All week the floor guys kept telling me that Friday night’s
preseason Browns game was gonna bring in huge crowds. Instead what we got were
a few tables full of men wearing orange and brown jerseys and grim expressions.
“It does not look good, it does not look good,” they kept saying, which means
my hope of banking on Sunday nights during football season does not look good.
It got me thinking about how much men control my fate, in
ways both direct and indirect. If a bunch of male athletes I could care less
about (but pretend to care deeply about while at work) fail to win games and
draw crowds, I make less money.
If undercover cops come around and ticket for not wearing
nipple glue (which is not even healthy to wear) I lose five hundred dollars.
I can hustle my ass off, but unless the customers agree
to buy dances, I don’t make shit.
I’m grateful and proud to be doing okay. I’ve got an
apartment, a car, and a little bit saved up. I’m doing better financially than
most of my male friends my age. But it’s still their world, their rules, their
field. I’m just playing the game.
No comments:
Post a Comment