The Change in Rhythm Keeps Me Alive

She walks into Victrola, shaking off any uncertainties at the door. It's just a club, like every other club she's been to, from L.A. to Podunk. The class-level was a little higher than she expected but maybe that was a good thing. Strutting up to the bar, she asked for a shot of whiskey and to see the owner, whoever they may be.

The bartender informed Chuck that he had someone to see him. Reluctantly, he put down his history essay and walked over to the bar. He was surprised to see a strangely familiar looking girl sitting at the bar. "I'm the owner." He said briskly when he reached her. "What can I do for you?"

She finished off the last little bit of whiskey in the glass before giving the guy--who, wow, looked like he was about the same age that she was--a slow smile. "You're running half of the girls up on stage ragged between the different routines and what I'm sure are ridiculously quick costume changes." She looked over the dancers and gestured to the stage. "Two of them forgot their gloves and the one there on the end has two different shoes on." She felt bad for about half a minute about ripping into the girls. "How about a little bit of extra entertainment in between to allow the girls a little bit of extra time."

Chuck looked at her suspiciously. He didn't like people coming in and telling him how to run his club. He'd been doing just fine for the past fifty years. "What if I like the way my club's run? No one's complained about it before."

"Just offering the opinion of someone who's mind isn't fogged by a raging hard on," she said breezily, shrugging.

Chuck grinned. He had to admire the girl's candor. "And what exactly do you propose instead?" He was somewhat interested in what she had to say, which was unusual for Chuck.

"You're going for a 1920s risque type of class," she said, glancing around again. She turned back to meet his eyes evenly. "I have a repertoire of about one hundred songs of the era that I can perform, both with accompaniment or a cappella." They weren't meant to be sung that way but she'd had enough practice and "technical problems" at other places that she knew how to make them sound good. She shrugged. "A song or two between your girls' routines would give them a few more moments to get ready while still keeping the attentions of the audience."

Chuck thought about it. It would be an interesting addition to the club and they could use some new entertainment. However, Victrola wasn't the place for her. "I have another club that might be a better fit for you. It's called The Gin Joint. It was a speakeasy in the 20s then fell into disrepair before I bought it. Can you be there tonight at nine and have your music?"

She stared him down for a moment, trying to figure out if he was serious or just shoving her out the door, before nodding. "What's the address and do you have anything specific you want to hear?"

Chuck pulled a piece of paper out of his suit jacket and wrote down the address. "Normally, we have a swing band playing, so, most of the time, you'll be singing with a full band accompaniment. Tonight though, they have the night off so it'll just be you and a piano player."

She took the paper once he'd finished writing and looked over the address. "I've done more with less," she stated blandly before giving him an easy smile. She almost didn't know what to say; usually it was harder than this. "I'm going to assume that 'As Time Goes By' would be a bad choice?"

Chuck shook his head. "Not at all. Casablanca is one of my favorite movies. The song is classic and it's generally requested at least once each night. What will you be wearing?"

"Most likely a standard little black dress," she said, picturing just the dress she had in mind. "Why?"

Chuck shrugged as he ordered his usual glass of scotch. "Just making sure you know the appropriate attire to wear in a place like The Gin Joint. You'd be surprised at what some singers have come in wearing. That's why it's taken me so long to find one."

With a raised eyebrow, she gave him a wry smile. "I was raised by a woman who was arm-candy to an upper-ranking member of the Russian mob; one of the many things I've learned is how to dress appropriately for any and every occasion." Tucking the piece of paper away, she gave him a nod and pushed herself away from the bar. "I'll see you at nine."

Chuck raised his glass to her and nodded. "I'll see you then, Make sure your first song is 'As Time Goes By'."

She gave him a playful salute as she headed for the door.

She arrived at the address he'd given her ten minutes or so before nine. It was a force of habit and slight paranoia to show up early, look the place over like her "Uncle" Sasha had taught her. Gripping tight to the messenger bag that held most of her sheet music, she walked over to the bar.

Chuck looked around the club and smiled. It was a good turn out tonight. Most of the usual crowd was there but there were some people that he had never seen before. Word travels fast in a place like New York. He spotted the singer over by the bar and walked over to her. "I don't believe you ever told me your name."

She was tempted to order a whiskey but she didn't drink before she sang as a rule. When he came over, the nerves lessened a bit; he wasn't dicking her over, apparently, and that was good. "No," she said with a hint of a smirk. "I don't believe I ever did."

Chuck grinned and finished up his scotch. "Don't you think I'm going to need your name due to the fact that that you'll be announced?"

"I'd rather be a voice than a name," she said evenly. "But," she admitted, with a gentle roll of one shoulder, "you do have a point. It's Chelsea."

Chuck nodded. "I'm Chuck." He looked around the bar and downed his scotch before ordering another. "Is this your usual venue?"

"No, but it's the type I prefer." She was tired of twanging her way through honkytonks and even though she had the range and power to do 80s hair metal, if she never had to have one more ass ogling her while she sang "Pour Some Sugar On Me" again, she'd die happy. "Modern music is the reason I no longer own a radio," she said acerbically, shaking her head.

Chuck thanked the bartender as he took his scotch and nodded. "Too right. I'm a fan of Sinatra. You don't get singers like that anymore."