by Jodi Watters
Jesus, it was one thing to give a guy a lap dance in the privacy of your home, but entirely different to do it in front of an audience. Her stomach dipped at the thought and she looked away, only to stare at the focal point of the club.
A large, horseshoe-shaped stage dominated the room, the clear acrylic platform lit brightly from underneath, creating an ethereal glow. An unexpectedly ornate crystal chandelier hung dead center above the platform, just in front of a thick, highly polished silver pole. Two smaller stages anchored each side, a few feet lower than the center stage. No chandeliers hung over them, but the gleaming chrome poles were the same.
The whole place could best be described as vintage Hollywood glamour. Shiny, sophisticated and scrumptious. Add in several pairs of bouncing bare breasts and it was no wonder men from all walks of life were drawn to these places.
“Ain’t what ya’ expected, is it?” The man behind the bar said, looking around the space proudly, as if viewing it for the first time along with her. “Just did a major remodelin’ job last winter. Cost me twice as much as I budgeted thanks to them goddamn Union laborers.”
Not sure how to respond, Hope said the first thing that came to mind. “It’s... nice.”
“I just told ya’ it cost me twice as much as it should’ve, darlin’. Nice ain’t a strong enough word. Now why don’t ya’ show ole’ Bubba that ID of yours?” Impatiently wagging his thick fingers, he motioned her toward the bar. “This here’s Marcia. She’s in charge of the girls when I’m not around. Which ain’t hardly ever, I’ll tell ya’. Got myself three ex-wives and moldy food in my fridge to prove it.”
A rusty female laugh came from the far side of the bar and Hope realized that they, her and this grizzly bear of a man calling himself Bubba, weren’t alone.
A stout woman with a beehive hairdo sprayed to within an inch of its life based on the sheer height of it, tilted her chin down and looked at Hope over purple-rimmed bifocals. “I’m wife number one. I tried to warn number’s two and three that he wasn’t husband material, but they wouldn’t listen.” Flipping back to the glossy fashion magazine in front of her, she absently added, “You try to train them for the next girl, but some men just can’t learn. It’s like teaching a monkey to juggle. Some take to it real easy. Others fight it.”
There wasn’t a cigarette in sight, but her graveled voice attested to a pack a day habit, if not more. And maybe a few too many scotch’s on the rocks.
At a loss, Hope dug through her purse for her driver’s license, glad Marcia wasn’t expecting a response. Bubba scanned the ID with shrewd eyes, holding it up to the light and comparing her face with the picture on the small card carefully, as if she was seeking high-level Military security clearance. Apparently satisfied, he nodded and handed it back to her. Hope hadn’t been so thoroughly scrutinized since her last pap smear.
“Ya’ might be thinkin’ it was Marcia’s mouth here that caused us to split up, but it was actually her cookin’. If ya’ can’t make a decent tater tot casserole after I’ve been workin’ all night, then we’re gonna part ways. Hells bells, woman, it’s just meat, soup and tots.” Fondness flavored his words and Hope released a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.
Titty bar or not, these were her kind of people.
“Ya’ wantin’ to dance, honey? Or just serve drinks?”
Hope balked at his innocent question. The help wanted ad listed open positions for both, but she was past the point of caring which option he offered her. Sleeping in a car had that effect.
“I can do whatever you need me to do.” Swallowing, she clarified, “but waiting tables would be my preference.”
Feeling Marcia’s eyes on her body, Hope silently pleaded with Bubba, praying he wouldn’t tell her to take a hike. Finally, he spoke. “Ya’ got an old man?”
Not sure if he meant a husband or a father, Hope hesitated before shaking her head. Either way the answer was basically the same.
“No baby Daddy? No jealous ex-boyfriend? No lesbian lover? I don’t need some hotheaded man or crazy bull dyke stompin’ in here and tearin’ up my place when you start attractin’ all kinds a’ unwanted attention.”
“Jesus goddamn Christ, Bub,” Marcia interrupted brusquely. “You can’t go around saying that kinda shit these days. It ain’t politically correct. There’s nothing wrong with being a bean flicker.”
“How the hell’s callin’ em’ bean flicker’s any better?” he scoffed, hands raised in question. “And ya’ know there ain’t no fight messier than a cat fight. All that screechin’ and hair pullin’.”
Hope smiled nervously, wondering if this was the actual interview. “It’s okay. None of the above apply.”
The bizarre argument settled, he crossed his arms and stared at her with kind eyes, tugging on his long, scraggly chin hair. “What’cha think, Marcia?”
Marcia, who’d ambled her way toward Hope, inspected her from head to toe. As if she were a prized pig at the county fair, ready to be auctioned off to the highest bidder before heading to the slaughterhouse.
“A little on the short side but a decent body, otherwise. Awfully young looking, which could make for trouble with some of the older girls.” Reaching out, she used the knuckle of her index finger to tilt Hope’s chin from side to side, talking more to Bubba than her. “Good skin, though. Real nice coloring. She’ll do the trick for those customers tired of the seeing the standard bleach blondes. You Mexican?”
“No,” Hope said, not offended. “My mother was born in Nicaragua.”
Hope got a whiff of strong coffee when Marcia, still invading her personal space, laughed knowingly. “Hooked up with a dirty white boy, did she?”
“Something like that.”
Tapping a long, purple painted fingernail against her mouth, she stepped back. “Show me your teeth.”
Hope opened her mouth automatically. Holy shit. What if they wanted to see her boobs next? She’d worn an ugly ass, white cotton bra, for crying out loud. Why hadn’t she thought to wear a prettier one? Because the trunk of her car was full of dirty laundry, that’s why. Along with all her other worldly possessions. Sexy underwear had been low on her list of priorities lately.
Looking at Bubba, who’d stood motionless the entire time, Marcia shrugged her shoulders and returned to her spot at the bar, not asking to see more skin.
Did that mean she passed the test or not?
“Okay, kid. You’re in. The rules are easy,” he chimed, ticking them off on his sausage-like fingers, “we’re a no touch club. That means customers don’t touch ya’. Anywhere, ever. No matter how much cash they flash ya’, which they’re gonna. Now, ya’ might be enticed to touch them. Don’t do it. We’re a no touch club. But,” he said, with a tilt of his head, “if ya’ do, your hands must remain above their waist or below their thighs. Never in between. And at no point will ya’ ever put your mouth on a customer. Anywhere, ever. Ya’ got me?”
Hope nearly lost her day old bagel breakfast at the thought. “I got you.” Heard and understood.
“And no alcohol before or durin’ your shift. No drugs, ever. No flashin’ your pussy. Them boys get the smell a’ tang in their noses and the next thing ya’ know, I got a riot on my hands and cops swarmin’ the place, lookin’ to shut me down. Ya’ show your pussy, I show ya’ the door. Your first shift starts tonight at six. Ends at two. If ya’ manage to make it ‘til then without cryin’ or runnin’ out the door, then ya’ got bigger balls than I think.”
Rummaging around near the cash drawer, he held out a pale pink business card, the edges worn round. Whipped Cream Boutique was written in raised cursive script. “Go see Carla at this here underwear store an’ get fitted for your uniforms. Marcia’s the house mom here and she’ll take care of ya’. She’ll show ya’ ‘round the place, includin’ the dressin’ rooms tonight. I don’t go in there myself. There’s lady things happenin’ in there that I don’t want no part of. Hairspray and tampons, things a’ that nature. Ya’ make yourself at home,
though.”
Hope opened her mouth but hesitated, and he somehow read her mind. “I’ll cover the cost for ya’, honey. You can pay me back from your first check. Waitressin’ pays ten bucks an hour, once a week on Tuesday’s. Ya’ get to keep all your tips.” He nodded, signaling the end of the salary negotiations, and smiled genuinely. Something Hope hadn’t done in days. “You’re gonna do alright here, toots. Ya’ need to hide out from your real life for awhile? Ya’ need to make some fast money? Bubba’s got ya’ covered. If ya’ ever wanna try out the stage and work the pole once or twice, talk to Marcia here.”
And with that, he went back to his cleaning, as if she wasn’t standing there with near abject fear written all over her pale face. Marcia was oblivious as well, engrossed in her dog-eared Vogue. Muttering her thanks, Hope turned on her heel and headed for the door, not sure if she’d have the guts to return. The fast food joint down the road was looking better and better.
But she did return to the club, promptly at six that night, mentally cursing both the sorry state of her life and her ample chest as she wrestled her boobs into a sadistic leather contraption known as a bustier.
Hope hadn’t cried that night as Bubba predicted, but she had thrown up. Twice she’d had to run into the employee bathrooms and upchuck her insides. Bridget held her hair while Marcia wet a washcloth, both of them assuring her this was standard operating procedure when a new girl started. They were too gracious to point out that it was usually after she shook her naked moneymakers in front of a hundred gawking customers and not when she merely served them a cocktail. Marcia suggested Hope have a cup of hot tea on her break. Bridget suggested Hope add a shot of blackberry brandy to it, poo-poo’ing Marcia when she’d flashed the platinum blonde a warning glare. Yes, the fresh faced bombshell wearing a gold sequined thong and matching star-shaped pasties over her nipples had actually said the word poo-poo.
When Hope’s inaugural shift finally ended—in the middle of the freaking night—she’d taken a long, hot shower in one of the club’s surprisingly clean private bathrooms, borrowing Bridget’s green apple scented body wash to scrub her skin raw. Before leaving the club for the night, she thanked Bridge and hugged her without thought, because once you’ve barfed with a strange woman’s enormous rack plastered against your back, nicknames and public displays of affection seemed appropriate.
Hair still wet, she’d locked herself in her car, carefully counting the fat wad of cash she’d earned running her half naked ass off, not including the paltry hourly wage she was due.
And then she counted it again, just to make sure her math was correct.
The following night, she’d shown up for her shift early, this time with dollar signs in her eyes and a smile that wasn’t completely phony. And she didn’t throw up once.
CHAPTER SIX
Selling yourself for pocket change? Like mother, like daughter. Daddy would not be proud.
Surprised at the relatively clean content of the text she’d just received, the message not as vile or insulting as some of the other’s, Hope swiped the words away with the slide of her thumb and closed the screen. Not bothering to delete the growing chain of text threats from the blocked number, she dropped the phone down into the empty cup holder with a thud. Her sicko phone stalker must be bored tonight. He didn’t normally send his creepy messages in the middle of the night, preferring instead to freak her shit in the harsh light of day.
Her gaze darted to the rear view mirror anxiously, even though no car was behind her, chiding herself as she did so. She was in the suburbs for Christ’s sake, not the inner city. Mission Hills was hardly a crime ridden neighborhood, the roads predictably deserted as it neared midnight.
Flipping the headlights off as her car rolled to a stop on the quiet residential street, she parked her trusty sedan under the familiar jacaranda tree, it’s majestic canopy of brilliant lavender flowers and thick, scaly trunk providing a false sense of security. The faint glow of streetlights lined the historic Mission Hills district where she parked her car and slept several nights a week, but the affluent residential neighborhood where families flocked to live the good life gave Hope the desired privacy she sought. Once the eleven o’clock news was over and Kimmel started, the lights in the windows went off, assuring her a few hours of restful sleep with her car humbly inconspicuous under the cover of wealthy suburban darkness.
And, of course, her beloved, decades old jacaranda tree.
Sitting one after another along well kept streets named after birds, the quaint homes were usually bustling with all sorts of minivan-ish activity during the day, but they lit up only randomly during the night. A little boy with a tummy ache, maybe. Or a pigtailed girl with a monster under her bed. Both lucky enough to have a parent who gave a single shit, willing to forgo a few minutes of shut eye to tend to their ailing child.
Built mostly in the early twentieth century, the neighborhood was a mix of old Craftsman bungalows, Prairie style homes, and Spanish and Mission Revivals, their variety a perfect blend of solid, sturdy architecture. Some were renovated to their historically charming selves, their slightly slanting foundations overlooked by the rich history the home stood for. And some, while still beautiful in their aging originality, were in need of the healthy budget it took to restore a period home to its deserved condition. A face lift could work wonders, but when you were a hundred years old, a little slanting to the side was to be expected.
Hope had never step foot inside any of these houses, even though she knew them like the back of her hand. Knew when a palm tree was pruned too severely or when a new hibiscus was planted in shade instead of the sunny spot it preferred. Knew when the longtime owners of the butternut yellow Mission Revival over on Albatross Street hung new draperies in every room on the second floor. She knew when one went up for sale and how long it was on the market, monitoring the listing weekly and yearning for the day when she could afford to buy one. The fulfillment of a promise she’d made long before she knew the word mortgage.
Back in the day, when it wasn’t considered child abuse to ride in a car with no air-conditioning to speak of on a humid summer day—without your seatbelt buckled—she and her mom would drive through this neighborhood on their way home from Sunday church service. Their fifteen-year-old hatchback stood out like a sore thumb in the prestigious subdivision and if the sight of an oxidized, denim blue Ford Escort coughing out white exhaust didn’t get you noticed, then the sound of a rusted out muffler sure could. But back then, Hope didn’t care. She wasn’t old enough to notice the odd looks thrown their way or the nicer, newer cars parked along the curb. And even though the cracked vinyl seat was hot on her bare legs and would leave a biting indentation on her skin that stuck around long after the ride was over, it didn’t matter. Awed by wide concrete driveways with hopscotch patterns drawn in colored chalk, basketball hoops mounted above garage doors, and ten-speed bikes propped on kickstands, Hope would absorb it all with a pit in her stomach that only an adult would recognize as jealousy. Her eyes would widen with wonder at the brick sidewalks leading to bright white porches, where hanging baskets overflowed with red geraniums and rocking chairs sat empty as families chose to relax on the wide front steps instead. Wreaths with pretty ribbons would hang on the front doors and Hope couldn’t even imagine how much happiness must lay on the other side of them, but she was sure it was as big as the sky.
And that Mommy’s and Daddy’s and brother’s and sister’s were all together, and nobody ever had to stay inside by themselves, in a room above the garage where it was stuffy and scary and lonely. All while the others laughed and ate chocolate cake.
Hope smiled sadly, shaking her head at the silly memory, wondering how the hell she’d ever been so damn naïve. Some guy was probably smacking his wife around right now, in the house down the street. Or sneaking a laptop into the hall bathroom, locking the door behind him so he could jerk off to Asian porn while his clueless wife slept in a cotton nightgown covering her from neck to ankle. Or maybe
she knew exactly what her husband was doing and waited for him to leave their bed so she could grab her phone and secretly sext with her tennis instructor, horning in on the much younger man before her slutty friend Rhonda could dig her fake, french manicured nails into him first. These hundred-year-old houses probably held family secrets that could peel the lead based paint right off their plastered walls.
Her phone rang unexpectedly, interrupting her ridiculous musings. The chime was alarmingly loud over the quiet sounds of the night, heightening her risk of exposure.
“Shit!” Whispering the curse, she fumbled for the device and silenced the bells, answering before every dog on the block started barking. “Hey, it’s late. You should be wearing a sleep mask and sawing logs by now.”
Val clicked his tongue, sounding put out. “Well, you see, I’ve got this friend who likes to keep me up at night, fretting and sick with worry. I’m like a wacked out mother hen who needs vodka and anti-depressants to deal with her unruly little chick.”
“You like vodka and anti-depressants.”
“That’s beside the point,” he replied immediately, with an indignant huff. “You’re supposed to call and let me know you’re okay. That some crazy, titty-obsessed pervert didn’t abduct you and... and... I don’t know! Titty fuck you until you lost consciousness or something.”