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Running. You always ran from your problems. Even as a kid you’d buried your mistakes and pretend they didn’t happen. Once you’d even literally buried a broken vase of your mother’s in the back yard and hoped she wouldn’t notice. It didn’t work then. But we’re you really one to learn from that? No. You still just ran away from your problems. Well, this time, you guessed, at least it was less literal.
You were on a train heading west. You’d hoped you could get far enough away that no one would know. Maybe end up in the right, or maybe wrong enough, place that no one would even care. This time it had been a little bit worse than just a broken vase. You glanced around at the few other folks aboard your car. Paranoia making you fear someone had magical telepathic powers and would just know.
You took several deep breaths. No one could read your mind, and if you could just move your thoughts away from what happened then you could stop worrying about impossible situations.
You’d gotten a ticket to Los Santos. It was the farthest place you could afford. But even with a perfectly legal ticket, you jumped out of your seat when the compartment door opened. It was only the man who checked the tickets. You showed him your phone screen and he scanned your ticket bar code.
“You ok, kid?” He asked you, picking up on your nerves.
“First train ride on my own.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. You’d never been on a train before or made a cross country trip on your own before. He believed you easily enough and moved on.
The train ran through the night, but your nerves kept you awake. You kept looking around expecting someone to suddenly shed some disguise and declare that they’d been following you and you were now under arrest. But no one did. No one even seemed to pay you any mind.
When the train finally pulled up to the station in Los Santos, you stepped off. Not a single suitcase, box, or bag to your name. You’d left it all behind with... well you weren’t going to think about what you’d left behind.
You didn’t know where you were going to stay the night. You did have a friend you’d met online that lived out here, but you didn’t want to impose on them. Especially when you’d had no time to plan this trip. You couldn’t very well pretend you’d just popped in clear across the country for an overnight without any luggage. They’d think you were having some kind of manic episode.
You might message them that you were in town at some point to meet up for, like, coffee or something. But for now, you were going to leave them unbothered.
You needed to find a place where you could sleep. All else will wait until that. You’d been running on our adrenaline and fear for the last 48 hours. You might need food, but you were going to start seeing things if you couldn’t get a nap in. So you venture away from the station in search of sleep.
~~~~
That first night in Los Santos, you’d slept under some overpass. There were plenty of other people around you. Some had been moderately welcoming. Some had been cold and distant. But they’d let you take up space in their little town for a few nights before you moved on.
You were still young enough when you’d first moved, that most shelters would take you in. And you had few enough possessions that they never turned you away.
However, once you were in the shelter, you had an address and you could start looking for work. At first, you were running bullshit errands for the shelter volunteers. They would pay you a couple bucks here and there before you started moving your way up and got a glamorous job at a local grocery store.
You were strong enough, healthy enough, to move large boxes of produce around the store. You did everything they asked of you, volunteered for every single task. But when you got the flu that was running around the shelter and had to call out, they told you that you clearly weren’t dedicated enough and not to come in for your next shift.
Your next job was a clerk at a gas station. That one was ok, but it only lasted until the station was robbed. The robbery ended up with the gas station in flames and you were, this time understandably, let go.
You tried your hand at waiting tables. You found that you weren’t half bad at it. Stacking plates. Smiling too wide. Remembering orders. Being apologetic when something went wrong. But the pay at the chain places sucked.
You bided your time at the chain places. Still applying at other restaurants that seemed a little bit nicer, but not outright quitting or anything before you secured better work.
You got a callback. This wasn’t a good part of town. It wasn’t a poor area, per se. But it wasn’t a safe place either. One of the more heavily crime based streets in Los Santos, and yes that is saying something.
You didn’t know too much about the club before you walked in. Just that it wasn’t a strip club, but it wasn’t a super classy joint either. It was weirdly dark when you walked in, despite the midday sun. Almost no windows. But that was one of those fun tricks to fool the patrons about how much time has passed. You’d seen a documentary or two about casinos, and while this wasn’t a casino, it wasn’t much better.
You met with a senior manager of the club at a table near the bar. You were the only people in the room, but that was probably a good thing at 10 in the morning on a weekday. The manager said that your resume looked great and that as long as you haven’t murdered anyone that you would be a perfect candidate. You chuckled nervously as he stood up.
“Actually,” he corrected. “I don’t think anyone here would care if you were a serial killer as long as the drinks keep flowing.”
He showed you around. Showed you the kitchen where cooks were already prepping for the evening. Showed you the bar. Asked if you were old enough to drink. You told him you were, but he didn’t double-check your ID. Showed you the stage and dressing rooms. He asked if you could sing. You didn’t think your voice was good for anything other than your shower.
“Shame, that. Well if you decide to learn to sing, or play the piano, you can audition. If you’re also entertainment it’s a few extra bucks an hour, so you might want to think about it.”
A raise did sound good to you. Especially if you wanted to get your GED and maybe a place of your own. You’d been moving from shelter to the street to another shelter for a while now and you really wanted some roots. You were tired of always looking over your shoulder. No one had come to take you back or throw you in jail yet. So while you wanted to keep at least one eye looking for trouble headed your way, you needed somewhere that you could feel safe.
“That’s really all there is to this place. Just keep your nose clean. Don’t go looking for trouble, and you’ll fit right in here. I’ve got some paperwork for you to fill out, and you can come in tomorrow for training.”
You were about to tell him that you’ve been a waitress before and didn’t need training. But he must have seen the protest in your eyes, and continued, “I know you’ve got some experience. But this isn’t a normal restaurant or bar. I’ll introduce you to your coworkers tomorrow at 4.”
He handed you a stack of paperwork, and said, “Welcome to the Sidecar Lounge team.” Then he left you alone with a pile of papers to sign.
~~~~
The Sidecar is a good gig. No respectable cop would step foot in this place, and no one cares who you were before Los Santos. Everyone came here to make a new name for themselves.
You’ve been here a while now. You’re probably one of the only people not actively committing crimes in your downtime. You grab a tray of drinks from the sandy-haired bodybuilder behind the bar. Blaine has been slinging drinks here since the place opened. He lied about his age to get the job. And if everyone just pretended they didn’t notice the way he’s nursing a sore shoulder, he didn’t mind. After all. You all know the first rule of Fight Club.
Before you make it back to the table with the drinks, one of the other waitresses, Barbara, stops you to warn you about how handsy the table is. She was an aspiring model. Definitely pretty enough. But gorgeous girls get overlooked all the time here. She’d been here even longer than you. She had eyes all over the town, and a lot of the regulars paid a pretty penny for her info.
One of the newer regulars had even caught her eye. Tall guy. Cute. Definitely too smart to be caught up in whatever mess he was in. He hung around some of the scarier people in here. Well scarier to the people not waiting on them.
They tipped well and kept their hands to themselves. They were unfortunately not your table today. Barbara was real smart to start seeing that guy. She usually got to wait on that table now. She did however share her tips from that table. She just needed the break from grabby hands.
She wasn’t the only one with that problem. But she had it worse than you or Jessica. Fortunately, the rest of the waitstaff had your back. Like, when he wasn’t on stage playing the piano and crooning, Jon would stop by and start flirting with whatever table he noticed giving the girls a hard time. When he was actually trying to flirt, he was an awkward mess, but if he was trying to get some macho guy away from one of his friends, he was a real smooth talker. You noticed that he was better at lying than telling the truth, but you didn’t look too closely into his life. You tried not to pay attention to, or be envious of, all the nice things his dates bought him.
He wasn’t the only one that would help, career busboy, Chris, would pop by, if Jon was unavailable, to shatter a glass on the floor nearby or spill some water on a particularly obtuse asshole. You didn’t know what his deal was exactly, but he had the craziest stories from every night off. You didn’t know how someone who came across so meek at work could do any of the stuff he did. But he had the pictures to back up every single wild tale.
Chad only worked part-time, he’d come to Los Santos as a two-bit drug dealer. But the business had grown to more elaborate kinds of smuggling. You knew he helped Mariel sneak in her illegal coffee. Which was significantly a more dangerous gambit than the weapons or exotic animals you knew he’d worked in. He would swap any table that got too out of hand for you.
And you knew you had the watchful eye of the bartender in case anyone needed a good reminder to lay off. It only took a few months to learn the dances to avoid getting touched and to avoid losing your tray of drinks.
The door opened and there was a rush of silence. You could actually hear Jon at the piano for the first time that night. You glanced at the door. It was Barbara’s guy’s crew. You didn’t understand the silence. They were here a lot. As they walked in they spread out a little. Maybe it was the looming figure in the black mask, but you’d taken their order enough not to be scared of any of them. And maybe that was a mistake. They headed to a large booth in your section.
They didn’t have like a regular table or anything, but they were also a big enough deal that they got to bypass Mariel at the hostess stand. You walked over to ask if they needed menus or if you could take their drink order.
The man with all the tattoos brushed off the suggestion for alcohol. A round of Diet Cokes. Followed by the bald one asking for whatever kind of whiskey you have. When you ask him how much he wants, he says to bring the bottle. Everyone seems to agree with that order and so you bring them a round of Diet Cokes and a bottle of Jack.
The first man starts chatting with you, and you let him for a short while. You want the respite from the handsy table Babs had warned you about earlier. “You from around here?”
The classic starting line in any city that no one is from, but everyone moves to. “Nope. I’m from back East.”
“Yeah? Which way east? We got some New Englanders here and I’m from Alabama myself.”
You chuckle, trying to hide the nerves and not talk about where you’re from. “I try not to think about it too much. What brought you all the way here?”
“You know. The same thing that brings most people. Opportunity.”
“You know what, me too.” You smile before another table calls for your attention. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll be back around in case you want any apps or refills.”
You hear behind you despite the rumble of talking all around, “Dude, she’s getting paid to pay attention to you. Let up.”
You take a lap around your section. Refilling any glasses. Checking in on everyone. You stop for a minute at your other favorite table tonight. A group of crooked detectives arguing about anime or video games or something. You’re pretty sure you hear something about alchemy before they stop the argument to give you their full attention. It’s a little odd, but you appreciate their politeness.