, sir, I’m a hard worker and’ll do anything if you just—”
“I got plenty of men working already, girl. I don’t need ya in the way, messin’ up and breaking shipments ya can’t lift. Ya want work, go find it someplace else.”
“But—”
“I said go away,” he demanded, firm and final.
Ciana glared at the bartender, willing him to meet her challenge. Her hands itched for her elbows, lips tugging downward without her consent. But he kept his eyes fixed to the bar, content to forget she even existed, the worn wood as polished as it was ever going to be no matter how much attention it received.
The soft chime of the bell above the speakeasy door that had greeted her when she entered was indistinguishable when she stormed out, the slam unnecessary but satisfying. And after so many rejections in a row, all from men who seemed to think her ability to work was tied to her appearance, Ciana felt entitled to her small act of vengeance on the door.
That rotten, no good, selfish…urgg! She needed something to hit. Something short and round and balding and bigoted. Didn’t he understand that women needed jobs, too? That Ciana needed a job? It wasn’t just her stomach that growled late at night when she tried to sleep, and going home again empty handed…. Ciana didn’t think she could continue to face her cousins’ disappointment every time she walked through the front door.
She stomped down the street, feet nearly jumping out of her too-large work boots, no particular route in mind as long as it got her home. She knew it would—if there was one thing she could rely on, it was the predictable grid of streets and alleys that sliced the borough into memorizable chunks. She had wandered several blocks from home during her search, but the walk would do well to clear her head of another day’s misfortune.
Longshoreman, waitress, bellhop, secretary. All of the jobs she didn’t have—couldn’t have because judgmental stronzi stood in her way—plagued her thoughts while she walked. Ciana knew that she couldn’t really blame anyone for turning her away, even if they did happen to be prejudiced—there hadn’t been nearly enough work to go around for months. A lot of places couldn’t afford to hire her even if she had been a strong young man. Still, she couldn’t help but notice the way they refused to make eye contact, the way they assumed she couldn’t keep up with the other men.
Her accent probably wasn’t helping, either.
The signs in the windows of the shops and restaurants and apartment buildings that lined the streets she walked repeated the same message day after day: Ciana wasn’t welcome in this city. None were as numerous as those warding off the Irish. The poor saps were instantly condemned once the Americans, unwilling to share the city with anyone who came in by boat or airship, realized they couldn’t find jobs when the Crash broke the city and defaulted to blaming their favorite scapegoats. But really, anyone who was different had become a target, and Ciana’s Italian accent instantly pegged her as different.
Ciana pulled her tattered scarf up to her ears to ward off the chill in the air and quickened her pace. The temperature had dropped with the sun, and although the days were gradually getting longer night still fell far too early. By the time she hit West 46th Street only the gas from distant stars and evenly spaced streetlamps lit her way home.
Even in the dark the route wasn’t a difficult one. She had walked these streets often enough, day or night, to know the quickest way home from almost anywhere on the island: straight down 5th Avenue and a jaunt along Broadway would take her most of the way home. A sheen of fresh snow speckled the ground, but still the streets bustled with activity. Even after nightfall anyone with cash to spare hurried to and from work, to speakeasies and shops, and to the markets before they closed.
Ciana didn’t have any money, so she just kept walking.
© 2017 Elise Price