“It was a nice try,” Cal whispered into my ear as I dabbed at her shirt with napkins. I took the next shot in one gulp and gave the waitress my credit card.

“The first thing you two can learn about sales is how to make yourselves approachable. That’s why I brought you here.” His eyes were already at half-mast, but that’s another thing about Hell: you have no idea what alcohol will do to you. You could drink all night and not feel a thing, or have a few and get completely hammered. It depends on your intention. If you want to stay responsible, you will get wasted. You’d think we’d have figured out a system by now, but we haven’t. Regardless, you always wake up with a hangover. Never debilitating, but very unpleasant.

That’s our comfort zone.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to be teaching us anything,” I said. “Plus, I’m just about to complete my own—”

“So, what I want you to do is sell one of these strippers on buying us a round of drinks,” Trey finished, ignoring me. And then he leaned back, proud of himself.

“They work here. Why would they buy us drinks?” Cal asked. I could hear the edge of panic in her voice.

“That’s the point. If you can sell a stripper at a strip club on the deal of paying for booze for her customers, then you’ll be ready for the real thing,” Trey said.

“I actually really am close to—”

“No one cares, Pey,” Trey said, pushing my cheek with his hand, a slap in slow motion. “Go! Go, grasshoppers! Go!”

I stood up just so he wouldn’t touch me anymore. Cal stood too. We walked over to the stage and looked up at the dancers, moving like eels in a tank. I swallowed.

“Look, I can take care of this, okay? Don’t worry,” I said.

“I don’t think this is a team activity.”

“I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Cal looked at the stage and then back at me, her eyes shaking a little. I smiled the best I could.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’ve got this. You get some air.”

“Thank you, Pey,” she said, putting her hand on my arm. It had been a long time since someone touched me. Someone I hadn’t just swindled into eternal damnation, I mean.

The way I saw it, there were two ways to get strippers to buy me drinks. One: I play the sympathy card. I tell them I’m getting bumped Downstairs, and I cry everywhere until they buy me a drink to get my sadness off them. Two: I pay them. Option number two seemed like the lesser amount of work; I didn’t have any tears built up. So I leaned over the stage in front of me.