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perch,” against the back of a chair, the edge of a sofa or a railing. Always ready. Always willing. You had to call in your drinks in a sequence that never ever varied and then arrange them with military precision on your tray. You always had to remember to stand in “the Bunny stance” when you weren’t moving, your pelvis tucked forward like an offering, your legs together, back arched (but don’t lose your balance in those three-inch heels). When you were serving, no matter how bad your feet hurt, you had to do that “Bunny dip” so your titties weren’t right up in somebody’s face. You’d lean back, again with the pelvis forward, arch the back, then bend the knees. Make them think about resting their hands on the small of your back, or between your legs. But if they ever tried to touch . . . uh, uh, uh. A laugh and a gentle pivot away. No drunken businessman was going to get it for free. He wasn’t supposed to get it at all. The Bunny Mothers watched the girls with smiling firmness to make sure that this rule was never violated within the club. But you could always slip someone your phone number. Or meet him later.
    Angela didn’t do that stuff, at first. She took the rules very seriously and couldn’t imagine going out with any of the key holders anyway. They were all white, all fat, all bald, it seemed. They called everyone honey, and thought their unfunny jokes were hilarious (“I love hot chocolate,” they were always saying to her), and drank Scotch straight up until their words were a liquor-edged blur. They were always plucking at her tail and trying to get her to lean forward over the table so they could get a good look at her tits.
    The money, however, was unbelievable. She often took home $200 or $300 a night in cash. The first time a guy slipped her a $100 tip, she almost gave it back; she’d never seen a $100 bill before. She wasn’t sure it was real, and then, when she saw how much it was, she couldn’t believe he’d meant to give it to her. She perched next to Sheila for a second during one of their infrequent lulls. “Sheil, this guy just gave me one hundred dollars. Do you think he meant to do that?”
    â€œGirl, you look like a million dollars in that outfit.” Sheila poked her in one of the rigid stays that made her tiny waist appear even tinier. “You bet he meant to give it to you. You keep it and keep working that shit. There’s plenty more where that came from.”
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    And so there was. Angela had a drawer full of cash until Sheila told her she really ought to open a bank account. She could buy any pretty clothes she wanted, but a lot of the money just sat there. She was so tired all the time. She still wanted to be an actress, but she wasn’t at all sure how to make that happen. The days slipped quietly by. As soon as she and Sheila got some rest, it was time to go back to work. The only thing that kept her going was Dexatrim. She couldn’t afford to gain a pound, and the pills gave her a buzzy feeling that she liked, especially before work. They rarely got home before 4:00 or 5:00 A.M. (if neither of them had a date). The days were spent sleeping until noon or so and then massaging each other’s sore feet and running to the drugstore to buy more Dexatrim. In their refrigerator was a cloudy glass of water, three cans of Tab, two lemons, an old bag of carrots, and a moldy Chinese takeout carton. Angela loved it. She loved walking out of their tiny apartment and standing on the corner, inhaling the mingled scents of car exhaust and gardenia, and standing on the edge of everything good.
    Not long after she and Sheila had become roommates, Sheila took her to Venice Beach. Angela, though she’d lived in LA for a few months by then, had yet to see the ocean. She hadn’t known how to get there and she had no one to go with. Sheila laughed and took her hand. “Girl, you are so