Ladies Night

My friend invited me out for a ladies night to see some burlesque with her friend Kristin. Kristin and I had met once before and really hit it off, so I was excited for the evening.

I met the ladies in a dingy bar in the lower east side at 8:00 as the show, according to the website, was starting at 9:00. As I pulled up a stool and ordered a gin and tonic however, my friend announced that the website was wrong, and the show actually wouldn’t start until 11:00. We waited it out by getting some food at an adorable restaurant around the corner, and having one-too-many gin and tonics.

When we rolled back into the bar, we decided that because we had spent so much time there, we shouldn’t actually have to pay for the burlesque. We justified, to our slightly inebriated selves, that we had earned free tickets to the show. We set about conceiving of a sneaky plan that was about as sly and refined as Mr. Kool-Aid busting through brick walls.

Our first hurdle was the door man. The older gentleman was sitting casually by the door, staring out into space. My friend Helen approached. “Excuse me,” she said with a smile, “our friend left her sweater here earlier. Do you mind if we have a peak?” He barely acknowledged her and gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head toward the dark room. We were in.

We took a rather high profile table next to the stage. In hindsight, this wasn’t the best choice, but the gin had clouded our judgment, as gin tends to do. The act was still setting up their equipment and people were slowly starting to file into the room to watch the show. One of the members of the act approached the table and I perked up in my chair. We were busted. She was an overweight redhead in a black bustier and she looked right at me as she said: “can you guys save this seat for the camera guy?”

“Sure,” I said, smiling with relief. “What’s his name?”

“His name is Bob,” she replied and shuffled off.

“Oh we are IN,” Kristin squeeled. “We know the camera guy!”

Our glee was short-lived however, when a much smaller woman in street clothes approached. She appeared sharper than the first lady and carried a clipboard, which was immediately intimidating. “Did you guys get stamped by Joe?” she asked abruptly.

We all just stared blankly at her for a moment, and then Helen asked her to repeat herself. This went on far too long, with Helen just pretending she couldn’t hear the question and the clip-board-wielding pixie getting more and more frustrated. Finally, Kristin stopped the cycle by saying, “we’re with the camera guy.”

“Bob,” I added for good measure.

She looked at us skeptically, and tilted her head slightly to the left. “I’m going to check on this. I’ll be back,” and she continued onto the next table.

At this point, we knew we were busted. She was going to check with the door guy or, heaven forbid, with Bob himself and we would be found out. We knew it was hopeless. Well, two of us knew it was hopeless. Kristin still had hope in the form of a foolproof plan she came up with on the spot. She shared this plan of hers between bouts of hysterical laughter, so it took a while to get out the plan in its entirety, but it went something like this:

We’ll all put one hand in our pocket.

That was the plan.

We couldn't lose.

I was resigned to paying the $15, even with the inspired “pocket plan”, but then a miracle occurred. Pixie returned and said, shockingly, “all right. Your story checks out. Let me see your hands so I can stamp them.”

We all looked at her with our mouths open. Our story checked out? How could this be? Our story was a lie!

The show, turns out, was terrible. We ended up staying less than thirty minutes.

Overall however, it was a fine evening. While the entertainment was lackluster, the company was divine and the price was certainly right.