“No, thanks,” I replied with a shake of my head. “I think I’m going to sleep in my car until I have the money to pay for the repairs.”
“Hardcore. What are you wearing tonight? I’ve already put the call out. We should have at least fifteen guys in here tonight. If you work the room right, I bet you could make $50.Easy.”
I pulled the white cotton bra and panties out of my pocket. “It’s all I have,” I shrugged.
“Well, make that $30 easily.”
Before I could respond, breath, sigh, or cry, the doors flung open. The threesome of regulars stormed through the doors in a fury of words. I couldn’t understand a single one but I knew every syllable was about me. I looked at Jeremy, waited for him to defend me or take my side. He just chuckled, letting them yell, and letting me stand there looking for an exit.
“Enough, enough,” he finally said. “On the bright side, ladies! Fresh meat means more men, more eyes to shake shake for. Quit complaining and get ready to do your jobs. Take this one back stage and leave her alone.”
Jersey turned to me, scowled, and tossed her head to follow. I had no choice but to follow her behind the beaded curtain into the black abyss hiding their pathetic excuse for a dressing room.
“What are you wearing tonight?” Fudge asked.
“The only thing I have. This,” I whispered, holding up my childish underwear. I realized the ensemble was quite possibly the nicest thing I owned. I knew they would mock the set and when they did, I knew I would be present in one of the lowest moments of my life. There I stood, holding a pair of cotton panties and what was essentially a training bra, in a town with two buildings, and currently at a lower level in life than three societal rejects who had no choice but to strip for pennies.
“Oh boy,” Fudge said. “Listen, little girl, I’m going to do you a favor. Tomorrow, you and I are going to Lace & Bows and you’re going to spend a few dollars on some butt floss. You’re going to do this, you’re going to make your money, and then you’re going to get on down the road and get on with your life. You’re not going to get stuck here like us and you’re not going to be taking the little bit of money we get that keeps us stuck here. Got it?”
I hesitated. I wasn’t sure if this was her idea of kindness. I wasn’t sure if I should thank her, if she wanted me to grovel, if I should thank her and the other two, or if I should just shrink into the corner. I opened my mouth but all that stammered out was, “Bu…bu…butt…floss…”
The trio erupted in laughter, finding joy in my ignorance. Candy passed over a shot of vodka and told me to down at least three to loosen my nerves. The mood lightened when they realized I had no idea what I was doing, probably couldn’t dance, and due to the fact I was unpredictably innocent, wasn’t an actual threat to their jobs.
Jeremy informed us tonight’s stage order would be Candy, Jersey, Fudge, Candy again, and then me. He muttered something about letting the crowd warm up, get excited, and tease them for the reveal. Me, the big reveal, like I was some sort of package underneath of a royal Christmas tree, or a new car being launched at an auto show. The thought was absurd — not only there was something to reveal in this club, but of all people, I was anything even relatively reveal worthy.
To be safe, I downed three more shots of vodka.
“Come on kid, what are you waiting for? There’s a full crowd tonight,” Jersey said, mocking my stage fright. I stood firmly planted behind the beaded curtain. My name, or should I say my new stage name of Roxy, which I didn’t choose or have any say in, had been called three times. Impatient drunk truckers were pounding their beer bottles on the sides of the stage and chanting my name. If this is what it felt like to be a rockstar for the down and out and overly horny crowd, I still valued my anonymity. Of all the places in the world, why did my car have to break down here?
Note to self: When you buy your next car, buy a new car so that it has a few dozen years before it should break down.
“What the fuck is she waiting on?” a gruff voice shouted. “If you lied about fresh meat, it’s going to be the end of this joint!”
I felt a hand lay pressure on the small of my back, and for a second, I thought I was going to hear something reassuring. Instead, I heard nothing except the clanking of the beaded curtains when I was forcefully pushed out on the stage. The pulsating lights instantly blinded my unadjusted eyes and I scanned the dim room to find a focal point in the smoky haze. I tried to listen through the jeering chorus of male voices in order to figure out what song was currently playing on the jukebox, hoping to find some semblance of rhythm in my body, which, might I add, had never actually danced before.
Swirl your hair, shake your butt, wait 30 seconds, take off your tank top, I told myself, listing the directions that Jeremy had given. Repeat again, and this time, take off your bra. Shimmy your chest, let the men get close enough to drop some ones into your panties, but not close enough to grab — that costs extra and you don’t allow that unless you at least see a few fivers. Shimmy some more, bow at the end of the song.
I stood there, willing my knees to unlock, trying to swirl my hair but only managing a manic head twitch. I must have looked like the stereotypical first appearance of a ghost in a low-budget horror movie. The cheers and excitement slowly quieted to a dull roar, continually expanding into shouts of disappointment and nasty jeers.
You have to move, I quietly championed. You have to do this or this will be your every night. I listened for the beat and started whipping my hair around, bending down like I saw the girls do in all of those 80s movies replaying every weekend on the free t.v. stations. The jeers slowly turned back to cheers. Turn around, Blossom, turn around and shake your butt, I commanded. My body obeyed and I was able to pull out some sort of shimmy shimmy, shake shake, bump bump, hip hip that got a few cheers. Has it been 30 seconds yet? I turned around, gave my shoulders a little shimmy and tried my best to tap into a supermodel hidden deep inside my soul. I hoped whatever I was doing now with the high knees looked like a strut down the stage and not a marching band.
“Take if off!” a balding Father Christmas type called, leading the other men to echo their sentiments of agreement. My hands started shaking. I fumbled with the knot on my white tank top. I bent my knees and shook my hips like a small boat on an ocean wave, hoping my nerves were translating into something sexy. Although, I’m pretty sure anything these men saw would be considered sexy. The following shouts told me whatever I managed to do was working. The knot came loose and in one swift movement, I had the thin piece of jersey knit once covering the little bit of modesty my body required over my head. With a flick of the wrist, I twisted the flimsy fabric around like I was in the end zone of a football game during a winning touchdown.
The men cheered; I felt braver and braver. I can do this, I told myself. This isn’t so bad. I started to run through the directions again. Hair swirl, booty bounce, chest shimmy. Oh God, I thought, I have to take off my bra. My body froze in the middle of a shimmy. My eyes darted around the room, taking in the growing crowd of men steadily streaming through the front doors. Jeremy wasn’t lying, fresh meat did draw a crowd.
Just do it, I willed.
A cold splash hit my face and the crowd once again erupted. I stood up in shock and looked around. I saw nothing but could feel a sticky liquid slowly rolling from my cheeks and chest. Another splash hit my collarbone. I scanned the room, desperately trying to find the source, unable to locate any reason for the liquid now constantly hitting my body from all sides to unified cheers.
The music stopped and in unison, a countdown began. “10, 9, 8….” What was the countdown for? “4, 3, 2…” With my mouth agape, the crowd cried out, “One!” and from somewhere above, a bucket of freezing cold water fell directly over my head, saturating every inch of my terrified body.
I heard Jeremy call out to the patrons, �
�When the fresh meat won’t strip, might as well get them wet! You know how we do it here at the I-70 Pole Stop!” The men shouted, my cheeks flushed, and against my will, my nipples hardened under the now invisible fabric clinging to my body. “Might as well take it off, now, sweetheart!” Jeremy shouted. I noticed he was standing at the bar, proudly holding a large double-barreled water gun.
“You want it off,” I shouted without even trying to hide the anger in my voice. I ripped my bra from my trembling body and threw the soaking fabric into the crowd. “There you go! Look at these tiny titties,” I screamed, thankful the water pouring out of my hair hid the tears forcing themselves from the corner of my eyes. The jukebox kicked back in and I shimmied my chest in time to the bass and shouts erupting from the crowd. I dropped down on all fours, half crawling, half slipping through who the hell knows what to the sides of the stage, letting grubby hands slip bills into the elastic of my panties. I had never felt more humiliated. My cheeks burned out of shame, my head spun from the vodka, my body dripped from a mix of water and leftover beer men now felt entitled to pour over me while they shouted about how sexy I was.
I brought myself back to my feet when the song slowed down, indicating my time was over. In one last moment of bravery, I decided I was going to go out with a bang. I would own this stage and not let these losers win. Not tonight. They may think they broke me, they may think they are the victors, but I own my body. I threw my hair in one final whip and strolled straight to the pole. I dug my toes in to the stage, propelling myself forward with a force driven by anger.
In my head, I would have grabbed the top and done a spin or two before stopping back in front, giving one more shimmy, a bow, and marching myself off the stage with pride. In reality, I was drunk and emotional. The stage and pole were wet. Momentum, physics, and my lack of any semblance of physical strength took over. I found myself on the losing end of a bad idea and rocketed off the side of the stage. Inertia compounded with the blinding pain emanating from my palms and resulted in me promptly throwing up on a man who could be my grandfather before passing out on the grubby floor.
The sun was beating down and I found myself unable to breath, surrounded by stifling humidity and the smell of hot plastic. My eyes twitched and willed themselves to open. I felt like Thor was trying to rid the universe of evil inside of my skull. My mouth was dry, my throat began to constrict, and I knew what was coming next. I fumbled with my driver’s side door, screaming at the stubborn metal to open – at least I felt like I was screaming. I was likely just speaking chimpanzee and grunting. With a swift knee to the sun-bleached vinyl, the door gave way, my face was blasted with fresh air that I inhaled in a large gulp, and then I swiftly gave an encore to my previous night’s final performance.
My entire body ached. This was more than a hangover; this felt like someone attempted to murder me and realized I wasn’t worth their effort before discarding me back in my car. I stayed hunched over and looked at my legs. My limbs were black and gooey from a mysterious caked on half dry sludge; my knees and shins showcased fresh purple bruises peeking out through the gunk. I gasped and noticed I was only wearing my panties and tank top – both no longer white and without any shred of hope bleach would save them. Dried vomit lay caked in my hair, stringy and half stuck to my face, and my right arm proudly featured a massive bruise running from my elbow to my shoulder. I willed my body to rest against my car seat but the overwhelming smell of hot plastic brought up another bought of exorcism worthy bodily fluids.
“Those bitches put me in my car?” I gagged. “Who does that?”
I gave one more lurch, apparently trying to bring up my liver and any other vital organs, and collapsed. The smell of bile, those damn plastic bags, and my own body was too much. Every ounce of reserved energy was willed to the surface in a desperate issue to dig around the back seat, hoping to find something resembling pants, a clean shirt, and if luck was on my side for once, a bra. I shuddered to think of all the possibilities for where my bra could be now. Was it tied to some trucker’s rearview mirror? Was it stuck to the floor in that hellhole that was somehow supposed to be my saving grace? Did someone have the decency to throw it away?
My fingertips grazed the roughness of denim and I tugged on a pair of worn shorts. They broke free and brought with them a threadbare grey t-shirt. I slipped the shorts on but decided to wait to change my shirt until after I cleaned up. Somehow in the foggy haze of my mind, I remembered putting my underwear into the red suitcase with a crack down the center and one missing lock. If my memory also served me, this suitcase would be in the trunk next to the green train case that was roughly the same shade as the pool of last night’s excess, now in a soupy pile outside of Merle.
My elementary school hopscotch skills helped me navigate the vomit without getting any on my feet — not that it would have mattered with the current state of my body. Luckily, the suitcase and train case were on top and I didn’t have to jostle my body with furious digging through layers of disappointment. My head was not actively participating in excessive movement, especially anything requiring quick turns, strong motions, or requiring me to point my head towards the ground.
“I’m never drinking again,” I moaned and found a cheap WorldMart bra, pushing the thin underwire back in the hole it cleverly escaped from. I popped open the train case and pulled out a small bottle of combination shampoo conditioner, a small bottle of bath gel and my deodorant, which promptly found a new home inside of my purse. My fingers brushed against a small wad of unfamiliar paper with an all too familiar texture. When I peeked inside, I noticed a fold of sticky dollar bills.
“Seventy-nine dollars,” I counted out loud. “Well, that’s not too bad, I suppose. Only 8 more nights to fix my car and have some escape money.” I figured if I took what I had left from my starting fund and could somehow manage to keep this up with $80 a few more nights, I could fix my car, make it to California, and have enough money to buy an interview outfit while I searched for a job.
There must be a blessing in this disaster after all, I thought.
A gust of wind brought the scent of my struggles straight to my nostrils in a large cloud of reality, squashing any thoughts of blessings or happy dreams. I immediately gagged and hustled as quickly as I could into the diner.
“I know you aren’t planning on washing up in here,” Norma gristled when the door clanged opened.
“Hello to you, too, murderer,” I choked. “Wash up in here? In the sink? I have some dignity.”
“Sure looks like that way,” she replied. I hated her and loved her all at once. I marched straight to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. Of course I was going to wash up in the bathroom. I wasn’t ready to enter the club again and when I did walk through those doors, I wanted to look fresh. I didn’t want them to see me vulnerable, or, well, anymore vulnerable than I had been last night whenI was tossed into my car and discarded.
I set my travel size soaps on the sink’s edge, stripped down, and began scrubbing the grime off my legs. I was shocked, even though I shouldn’t have been, to see the same grime up my back and spreading over the softness of my stomach. The soap barely cut through the muck without the aid of my short fingernails. I was tempted to go ask Norma for some paper towels and whatever it was they used to clean the grill. Out of desperation, I wetted down my tank top and used it to scrub, taking off a few layers of skin in the process.
My hair came next. I flipped my head over and stumbled due to my hangover-induced vertigo, beyond thankful the sink was firmly anchored in place. The porcelain bowl was my saving grace when my feet slipped in the soapy puddle of my washed off grime. The sudden movement made me lurch and my esophagus burned from the abuse, begging me to give it a break. I apologized profusely to my body while it fought me to stay oriented with my head flipped. I scrubbed and washed as quickly as I could with only a trickling stream of water and an awkward height sink.
Upon finishing, I realized I was standing butt-naked in a small town greasy spoon diner, bathing unknown strains of bacteria capable of eating me alive if they could only find an opening somewhere on my body, and I had forgotten to grab a towel. The only option was to scoot towards the toilet paper or take my chances with the thin cotton pull and roll towel that never ended and you hoped was cleaned some time. I leaned towards the towel and gave it a quick sniff. The gauzy fabric didn’t smell too rotten, but for good measure, I rolled it down five times before awkwardly sticking any available part of my body against the thin textile. I gave the towel one more tug for a dry patch and tousled my hair.
This was officially the lowest moment of my short life. My short life now felt aged to 100 over night. My short life that had been full of lows, without even a visible high, and was now at the lowest of the lows on anyone’s scale. My mind was exhausted. My body was exhausted. My spirit was exhausted. I slowly trudged to the toilet, the only seat in the small room I found myself in, and sat down to cry while I bandaged up my raw and broken open hands.
Chapter Twelve
I don’t know how long I sat on the toilet and cried. I was thankful this town barely got any traffic and thankful Norma’s bladder was the same size as her body. I have a tiny tank and tend to pee what feels like every ten minutes. My stomach growled and I instantly resented not being a vampire or some sort of mutant without the need to constantly eat.
Even though I grew up poor, I had always taken money for granted. Even being what society considered to be poor, I was starting to realize money was just always there. I worked at gas stations or fast food restaurants. I could toss the couch cushions, check the washing machines or coin vendor at the laundry mat, or walk around a parking lot and pick up spare change if I had to. I never had to do something that made me feel ashamed and like less of a human being before last night. I only hoped somehow the nights got better. For now, I’d have to spend some of last night’s money and I would cringe with every dime I turned over. Each dime meant one more dime I needed to earn again.
The Wrong Side of Twenty-Five Page 11