The Price of Candy

by Rod Hoisington

  “Wow! I see I can’t get anything passed you. No, museum statues are nude, strippers are naked.”

  The situation was intriguing to say the least, but I also began to feel nervous. I’d have to tell her the ride was over. “Do you do private parties, pop out of a cake, that sort of thing?”

  “I am the cake, Freddy.” She seemed relaxed and stared ahead down the highway.

  “So you’re a performance artist, an exotic dancer?”

  “No, I’m a stripper. Wait...I’ll spell it for you.”

  I wasn’t doing very well with my end of the conversation. “You do much more than strip, you dance.”

  “The dancing part I fake, not that you’d complain. Most strippers don’t know how to dance. Of course, you have to get all your standard moves and your pole work down. But it’s not real dancing. Like starting lessons as a little kid and sweating it out for years—dance class twice a week ruining your feet. Now that’s dancing. Anyone can take their clothes off and swing on a pole. Well, maybe your wife couldn’t.”

  My wife would have a good laugh out of my getting myself into this uncomfortable situation. “Have your hands full, do you Freddy?” Is what Ellen would say. As a woman, can you understand my feeling? I couldn’t help imagining this woman’s naked body right there beside me in the front seat. She happened to have it covered up at present, but it was under there. It amused me to fantasize, but I had no actual interest in her.

  So she was a stripper. That changed everything. Everything was clearer now. The provocative way she stood at the gas station. Her walk of practiced confidence on heels. Her trim body and long legs. If I had second thoughts about her before I learned what she did for a living, you can imagine my anxiety now.

  As that cloud of initial fascination cleared, I began to see the situation was potentially dangerous. I knew nothing about this woman or what she had in mind. It just wasn’t propitious for a congressman to be out on the highway with a stripper. Should there be some kind of accident or incident and the press picked up on it, The Congressman and the Stripper headline would be fatal to my career.

  Another dark thought flicked across my mind. Had I indeed been picked out at random back at that convenience store? Or was I the target of some scheme and been followed there? Did she just happen to get on queue behind me, and just happened to feel compelled to start talking to me. It wasn’t common for the public to recognize me, although it had happened. I’d been on CSpan a few times and once on a Sunday news program. Politicians are bound to have enemies. Perhaps the plan is to get me in a compromising position and blackmail me for my support of certain legislation.

  Maybe she’d decide to pull that gun out and leave me somewhere in a ditch. Yet, she didn’t look the type. Sounded like famous last words, she didn’t look the type. What type was I talking about? She wasn’t above lying to hitch a ride. She wasn’t above stripping—and whatever went with that business.

  Crazy thoughts. I attempted to dislodge them all from my mind. Yet there was no denying this woman from a very dissimilar class of society, was in my front seat with her mysterious black handbag clinched between her feet. Remember, she had lied to get herself in my car. I decided Betty Jo must go.

  We soon crossed over the North Carolina border from Virginia and I started looking for a suitable opportunity to get her out of my car and out of my life. I’d explain it to her somehow. A shame. She could be good company on the way to Florida. It’d be pleasant to have her along. She was acceptable to look at and even a low level of conversation would be diverting. But I didn’t need her complicating my life or worse—somehow threatening it.

  At that moment, she was asleep. The front seat of my Chrysler sedan was quite roomy and she was leaning back relaxed with her long legs straight out and uncrossed. Her shoes were off and I couldn’t miss her Chinese-Red toenails. Likely the standard color for strippers. Her knee-length maroon skirt had ridden up some as she slumped down. A band of lace at the hem gave the illusion of being shorter. I was growing accustomed to her exotic appearance. She was all right I supposed.

  She awoke and sat up. “Where are we?” She put her hand down and touched the black shoulder bag.

  “Into North Carolina. I guess I’ll start looking for another place to stop.” Best to be stopped somewhere safe when I told her the ride was over. I didn’t want to face any outburst while underway.

  “Why the hell stop? Excuse me, you’re driving, but we’ll never make it to Florida if you stop every hour.”

  She was correct. Another hour or so with her in the car wouldn’t make any difference. I nodded and offered some more conversation, “You dance in Baltimore?” It really made no difference to me where she did her stripping and whatever attendant activities that entailed.

  “The Blue Triple X, down by the harbor. Ever been there? Classy. Has the top reputation all over the east coast. All the big wigs from Washington come up. Just started there. Had to work in an ordinary club to find my groove before they’d take me. Good money. By two a.m. fifty-dollar bills are flying around like confetti on New Year’s Eve. Haven’t saved much yet. Some strippers make more money in a week than both of their parents put together in a year...and end up blowing it all. I’ve been paying off credit cards. Don’t want to end up with nothing like my mother. Need to start a savings plan. Something for my retirement. For a stripper retirement could come at any time. My face isn’t my fortune—it’s not that great. My body is the thing and I won’t keep this shape forever.”

  “You have a very attractive face. Everyone likes it, I’m sure.” I’d give her that so she wouldn’t think I was focusing just on her body.

  She ignored my compliment. “Every day, I get older and some adorable young thing skips through the door wanting my job. She’s not only prettier than me, she might move better.”

  “I didn’t realize beautiful young women were racing in to take their clothes off.” I hoped that didn’t sound too derisive.

  “Each one has a reason, Freddy. From making tuition money to feeding a family. Some are interesting. Some are dull. What they all have in common is a body. Steve, that’s the boss, says the female body is like a shadow that has the power to cloud men’s minds. So, I’m in the mind-clouding business. I kind of like that expression. Everything we do must point to the last show. If you can’t make them stay, Steve will fire your ass. Each dancer does her sets off and on. Each set gets more suggestive. For the last show, the G-strings come off and the padlocks come off their wallets.”

  “Total nudity?”

  “I’m so glad you’re paying attention. You see the psychology, Freddy? The longer they stay, the more they have invested in time and money. All the while, we’ve been showing them more and more. They want it all but they can’t have it. The more they pay and the longer they have to wait, the more important it becomes to them. Women figured out all this stuff ten thousand years ago. The men want the dance.”

  “Oh, sure they want the dance. And men buy Playboy to read the articles.”

  “No, you’re not getting it. Believe me. The men are essentially there for the dance. Sure, they’re dying to see that G-string come off, but not before they get excited with the dance. If at the start, I sat down in a chair on the stage in front of them and took my G-string off they’d say, ‘Oh, okay, goodbye.’”

  “So, the G-string is more like a symbol.” I glanced over politely to show I understood her point. “Do you have it with you?” Damn, why did I say such a dumb thing? I must have sounded like a twelve-year-old.

  “Sure, Tiger, I’m wearing it now. Momma told me to always wear a clean one in case I’m in an accident.”

  “I was joking, Betty Jo.” I said, trying to get off the hook. She smiled a little. That was good. She probably assumed I was just teasing.

  “Acting is hard work. The idea is to make every man in the room think I’m dumb enough to actually have sex with him.”

  “Are you acting now?” It occurred to me that all this sexy talk could b
e part of a dance aimed at me, to get me in the proper mood. Making me ready for whatever scheme was in store.

  “No, Freddy. If I turned it on, you’d go up in smoke. So there I am, for six hours every night hiding my true self. Like Superman, Betty Jo jumps out of a phone booth a hot and sexy stripper.”

  “But aesthetically pleasing.”

  “If you say so.” She turned toward me slightly and smiled. “Everyone says I talk too much. Am I talking too much?”

  I couldn’t help looking over at her. I’d decided her hair, now that I thought about it, was tolerable. It didn’t look harsh as I first thought. In fact, it appeared somewhat soft and feathery. I also liked the shape of her full red lips and the way they parted slightly to show her perfect white teeth.

  “Keep your eyes on the road, please. I know most people look down on what I do. They believe it’s slimy back-alley stuff. They think I should burn in hell. I don’t care what they think. Take a look at your own life, I’d tell them. How many people did you exploit this week? How many did your ancestors screw to get your family to where it is today? I’m paying my own way in life and not hurting anyone.

  “I don’t think God is out there applauding, but I don’t think he’s much concerned about me dancing naked either. He has more important things to worry about. In fifty years, what I do on stage will be old stuff on prime time TV. And the same God will be up there still unconcerned about whether Betty Jo has her clothes on or off.” She smiled. “By then I suppose I’ll mostly keep them on.”

  “Not everyone is offended,” I said. “Many people think it’s not part of their world, but live and let live.” I meant that honestly. I thought it was mostly correct. “What name do you use? On stage I mean.”

  “Candy.”

  “Of course, Candy. I should have guessed. That’s cute. It all sounds like fun.” Another mistake. I was trying to empathize with her. I shouldn’t have implied her work was easy.

  She scowled. “Try staying out of the coke scene when it’s ass deep all around you. And it’s free...if you’re willing to do a string of guys. Yeah, lots of fun staying clean.”

  That stopped me. The drug scene never occurred to me. It always seemed so low-class. Then again, Hollywood stars are into coke. Was her lifestyle sordid or glamorous? I had no idea.

  Somehow, I felt better about strippers in general. I’d lost any paranoid thoughts about her being involved in some nefarious plot to set me up. Clearly, we had come together by chance. How interesting fate had placed a stripper in my car. I saw no point in putting her out, after all.

  Just after noon, we were nearing South Carolina and I asked if she was hungry. Just wanted some comfort munchies, she said. I wasn’t too concerned about lunch but I wanted a coffee. I exited I-95 and parked at a convenience store. I held out a ten-dollar bill but she shook her head. She swung those long legs around and got out. I fell in behind her, watching all that curly hair bouncing, her hips swaying, and her shoulder bag swinging.

  Once inside she slowly circled all the aisles. I used the restroom, got my coffee, and waited by the door. She was a minor event sweeping through the store and men stared. They’d pretend to look at something to buy, but were positioning themselves to keep her in sight. Imagine their surprise if I told them their dream of seeing that woman without clothes was not an impossible one. My own amusing secret.

  At last, she decided on a tiny bag of chips. Obviously, she had no money, at least didn’t want to spend any. I went over. “You know, Betty Jo, I think I’m hungry after all. Why don’t we stop for a regular lunch, okay?”

  “I don’t have money for a big lunch. Don’t want to take advantage of you.”

  “Think of it as part of the trip. One takes a trip, one stops and eats. I’d have to eat anyway. I’ll get it this time.” Most likely she’d say no.

  She hesitated then nodded okay.

  A buffet was in progress at a nearby Holiday Inn. A good choice, I thought, as she could load up and go back for seconds, even cram a few items in her handbag for supper. But she didn’t. The hotel guests and the lunchtime crowd were dressed down wearing jeans and all; she’d have attracted attention even if not the only one wearing a skirt. I’m sure she was quite accustomed to accepting abundant amounts of attention.

  Two men eating together at a table nearby noticed her. They exchanged comments, laughed loudly, and stared at her in a way that would melt the clothes off an ordinary woman. Apparently, they assumed we had stayed at the hotel overnight and she was my mistress. I enjoyed that. I’d never considered taking a mistress, but it was fun to sit there and pretend for the benefit of those two men.

  I wondered about mistresses. Not necessarily Betty Jo, just in general. I know you set them up in an apartment. Do they expect you to pay all the other bills, or do they have some kind of token employment? I could easily cover all her living expenses. We had a second home in New England and a summer place in Aspen. I could easily hide her expenses in there somewhere. Does your mistress just wait for you to show up? What do they do all day?

  She seemed a pleasant young woman and I didn’t mind sitting opposite her although we had nothing in common to talk about. She did say her mother lived in Ft. Lauderdale, that’s where she was heading. From the sound of it, Momma wasn’t doing so well, sounded like money problems. That was nice, a daughter putting herself out, enduring hitchhiking on a long trip to see her mother.

  She was eager to get underway so we didn’t sit in the restaurant any longer than necessary. Back in the car, we were soon off again down I-95. I had that after-lunch feeling of well being and was enjoying the trip and being with Betty Jo, the stripper. I supposed her being in my car wasn’t such a terrible situation. We were growing used to each other. In fact, you might say I’d become quite taken with her.

  Chapter Twenty

  Abby Olin sat obediently across from State Attorney Lawrence Moran with her hands folded in her lap. She didn’t answer immediately.

  Moran leaned forward on his desk. “I asked if you’ve been advised of your rights.”

  “Again and again,” she answered, “and don’t tell me I need an attorney. All I did was shoot a prowler.”

  “Miss Olin you stood before a judge twice for arraignment. The first time for shooting a prowler. The second time the court appointed some legal aid guy and you pleaded innocent to the second-degree murder of Bruce Banks.”

  “I didn’t like him. Told him to get lost. I might not need him anyway. He told me I could continue to claim that I thought I shot a prowler even if you charged me with Bank’s murder. So I’m sticking to that story. So what do you want, Mr. Moran.”

  “I have some questions for you and I want to be certain that you understand you have the right to have an attorney present.”

  “That depends on the questions. What do you want to know?”

  “How was Sandra Reid involved in the shooting of Banks?”

  “She wasn’t really. She ran in my house later.”

  “But she plotted with you to get Banks down here from Delaware.”

  “She did?”

  “Look, this is just between us. I permitted you to post bond and stay out of jail, however I can revoke bail and put you in jail anytime I want. Also, when your trial comes up, and your attorney wants to plead to a lesser charge or something, I have power over that.”

  “Okay, so you’re the big deal who can decide if things go good or bad for me...oh, I see what you’re getting at. You want me to do you some favors now and then.” She made a quick glance back at the door to his office, scooted her chair forward, and lowered her voice. “I get it. And it would just be between you and me. Well, that’d be very interesting for both of us.” She moistened her lips with her tongue and smiled at him. “I give good...favors.”

  He squirmed slightly in his chair. “You misunderstood. I’m talking solely about what you’re going to say in your defense. I know you could give testimony that would incriminate Sandra Reid if you really wanted to. If yo
u thought hard, there must be many things she did and said. She really hated Banks. That’s why she encouraged you.”

  “She did that?”

  He raised his eyebrows and looked at her expectantly.

  “Well, she did tell me she had kept track of him and he should be punished for what he did. You mean stuff like that?”

  He smiled. “You see, there’s no reason for you to take all the blame. Now go get yourself an attorney.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  By mid-afternoon, we were several hours and hundreds of miles south of Richmond and continuing down I-95 to Florida. We were now definitely in the American South. Noticeably less traffic and none of the early winter bleakness of the northeast. We’d soon be in South Carolina. As a traveling companion, I found Betty Jo rather enjoyable. She was smiling at me more frequently. And now I didn’t care whether she was a stripper.

  I had learned a bit about her and her job in Baltimore. Although I suspected that dancing in a men’s club was less glamorous and more sordid than she implied. Yet, she herself seemed an acceptable person. She had yet to express an interest in my profession. I wasn’t certain I wanted her to know much about me. They say power is the ultimate aphrodisiac and after fourteen years, I’d accumulated significant power in Congress, at least on my side of the aisle. However, I’d keep quiet about my position. I naturally wanted her to like me, yet I didn’t want to make too much of my favorable situation and invite undue attention.

  Although growing weary of the particular subject of stripping, she was at ease talking about herself otherwise. For my part, it wasn’t that I found stripping so intriguing. The fascination was with the stripper herself and my increasingly favorable interaction with her. “Tell me about you,” I said. “Just to pass the time.”

  “You don’t want to hear about me. You just want to hear me talk about taking my clothes off, right?”