January 15, 1923
Eleanor gifted me this journal. She says I need someone other than her to go to when I have one of my "meltdowns." Eleanor works with me at the cabaret. She's one of the other showgirls. I don't think she likes me very much, in fact I'd say that she makes it very known. I call this place the cabaret because that sounds better than calling it a brothel, though I suppose that's what it is. The other girls let me know quite often that I'm the Owner's favorite. I think that's why Eleanor doesn't like me. I think he pays me a little more than the rest of the girls, but with half of what I make going to the Owner and another portion going to Michael to help him pay the bills, it doesn't feel like I'm making anything. It's just pennies. Michael asked me once where I worked to make the money, and I didn't want to tell him, so I just thought up something I'd really like to do and told him that I worked at a flower shop.
January 26, 1923
The Owner wants me to spend the weekend at his house again. He knows how young I am, but I think he forgets sometimes with the makeup and clothes and the general nature of this job. I don't like spending much time at his house. It feels sort of grimy. It's a very clean house, and it's nice and quite large compared to what I'm used to, but it still feels wrong. He somehow manages to treat me as if I'm both older and younger than I really am, and it makes me feel sort of sick each time he talks to me. I don't know what to tell him because he usually gets upset with me when I tell him no and cuts my pay the next week, so I'm conflicted about it. It is admittedly nice to lay under warm sheets snuggled up with someone rather than curling onto myself to stay warm. I can never really sleep when I lay next to him because I'm worrying about how long I'll have to resort to this. He has all these expensive soaps and oils stored up for when I come over, though I think he has them stored for all the other girls too. They sleep at his house some nights as well, but they tell me that I'm over there more than anyone else. He pays me fifty dollars to spend the weekend, which is quite a good sum. Half of it goes to Michael, though. I'm not entirely sure where he works, but he's gone most days and doesn't get back until afternoon the next day. I'm really not sure what he does.
January 27, 1923
I'm at the Owner's house now. I've just woken up. I pulled out my journal in front of him and he asked me what it was, and I didn't feel much like sharing so I told him that it was a blank notebook. I went downstairs to his living room afterwards and now I feel just awful because I told a lie. I didn't realize until after I'd said it that that was what I'd done. I hate feeling guilty and I feel it almost all the time. I feel it especially when I look in a mirror or when I bathe because that gross grimy feeling just stays all the time. He kept telling me how pretty I am and I responded, but it left a rotten taste on my tongue. It's hard to explain. Every time I have a client or every time the Owner talks to me, I just have this ugly feeling that I shouldn't be there and that I ought to go home or go outside and lay somewhere to remind myself that beautiful things do exist. It's hard to remember sometimes when I'm surrounded by cheating husbands and mean rich boys. There are also the girls at the cabaret who aren't always very nice to me, but I understand them a little more. It's hard not to become bitter when this is all there is. It hasn't happened to me yet, and I hope it doesn't, but it probably will. It's odd. I feel fingerprints on me. I'm almost certain I could sketch out the pattern if I had a pen because I feel them so clearly all the time.
