For aspiring singer Ivy Hart, all that should be on her mind is to get a well paying job to help support her struggling and ailing family. But when she stumbles across a speakeasy in need of a new waitress, she crosses paths with a sarcastic yet wil...
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"Hi, my name is Ivy Hart and I'd like to get a job please!" No, that sounded too soft. "Hi! My name is Ivy Hart, give me a job!" I tried again with more urgency. But this time, I sounded too forward. Okay, I can do this—third time the charm, "Hi, my name is Ivy Hart! I need some money."
Walking through the bustling streets of Los Angeles, others continued in passing while staring at me strangely like I had a huge slit on my hosiery. I couldn't have.
I hadn't done anything out of the ordinary all day except help around at home. And though these were the cheap pair, they were still brand spanking new—straight from the drugstore when I realized the only ones I did own were all ripped.
It was required of me to look as spiffy as possible, in the most formal la garçonne I owned before job hunting today, after being turned down from over twenty different establishments for the past two weeks.
So per my Mama's request, I had to ensure I didn't come back without telling her I finally did it.
Soon racing past me, there were a group of flappers laughing and enjoying their youthful lives in style while folks were driving comfortably in their Model-T cars, breezers, and bikes— admiring them afar.
God, I wished I could've done the same.
Well, aside from the whole flapper thing. That kind of lifestyle was never fit for me. I had a lot of other priorities, responsibilities, and a lot of folks were counting on me to get this at least right.
But I'd be a fool to say I did want to have a little fun every now and then in my young years too.
Preferably on a single spotlighted stage. I'd be all dazzled up. A mic in my hand and my cares and worries are off the grid for a moment, and my mind and heart is delightfully wrapped into a song. A quintessential mirage.
Brushing all other thoughts away however, I was back on my mission and determined to take at this point, whatever wanted to be available. Soon enough, I began to blaze through another strip of shops praying for someone soon to have a HELP WANTED on their windows and help a gal out.
But yet, I kept having no luck.
Crossing the crowded street with my eye on the officer directing the traffic of Sunset Blvd, my vision instead then peered at a soda shop on the other side. Yes. Right there in the window was the only sign that could turn this process all around.
Pacing over to it before my brain could catch up with my legs, cars began honking their horns and yelling at me to get out the way as I soon made it over and went inside.
Observing around, it was a soda shop alright—but no one was here?
"Hello?!" I tried to call out. No answer.
It was quite odd that for such a busy street, not a single soul was lingering around this place.
More importantly, where were even the owners or employees? I could've easily stolen anything and be about my way—if I wanted to of course. Though I had a feeling a dark-skinned gal like me wouldn't be fit for jail either.
