The lineup went like this: each Bunny stood in the parlor, a row of girls, like convicts, like schoolchildren, like suspects, like models at a casting, actors for an audition, like picking teams in gym—have you ever thought about all the ways we stand in single file for a supervisor, a watcher, an eye, to help him spot the difference between us, pick us out from a crowd for being something the others aren’t?
The guest looked each Bunny over, the way you’ve seen men do a million times once a woman walks past and he thinks it’s safe to stare. But he was unabashed that day, there, at the Hop. He eyed each Bunny, and each Bunny eyed him right back.
He paced, like he was grocery shopping for a particular product, scanning each girl in search of his favorite brand. It was obvious who he wouldn’t choose. He had a nose ring and tattoos masking both arms, his neck, and his hair was so greasy it looked wet. He paused in front of Rain, grinned at her, and she raised an eyebrow, unsmiling; he walked on. One girl, white, torn jeans, dreadlocks, a crop top that only covered her breasts halfway, she cocked her head to the side, jutted her chin as if to say What’s up, and he walked on. Ginger said, “Hey there, sugar,” and adjusted her breasts. Mia was not his type but she didn’t know it, or she pretended not to, because when he walked past her, she reached out, ran her fingernails down the back of his neck with such light fingers it barely happened.
“Hi, honey,” is what she said when he turned to stare. He was sold, took her by the hand. She winked at me as she stepped out of line.
On his way past, the guest stopped. Stared. My matted hair, my scruffy T-shirt. “Who are you?” he said.
Mia said, “No, hon.” She said, “Let’s go. Let’s go have some fun.”
The guest followed her and looked back over his shoulder only once.
“See how she did that?” Daddy whispered. His voice was this soft hiss of breath against my ear. “You could do worse than to take notes from Mia. She’s our top earner so far this quarter. Been upselling like crazy. Gets a full party out of them almost every time. It’s not because she’s a salesperson. It’s not because she sells herself like some commercial. Mia’s good because she’s genuine. She wants to give these guys a good time, and they can sense stuff like that. The guys, the guests, they can sense authenticity, and that’s what they go for ninety percent of the time. These guys want to feel wanted.”
I nodded. “Who doesn’t?”
“Exactly,” he said. “Who doesn’t. Now come here with me, new Bunny. I’ve got something to show you.”