“Are you sure you don’t want to give amateur night a spin?” Jeremy smirked. “As you can see, you aren’t competing against much right now. You’d probably make a pretty penny up there.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t need a penny. Depending on what the auto guy tells us, I might need a miracle.”
I couldn’t bear the thought of spending more time than I needed in my complimentary bedroom. Anything with a name starting with something squishy and liquid that tends to make sucking sounds is just not okay in my book. I decided to whittle away the coming hours bellied up to the bar instead of locked in a sex-fluid science experiment, dodging advances from toothless men and advising them to put their interest on those who were on the stage begging for their attention.
The night was proving to be an experience I would never forget. I realized just how naïve I was when I watched Jersey molest the pole in a leather bra without any cups covering her nipples and a g-string so small I could have flossed my teeth if she got too close. She strutted and slid over the stage without much stripping — there wasn’t much to strip off, which defeated the purpose of being a stripper. The three men in the room nevertheless cooed and screamed over the 80s tunes streaming from a corner jukebox. This town couldn’t even afford a DJ at the one place that should have a DJ.
If my calculations were right, Jersey made about $7 and may or may not have had a finger placed where no strange dirty finger should go. I saw a hand slip and then a quick kick from her long veiny leg shot a pot-bellied grey bearded man in a dingy shirt off of his stool, leaving him swollen gut up on the dirty, sticky floor. I winced, finding myself thankful he stood back up and the floor didn’t suck the clothes off of his oversized gelatinous frame. I supposed grease and grease repel each other.
The lights cut out and the room went black. I gasped and braced myself against the bar, eyes closed, breath tightly held inside of my ribcage, nervously waiting for someone to kidnap me and make me their cab lizard. The pressure against my blistered palms made me wince but I wouldn’t give up without a fight. I jumped simultaneously with a loud thump; the thundering echoed through the room followed by a flash of lights. A bass line, I realized. Another flash of light accompanied another thump and a squat frame appeared at the edge of the stage. With every flash of light, she changed her pose, silhouetted against the black curtain the girls snuck in and out of.
“Fudge is a little over the top,” Jeremy explained. “You are, too, but in a different way. You need to unwind a little. This one’s on the house.” He sat another gin and tonic in front of me. I took a sip and choked on the dry heat when I realized it was more gin than tonic.
“Wow. That’s strong enough to kill a cow.” I coughed.
“Or strong enough to loosen you up and get you on that pole.” He winked in unison with the old man next to me. I fought my impulse to visibly recoil and slowly rotated on my stool.
My eyes tried to make sense of the flashing lights working against the spinning disco ball and the stage spotlight. I laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of the club having a lighting system but no DJ before settling into the soft mass that was Fudge. My mouth dropped. Fudge cartwheeled down the makeshift runway leading to the main stage before dropping into the splits, rolling onto her stomach, and then kicking up into a handstand. Her backside landed directly onto the pole, her legs snaked around the silver metal, and a deep arching of her back lifted her arms from the floor. Her left breast popped free of her bra and smacked her in the face, causing the growing crowd that now counted thirteen men to laugh before hooting and hollering from the excitement of seeing a naked breast.
Being what I can only describe as a professional, and a shocking acrobat, Fudge just smirked and called back before swinging her rotund frame in a circle and slamming back down to the stage in the splits. My lady bits burned in sympathetic pain and my mind tried to wrap itself around what I had just witnessed.
“She was a high school gymnast,” Jeremy explained, catching me off guard.
“Wow. I’m surprised she’s still that flexible.”
“Oh, she never quit practicing. She just also never gave up fried chicken.”
“Well, I have to say this has been surprising. What does Candy do?”
“Candy? She still thinks she’s better than this place. She only dances if the crowd is over twenty. Otherwise, she walks out, flips off the crew, moons them, collects a few bucks and walks off the stage to sit around and bitch all night.”
On cue, the gigantic frame appeared at the edge of the runway, highlighted by a blue spotlight. The silhouette clearly displayed two middle fingers raised in angry glory. She proceeded in the exact fashion Jeremy described and by my estimation, walked away with around $19 and what looked like tickets from the Pizza Palace arcade room.
“She just made more than Jersey and she didn’t do anything,” I exclaimed.
“I know. Everyone makes more than Jersey, but don’t let Jersey know you already noticed. If you think she fakes her accent well, she can fake the attitude and drama just as well. I let her have one major breakdown a month. To survive here you have to get it out somehow, but she’s had two this month and I’m not sure I can tolerate another.”
“Noted and respected,” I laughed. “Noted and respected.”
The morning ushered itself in and gave way to late afternoon before I even stirred in my windowless cell. After two nights of filterless strippers who still thought I was a threat to their jobs, ill-mannered men who didn’t understand I wasn’t part of the show, and a bartender/part owner who was sure the more free gin & tonics he passed to me I would agree to be a part of the show, my head was pounding. My nose felt sticky from inhaling muck while I slept, and my dreams felt dashed. Today would be the day I learned if I would be stuck here forever or if the problem with Merle wasn’t too expensive and I could escape.
A sharp pounding at the door pulled me from my haze of despair. “Come on freeloader,” Jeremy called through the door. “Big Red is here with his tow. He’s going to look at your piece of shit.” He pounded again before I could even open my mouth. “Time is money, let’s get moving,” he called.
I threw open the door and winced. The sun beat through the crystal clear skies and assaulted my corneas. “I’m awake, dressed, and ready,” I said in a tone indicating I was possibly not awake, or ready, but at least dressed. I fell in line behind Jeremy, listening to him make a snarky comment about my lack of support for local business because I chose to remain in the slush pot instead of becoming an alcoholic this early in the day. I let my silence speak for itself and continued on the possible death march.
We turned the corner to the parking lot where a gigantic man — both in height and girth — stood next to an old tow truck eaten by rust without a lick of paint still visible. This man, Big Red as Jeremy called him, had a grey beard nearly the width of his shoulders and draped like a cowl to what I’m assuming would be his belly button area. His jeans were threadbare and held up by elastic-less elastic suspenders over a red shirt. The shirt was the only thing in the parking lot that looked like it had been bought in the last five years. It was, shockingly, immaculate and possibly even ironed.
“Time is money,” he called through the side of his mouth while a slow dribble of red tobacco laden spit slipped out.
“I’ve heard that a few times today,” I muttered, reminding myself to keep my newfound mouthiness locked tightly away until I at least had a quote. Kill them with kindness, I reminded myself. Blink your eyes, look innocent, and feign ignorance. Shouldn’t be too hard to look pathetic, you’ve been doing it your whole life.
“This here your car?” Big Red asked. More tobacco freed itself from his chipmunk cheeks.
“Yes, sir. That’s Merle.”
He let loose a jolly and true laugh with the introduction of my car. I was sure he w
ould find it silly I named him. Who would name something so crappy? Maybe people only named material things with status.
Note to self: how expensive does something have to be in order to be named without embarrassment? Find out.
“Merle, huh? I ‘spose yous too young to know the Haggard.”
“No, Sir. That’s his namesake.”
“Interesting,” he spewed — not because he was angry, but because he was trying to keep the tobacco in while the thin red strands were desperately trying to get out. “Well, listen, while I was out here waiting for y’all to get your act together and show up, I checked under the hood. This thing here, it’s got Indiana plates?”
I wasn’t sure if he was asking about the plates since they’re on the back of the car and obvious or asking if the car was indeed from Indiana. I arched my left eyebrow and cocked my head. This series of actions seemed to be a satisfactory response. Red drifted into a drawn out explanation of car terms with intermittent tobacco spit, mouth wiping, and asking me if I understood what he was saying. I nodded my head, and he rightfully understood my nod as my way of saying there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell I understood anything he was trying to tell me. He took a deep breath and muttered something I thought sounded like a number. My heart fell through my feet.
“Excuse me?” I stammered. “You just said 563. Was that dollars?”
He laughed and a large glob of orange spit freed itself, landing at my feet. “No, that’s chickens. Of course it’s dollars.”
“Well, what would I need to just make him run again to get me a little bit further down the road?”
James cut in, placing one hand on my shoulder in a desperate attempt at reassurance. “That IS just to get your car running again, little girl. And, on top of that, I can’t keep losing business in the Slush. Staying back there’s going to be $45 a night.”
If I was in the business of clichés, this would be the part where the world around me started spinning, where my mouth went dry, where my heart once again went through my feet, or where I unbuttoned my shirt a little bit more to show some cleavage. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the emotional ability for my body to betray me by making me pass out, I had just drank a large glass of water, my heart was already in my feet, and not only was I wearing a t-shirt, I had absolutely no chest to proudly put on display. All I could do was kick the gravel underneath of my hot pink hightop Chuck Taylor’s and curse under my breath.
“How many nights would you need to fix him?” I asked.
“I need at least three days, but it’s fishin’ season and I ain’t missin’ a good day. I might need six or seven days, total, then,” Big Red Answered.
“Oh, come on!” I whined. “You’re going to add four days? That’s another $180 that I have to pay to that shit hole,” I exclaimed, pointing behind me. “Sorry, Jeremy. I mean no disrespect.”
Not wasting a minute to retaliate and throw me under the bus, he gleefully chimed in out of spite. “You don’t even have $180, let alone $563. I think there’s a bigger problem you need to work out.”
Red coughed. “Well, we do have a problem, then. I don’t work for free and you need to pay me a deposit, at least 40%.”
“Come on,” I whined, again. “Layaway at WorldMart doesn’t even require 40%.”
“People who do layaway arrangement have jobs and can make payments. The way I see the situation, you’re stuck out here with no money, no car, no job, and no house. You better get to shimmying on that pole or learn how to flip some burgers.”
“You should probably learn both,” Jeremy said a little too gleefully. “You have to pay this guy and you have to get out of here. You’re going to be pulling double shifts for a month, at least.”
Big Red released the tobacco in its entirety. I watched the massive hunk of brown goo splatter on the pavement and sympathized with the shreds that sat there representing my dreams.“What’s it going to be, little girl?” he snarled.
“Can I have a day? I have to think.”
“You still need to pay me for coming out here. Let’s say $20 will call that even.”
I sighed and Jeremy took advantage of the opportunity to butt in, reminding me I needed to pay for the slush pot tonight or make other arrangements. I looked around at the barren surroundings, noticing there wasn’t anything else in sight. I had two choices: slushpot or concrete behind a dumpster. I would pay for three nights at the slushpot and get nothing out of the remainder of my life’s savings except a few tears and a few wasted days, and then be broke, and worse, still stuck here. I could beg and plead for a break in the deposit, and then beg and plead Jeremy for a turn on the pole, and Norma for a turn on the grill, cry some more tears, waste some more days, and then be broke, still stuck here.
“Okay, can I just have three hours? I need a milkshake.”
I didn’t wait for their response. I turned and headed to the diner, trying to squeeze the tears back into the corners of my eyes. Just three days ago I felt like the world was about to shower me with opportunity and potential. Today I just feel like I have every day of my pathetic life — fucked.
Chapter Eleven
“What will it be today?” Norma asked in her abnormal voice, automatically issuing an undisguisable cringe.
“A strawberry milkshake and a job?” I replied. Norma laughed. I was tired of being laughed at. “This is serious Norma, and don’t feed me your murderer bullshit. I know better.”
She took a step back and tossed her hands up. “Caught me, young gun. What’s up with the car?”
“Apparently everything. I have no idea what Big Red said. I don’t understand shop talk. I don’t even know if everything he said is actually possible to be broken, or broken all at once. Look, Norma. I’m on the edge here. Is it possible to get a job or not?”
“How much did you make the last two nights over there?” she asked. I watched her face go blank when I explained I hadn’t made any money because I wasn’t going to drop what little bit of morals I wasn’t even sure I had to swing around a pole and stick my butt in some trucker’s face for a dollar. I also wasn’t too happy when she closed her mouth after the gaping hole fell open from shock and told me her thoughts. “If you want to get up outta here, honey, you gotta do something. You either need to suck it up, spin a few rounds and shake that little tushy real good for those poor lonely men, or you better start walking. Your third option is to get married and stay here the rest of your life, because you won’t make enough to actually put a roof over your head. I’m not giving you any space at my countertop, I’m sorry. It’s hard enough as it is. How much do you need anyway?”
“$563…plus $45 a night if I have to stay at the slushpot.”
She let out a whistle, deeply solidifying my original feelings. I was, indeed, fucked. “Sweetheart, you’ll never make $45 a night to pay for that shit hole plus that car. How much money do you have, anyway?”
I bit my tongue, suppressed my new found sarcastic nature and told her my pathetic current total of somewhere in the ballpark of $200. She whistled again and walked down the counter to fill a cup of coffee sitting in front of a scrappy young guy in grease stained overalls.
“Where are you headin’, buddy?” she asked him
“Headin’ east. Columbus, Ohio,” he said in between sips.
Norma turned to me. “Here’s a ride to Ohio,” she called down the counter.
“No thanks,” I sneered. I backtracked quickly, looking at the only other sad sorry sap to occupy this subpar diner. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t mean anything against you. It’s just, well, that’s the area I’m running FROM. I’m trying to go West. Apparently, the universe doesn’t want me to go anywhere.”
He grunted and took another sip.
“How much do you think that young body could make on that pole in one night?�
� Norma asked him.
He looked me up and down, his eyes lingering a little too long, his mind putting a little too much thought into what my body would be worth. “I dunno. She looks limber and young. No one’s seen her here. Maybe $50? If it’s a busy night and the boys know there’s fresh meat, maybe $60? I’d pay her a few dollars if she has something real nice to show off. If she doesn’t, I’d at least spare a dollar.”
Spare a dollar. He would SPARE a dollar. I’m only worth a spare dollar, I cried to myself.
“You got a bathing suit or some lacy underwear in those bags?” Norma asked.
I sighed. “No. The nicest thing I have is a white cotton brief and bra that hasn’t been yellowed by laundry detergent yet.” I didn’t realize just how pathetic I sounded until all of the words finally left my mouth.
“It’s worth a try,” Norma smirked. “If I were you, I’d go out there and get to digging. And, tell Jeremy you’re going to be making a few rounds as soon as possible. When word gets out there’s a new girl, the bar will fill up fast.”
“Do you need the slushpot?” Jeremy asked as soon as the doors opened, not even bothering to tell me hello, and seemingly already with the knowledge I was going to be dancing tonight. I should say trying to dance tonight.
The Wrong Side of Twenty-Five Page 10