Read Online The Rockin' Chair by Steven Manchester - Free Book Online Page B

had ever met.
    While Tara slowly settled in, Nancy set up two auditions for the star-struck dreamer. Before long, the older woman also provided the lead on a good job. The Polo Club was the hottest nightclub in Manhattan. “They’re always looking for a young, pretty face,” she claimed.
    At her new job, Tara served cocktails to sweet-smelling men and their well-dressed ladies at tightly packed tables. Bryce, the owner, really squeezed them in. Tara filled her pockets with tips. She couldn’t believe it. One of my chores back home was to keep Pa’s mug topped off with cold beer and I never got a red cent for it. New York is unbelievable!
    Before long, Tara was dating Bryce and attending auditions—only to discover she had been the biggest fish from the smallest pond in America. I used to be the prettiest girl on stage , she thought. Now, unless I’m willing to peddle programs, I can’t get ten feet from one . And I’m certainly not the prettiest anymore . All the girls who tried out for parts were gorgeous, coming in different shapes, sizes and colors. She tried to tread water in the middle of this new ocean, but without the experience or contacts the other girls had, she was in way over her strawberry blond head. Not a single director was impressed with a farm girl who’d once played Cinderella in some God-forsaken hole in Montana.
    Each time, she would get all hyped up for a possible role or an opportunity that seemed just within reach. And then poof, it disappeared. And every time, it was some long-winded reason that added up to, “We’ll call you.” But they never did.
    To counter the oppressive frustration, Tara drowned herself in alcohol. It created a sense of pleasure and removed all her inhibitions. For the first time, she understood her pa’s strong attraction to the happy serum. When it takes hold, there isn’t a problem in the world that can’t wait ’til tomorrow.
    Time went by. There were more auditions, more rejections and more disappointments. It was always a close call and never a curtain call. Tara became even more comfortable at the club, a place that provided a cheap and continuous sedation.
    Constantly bouncing between bouts of anxiety and a state of depression, Bryce invited her worries to sleep with marijuana. Reluctantly, she indulged him. She felt submerged, as if placed in a thick pool of warm pudding. Her worries slowed to a creep. It relaxed her and made her concentrate on the present. That was Bryce’s theory anyway. “Who knows if there’ll be a tomorrow,” he claimed, and lived religiously by his motto. The more Tara smoked, the more she liked it. There were no more hangovers and no more bed spins.
    It was tough to remember when the transformation from marijuana to cocaine took place, but it had to have been at one of Bryce’s rich parties. Everyone was doing it and everyone was happy. Tara took her first snort and waited. Within seconds, she’d taken the northbound express straight to heaven. Using cocaine was like experiencing full-body euphoria. She not only felt on top of the world, she felt like she owned it—with the right to destroy it all if she chose to. It was a feeling of utter suspension. Nothing can touch me, she thought. I’m a star. Cocaine provided the sensation of everything she ever dreamed of feeling and suddenly the dreams of being on stage seemed childish. Who needs the constant disappointment when I can shine in a different light? she thought.
    Life went along. Tara worked the club for a couple hundred dollars a night, while Bryce paid all the bills at their apartment and supplied mounds of white powder—that is, until she announced, “We’re pregnant!”
    Whether it was the morning sickness or the look on Bryce’s face, she actually dry heaved. He said they’d talk about it but they never did. Instead, on his way out of their apartment he shot her a look