Think I Want to Twist the Plot This Time

Part 2

Think I Wanna Twist the Plot This Time

"There's something about you, something about you.

If my life was fiction..."

—"Maradona" The Chainsmokers

So. Barbie had World War II and San Francisco on her mind, and now she's here. She looks back up at The Dawn Club, its blazing neon sign above enticing her inside, along with the muffled brass of a band playing live music. When Barbie plays music, it's always guitars and drums, something more modern. When she sings, it's usually a bubbly pop song. But... this is modern now. This is what Ryan's mom listens to on Sundays, according to Sasha. She calls it "boring," but with its uptempo swing, people walking in and out of the club with huge smiles on their faces... is it really?

Barbie tosses the old newspaper back into the trash and walks toward the club, her confidence building as she hears the familiar click of her heels on the pavement. Sure, her feet will tire a lot more easily now, but it's easily forgotten when that sound is so enticing. She's almost forgotten it; almost forgotten why she loved heels in the first place. Not that she thinks there's some real reason she's here other than she just let her mind wander for too long, but something about The Dawn Club, on this warm summer evening, tells her that whatever adventure she's looking for is in its walls.

A man stepping out holds the door open for her, and Barbie smiles at him, grateful. "Thank you," she says politely.

"Anytime, doll." He tips his hat, but her smile disappears. Right. She's back in a man's world, one even more unfair than when Ken took over Barbie Land.

"May I take your coat and gloves, ma'am?" A few steps in, and there's a coat check clerk in a tailored red uniform, holding his gloved hands out. Just before the door closes, she catches a glimpse of a disturbing sign posted on it: "No Japanese. No Colored."

It's also a white man's world, Barbie reminds herself, her smile halfheartedly returning as she gives her belongings to the clerk after taking her wallet. "Yes, thank you. I hope you have a good evening."

The clerk's smile, which looked rehearsed before, suddenly turns genuine as his dark eyes crinkle in the corners. "You, too, ma'am. You enjoy yourself in there," he returns, leading her toward the bar area.

The thick scent of cigarette smoke hits her like a brick wall the moment Barbie makes her way inside, and she gives a light cough, realizing she's just going to have to get used to it. Practically every patron is smoking, cigarettes in hand in between whatever concoctions the bartender's made. She's in a time where doctors consider this "healthy," a time Barbie only faintly remembers from the beginning of her existence. People smoke back home too, sure, but it's always outside, always in alleyways or through vape pens that smell like cotton candy.

At the end of the club is the stage, made of polished wood, where six bandmates play too close together. These are instruments Barbie doesn't see on stages anymore unless you know where to look, from the clarinet to the stand-up bass. They're playing something a little slower tempo, one where couples dance together on the dance floor in front of the stage with heads on chests and shoulders, arms wrapped delicately around waists and shoulders. Beyond that, small tables surrounding the stage, littered with discarded drinks from the couples dancing, or parties in quiet conversation, leaning in so they can hear each other. Barbie heads to the right, to the bar, since she's all alone. As she walks, she feels eyes lingering on her—men leering at her pink outfit and her legs, women frowning because apparently it's a crime to stand out.

She flushes as she takes a seat at an empty barstool, as close to the door as she can to get some fresh air and reprieve from the smell of nicotine. The single men at the wooden bar lean over to glance at her for a moment, like they're testing to see if she's worth talking to. They all look older, but maybe it's the smoking.