Desperate times called for desperate measures. Oh, sure, Senator Bail Organa had set Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi up with a nice little shack out by the Jungland Wastes on Tatooine and stashed some credits in the Tatooine OuterRim Credit Union to carry Obi-Wan through the first, and possibly last, nineteen years of exile.
Why 19? Obi-Wan often wondered. He had searched the Force for answers, but it stubbornly refused to give one. Perhaps it had consulted the Jedi Master Life Mortality Table and knew that was his remaining expected life span. Obi-Wan knew he would die someday, might as well be 19 years from now. But it would be nice to know.
If that was the answer, it was the first time the Force had gone wrong. Or maybe it was the fact that it was Senator Bail Organa, not Jedi Master Bail Organa, that couldn't read the future. Whatever the reason, the Credit Union had lost all its records and refused to acknowledge any account for Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi. Or even Ben Kenobi, for that matter. Maybe it had something to do with its acquisition in an hostile takeover by the Palpatine Empirical Bank.
Regardless of the reason, Obi-Wan Kenobi was broke. And he was hungry. He had nothing to barter for supplies. No one even wanted a young babe full of Force potential – yikes! Obi-Wan flinched at the thought that had crossed his mind; the lack of food was causing him to hallucinate. Indeed, desperate times calling for desperate measures.
He trudged wearily through the dusty streets of Mos Eisely, wondering if it was permissible to use a mind trick to swipe a bit of Gorean stew off some shady character's plate. He wouldn't do it to an honest person; that is, if there were any such in a place like this.
The Jedi wiped a shaky hand over his brow, leaving a salty streak in the dust that clung to his face, the only part of him open to this unkind environment. He was truly getting in a bad way. He would have to find work. It wouldn't be an honest day's work. Not in Mos Eisely.
He tried anyway. He knocked on doors and offered to do odd jobs. He tried to be hired as a Bantha Burger chef at the local Bantha Arches. They only sneered and said he was too cultured. I'll culture you! He thought; then drew back in horror. A Jedi would not cheerfully push a youngster's face onto a hot grill. Thank the Force he had stopped before he put thought into action. Obi-Wan's face flushed with embarrassment and shame. He was truly getting desperate.
One shop advertised its need for a retail clerk, selling cloaks. Obi-Wan thought he had a chance here. With all the cloaks he'd discarded over the years in out of the way places, he knew cloaks. He had the proper background. But he didn't have prior experience.
He stumbled against a door, trying to hold back his sighs and sniffles. His stomach was growling and his head hurt. He never did like himself when he got hungry like this. It wasn't dignified, and when he got hungry enough, he would do anything for food. Even if the Force told him not to. Right now, it was quiet.
The door slid aside as he leaned against it. Inside it was cool and welcoming, after the retina-burning explosion of light outside that was Tatooine.
"Well, stranger, here to audition, are you?" a husky human voice, female, said at his shoulder. "What's your schtick?"
"My, ah, schtick?" Obi-Wan returned, wrapping his cloak tightly about him. What was a schtick? Was it a weapon? A skill? A way to earn credits, and therefore food?
The female slid amused eyes over him and paused as they focused on his torso, or what would have been his torso, if visible under the tightly wrapped cloak. Then Obi-Wan realized her eyes were just a – tad – bit lower.
"Is that….?"
Obi-Wan blushed. The Force was whispering her thoughts, and it was chuckling.
"It's my lightsaber, madam," he informed her with as much dignity as he could muster. He was busy swiveling his equipment belt back to where it belonged, so the lightsaber would hang where it belonged. By his side. Not, ah, where she had seen it.
"Oh, so you, ah, weren't pleased to see me," she winked.
Poor Obi-Wan wanted to sink into the ground, into the Force, anywhere. When it came to matters like this, he realized he had led a very sheltered life.
You know, this could be interesting, mused the voice of his old Master, Qui-Gon. You know this job pays well.
Obi-Wan coughed, thinking desperately he really didn't want Qui-Gon here. Not here, not now, and certainly not encouraging him. Not…watching.
You could earn enough to eat well. You don't have much in the way of talent that could work for you here, Qui-Gon's voice needled at him. It could be a long and hungry nineteen years. Don't wait too long, you are getting older. Strike while the iron is hot.
The woman looked at him again, and smiled. Again. Had Qui-Gon whispered a suggestion to her? She said in soft, wheedling tones, "One shift a night, starting in half an hour. You'll get a meal as well as payments. And tips."
A meal? Food? She went over to the bar and assembled a plate of Gamorean hot wings and Tatooine tators and set it on a table, waving him to a seat. Obi-Wan stared at her, then the food. His mouth was watering. He was desperate. Really desperate. And he knew he had no other choice. There was no good honest work to be found. Not in Mos Eisely.
"I – only have to, to … " he stammered.
"Strip. It's Ladies Night out, and there aren't many…desirable men in Mos Eisely," she confirmed. "I'm sure you'll be a hit. All you have to do is get on that stage and dance."
"But I can't dance. I don't dance," Obi-Wan cried out. Nothing would persuade him to dance. Nothing, but food. And he flinched. He winced. He tried every verb he could think of. But only one beckoned. Eat!
He looked at the plate of food and at the stage. Desperate times truly called for desperate measures. So the Jedi Master pulled up a chair and stuffed the food in his mouth as fast as he could. Followed by a tankard of ale. And one more, followed by another.
By the time he was announced, he was already half dancing under the assault of both food and alcohol on an empty stomach. With his mind deep in the Force trying to hide his panic, he danced, wiggled and twirled.
Master Yoda should see you now, laughed Qui-Gon's thoughts in his mind. He always said Jedi should dance.
Obi-Wan looked down at the credits stuffed in his, ah, he returned his eyes to the ceiling and his mind to the Force. He didn't really want to pay attention to what he was doing. It was enough that he was being tipped well.
A Jedi craves not adulation or praise, Qui-Gon whispered to him. Obi-Wan opened one eye and glared.
But a hungry stripper does, he thought back.
And as he counted his tips, he realized he could live quite nicely on his earnings, if he saved carefully. And worked both shifts. He should remain fit enough for a few more years. Enough time to sock away enough credits to carry him through the next nineteen years. No more, though.
Even if he worked two shifts at the Ladies Only Strip Club in Mos Eisely.