Mr Thompson's Pub and Cabaret

That night, Mr. Thompson told Brendon to arrive at 9 on the dot, because although he wouldn't start working for two more weeks, he needed to get his background's worth of all the cabaret he could handle.

As he walked up to the door, his shoes echoed on the sidewalk as the music inside was growing louder. He disturbed the night's relatively peaceful silence by pushing on the door handle, the liveliness of Mr. Thompson's Pub & Cabaret bringing breath into the air.

The stage was vacant, as the show wouldn't start for another hour. People were sitting on the bar stools and at the tables, and there was constantly the faint sound of clinking ice in the glasses.

"Meet me backstage at 9 pm. No earlier, no later. I'll be in my office and will stay out there for you for no more than a minute. If you aren't there, you can consider yourself unemployed.

Brendon checked his wrist watch and saw it was 8:56. He knew it would be better to show up early than late, because late wasn't an option. Making his way towards the back of the cabaret, he found himself in a dimly lit room with six vanities covered in various tubes and containers of makeup. There were girls running around, pulling stockings and pantie hoes over their perfectly fitted undergarments.

There was a group of eight men in the corner, all of them wearing white button-up shirts and black bowler caps. He assumed that it was the band, the men that would be his colleagues in a few weeks. His eyes travel led back to his watch again, nervously. A minute hadn't even passed.

And that was when Vera Beau marched in, wearing nothing but a lacey bra and matching panties. Her feet were dressed in heels as red as her lips and the hair on her head. She skipped past the men in the corner and took the hat off the one with bright blue eyes, sticking it on top of her head.

"Vera, I'm sure you have one of your own hats," the man said, grinning. His brown hair was short and messy, even more so now that the hat had been removed from his head.

"I do. But what's the fun in wearing something that's yours?" She had a mischievous smile on her face and she shook her shoulders flirtatiously.

"You still need to get ready, doll. So how about you give me my hat, and go make yourself look pretty."

She saluted. "Sir, yes, sir." She placed the hat back on the top of his head and marched back towards the vanity closest towards the stage, pulling out a bottle of liquid eyeliner, running the brush over her eyelid.

"Oh, Brendon!"

His eyes were taken away from Vera, and looked to see Mr. Thompson walking out of a room towards the back. "Good, you're on time. And your band is right over here. Let's go meet them, shall we?" He led him past all the girls and towards the corner. "Gentleman," he said, putting his arm around Brendon's shoulders. "This is going to be Paulie's replacement, Brendon."

"Hey, how's it going?" Brendon smiled, and managed to get a good look at all of their faces. They had a hint of eyeliner around their eyes underneath the shadow of their hats.

"Rodger!"

Sugar --or Spice-- came running over. Rodger? Which one of these guys was Rodger? The accent on his name made it sound more French, more like she was calling him 'Rogae.' But it was Mr. Thompson that responded to the unfamiliar name.

"Yes?"

"I can't find my corset. I looked in all of the racks." She sounded panicked, and her eyes were wide and fretful.

Mr. Thompson sighed. "Where was the last place you put it?" he asked as he walked away with her.

Six pairs of eyes met his and then after a few minutes of silence, one of the men with more elaborate makeup smiled.

"Hey, I'm Ryan. I'm the other guitarist." Ryan had long bangs that hung in front of his eyes, which were the color of honey, warm and inviting.

"Nice to meet you."

Most of the band discarded after that, leaving three other men to talk alone. He'd learned their names; Ryan, Jon, and Spencer--Spencer being the one with the blue eyes.

But then Vera came back over, her sultry eyes looked over Brendon's face slowly. She was now "fully" clothed in a white corset with black pinstripes, paired with a tutu. "Who's this?" she asked, scrunching up her short hair with her fingers.

"Brendon. He's going to be the new guitarist once Paulie finally gets out of here."

She smiled. "He's cute. Let's keep him around." Vera spun around and walked back to her vanity, applying a new coat of her crimson lipstick.

"God damn that woman," Ryan said, shaking his head. "She makes burlesque look like child's' play."

Brendon looked at Ryan confused, but knew better than to ask. And judging by the look of admiration in their eyes, it was safe to assume it was a good thing.

"So do you play anything else?" Jon asked, turning out towards Brendon.

"Yeah. Bass, drums, piano, organ, and accordion."

Jon nodded. "I'm sure you'll fit right in."

"I hope so. Mr. Thompson gave me a big speech on how the cabaret is a lifestyle, not a job. And I don't want to disrespect him or anything by not being good enough or something."

There was a quiet chuckle from the back of Jon's throat as he turned to face Brendon completely. "Mr. Thompson is picky, he doesn't hire just anyone. Let me start off with that. He saw something in you he liked, and he hired you for it. You heard Sugar call him Rodger, right? There are only certain people he'll even allow to call him that. Not all of the dancers have that privilege, and the only member of the band that does is Bobbie, and that's only because he's had a job here for like, five years."

"Which one's Bobbie?"

Jon pointed a finger at a man holding a trumpet. His hat covered long, straight brown hair. He was tall, but had a muscular build.

So that was Mr. Thompson's star pupil. And he longed to be in that sort of position. He wanted a chance to be the cabaret's star musician.

"How do you know if you get to call him Rodger?"

"I've worked here long enough to see the signs. Why? You have intentions of being a favorite?"

"I might."

"Don't get your hopes up, kid. I've worked here for a year and a half and he still spells my name J-O-H-N."

Brendon was close to making a sarcastic remark, but he was worried that maybe it wouldn't be the best time. He didn't know Jon very well, and chances were he wouldn't take it as a joke. He wanted to make friends here, not enemies.

A man over six feet walked towards Jon, the over-sized glasses slipping down his small nose. "You have five minutes," he said, as he fixed them, then turned away.

"That's Greggory. He's Mr. Thompson's right-hand man. He's in charge of finding and buying costumes, picking the music, and organizing the shows." Jon suddenly looked distracted, and as Brendon followed his gaze, he saw the French woman he'd talked to this morning.

"Who's that?"

Jon's eyes never left the woman until she had vanished from sight. "That's Lady Ellen. If you thought Vera Beau was something, you should have seen her fifteen years ago. She helped Mr. Thompson open the place. She was one of the first hits here, and she choreographs everything."

Brendon hated not being on top of everything. He hated not knowing what was going on. He'd give himself a week of watching to learn the ropes. He'd be an expert before he officially even worked there.

"Jon," Spencer said, waving him towards the curtains that were still closed, where the rest of the band was waiting.

"I guess we're heading out. Have fun!"

"Wait! The show doesn't start for another half hour," Brendon said, trying to stop Jon from walking away.

"Yeah, but the band needs to entertain the audience until then," he replied before walking behind the curtain and disappearing on the opposite side of the stage, leaving Brendon alone with the group of dancers. They all changed in and out of their outfits and would occasionally dance around and a voice seemed to carry out above all the chatter.

Brendon's eyes followed the sound, leading him straight to Vera's lips.

She was defiantly a dancer who called Mr. Thompson 'Rodger.'