The Story of a Song

Since all I've done this week is listen to one song on repeat, it's really apt that my post this week is about the song haha.

           Almost everything that I did this week was based on the song (which I realize haven't named even one in this post yet- it's the Bastille Cover of What would You Do? by City High): I had an hour long discussion about in math class <- that is proof enough that this is a pretty compelling song. I mean if my math class can listen to me talk about it, then it has to be pretty interesting.

Here's how I imagined the story of this song :)
It's the story of the stripper (from the song) and the effect she has on different people..

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"What would you do?" her eyes bore into me defiantly.

              That tripped me up. I felt shame rush through me. But I wasn't in a stripper costume outside a party full of people I went to high school with.

           "What would you do?" she repeated, less forcefully, "if your son was at home, crying all alone on the bedroom floor because he's hungry. And the only way to feed him was to sleep with a man for a little bit of money." Her voice was almost mechanical, but I saw tears on her thickened eyelashes.

           I thought about what the standard answer to this question would be; I thought about what my mom would say: "Stop making tired excuses," she'd say. Was a hungry baby boy a tired excuse?

            "Londi..." I began, calling out her name, but she was already headed back inside.

What would I do? 

I stare at the door she'd slammed ten minutes ago, feeling my heart beating with the music from the party. 

Her last words resounded in my ears as I jammed my hands into my shapeless jacket with a shiver.

         "I don't need your pity," she'd said, "C'est la vie."

I do what I've got to do; she does what she's got to do. The more I think about it, the less fair life seems. I stare at the door for a little while longer, and walk away, but my heart never stopped beating to the rhythm of that music. 

...

I'm blindly watching the coffee swirl in my cup when I hear the sharp click of high heels on the tiled floor. Who could possibly be wearing heels at a suburban coffee shop on a Sunday morning?

         "Just coffee...umm plain coffee...a small. please," her voice was soft but harsh; it very much lived up to her achingly short shorts. 

I go back to staring at the fascinating movement of the cream in my coffee cup as she walked past me to sit at a table. Could she be any more disrespectful? There are children here!

              I slowly feel the anger rise up inside of me; this woman, she could be from anywhere...she could have done anything last night. I raise my eyes up once in disgust, but I could never look at her again.

              What looked back at me when I'd stared was a person. A person with worries, with troubles. A person whose troubles could be seen in her eyes. 

I dropped my gaze and whiled away my time until I heard her heels clicking on the floor again. Then I slowly walked up the the counter to get some more coffee.

"Was that a stripper?" I asked with a relish.

...

"Morning Mum," Summer murmured sleepily as I set down my tea to give her a hug.

           "Good morning, sleepyhead," I said into her springy brown hair, "we have a big day ahead of us,"

"I know," she said excitedly pulling away from me, "Shopping!"

            I reluctantly let her go. I loved good morning hugs.

"This is so exciting," Summer stated in a loud voice, "I absolutely love this store."

           I chuckled; she was in the italics phase now, and held her hand as we walked in.

"Honey we've tried on tonnes of clothes," I said patiently, "what if they run out of clothes to give you? At least pick one that you like so far..." Maybe this shopping trip wasn't such a good idea after all. Summer is only ten years old.

"Mom..I want to look like her," my lovely girl was pointing at a woman standing about 3 feet away in the shortest possible skirt she could wear. She turned to wave, and I was horrified to see Summer respond enthusiastically.

I will have to talk to her about who is a respectable person, and who is not.

...

I look at myself in the mirror sometimes and wonder what people think of me. Do they know?

Of course they know. How could they not?

                Sometimes I look in the mirror and wonder if anyone would find out if I hid what I am. Would they find out just by looking at my face?

                 Sometimes I look in the mirror and see a girl who's haunted by society. I see a girl who doesn't know who she is.

I am Londi Micheals. I'm a stripper, yes. I have a crappy job; I have crappy pay. But I have a little boy who's going to be happy one day because of all the money I'm getting for him. I may have nothing, but I'll give every piece of my nothing to my son's happiness.

I'm Londi Micheals, a proud mom.

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