The reception dimmed slightly as her dad’s cheerful voice came on, “Hey spud! What’s new in Atlanta?”
“Hi guys! I was just thinking about you and thought I’d say hello.” Sam felt the knot rise in her throat. She hated lying to them. Hated that she couldn’t be honest about her life. They had been through hell together, nursing her through a nasty drug addiction in her teenage years. Their support had kept her going when she’d wanted to give up. Sam thought about her struggle with depression that followed addiction. It tainted the memory of her college years gray with hazy fatigue. They were there for that too. Now, several years into what Sam considered her real life, she danced because it was a low hour, high yield job that satisfied a need somewhere hidden. Always knowing the day would come when she’d be back in an office, working a legitimate job rather than in a fantasy world. She wasn’t worried that her family would disown her, but she didn’t want them to worry about her safety, or her sanity.
Tic. She pressed her fingers into the muscle above her eye that had begun its all too familiar twitch.
“Just taking a little break between freelance jobs. You know, a little time for myself.” She said, feeling the weight of her lie.
“Great sweetheart! It sounds like you’ve been working so hard. You need some time to unwind.” She could feel her mother’s smile behind her words.
Her father added, “Are you all booked up?”
Sam sighed, “Yeah, for the next couple of weeks anyway. I have a few corporate identities for start-up companies and a redesign on a web site to do. I just had to take a few days off. It’s harder working from home than when I was in an office; my tendency is to work too much rather than slack off. My apartment is a mess and I need to get some order to things before I start another job. Drives me crazy to work in clutter.”
Her parents laughed, knowing her need for organization was inherited from her father.
Sam pictured them — her mother in her Lay-Z-Boy in the living room, book open on her lap while they chatted. Her father, in his office, leaned back in his desk chair, staring at the notes tacked to the bulletin board in front of him. She stared at her own tanned legs, stretched in front of her on the couch, balancing a mug of coffee.
“How are things in Minnesota?” Sam asked, hoping to shift the conversation.
“Oh, well, let’s see,” her mother paused, “the church is having a fund drive and I’ve been keeping busy with that. Ooo, and Gina Nelson just had a baby girl!” The conversation flowed on with happenings from her hometown. Sam leaned back on the couch and sipped her hot coffee while she listened.
Sam didn’t remember small town life as being so charming when she was growing up. In fact, it sucked. She couldn’t wait to escape. Now that she was gone, it seemed like a softer, gentler way of life. Most of her high school friends had paired off and had babies. They worked steady jobs and paid their taxes. Sam had only gone back for quick trips since she graduated six years ago. Class reunions were out of the question. Too many lies to keep track of and nothing in common with those she counted as friends in the past. She had been a black sheep. A druggie, who left for college, cleaned up, and battled her demons. It was too much ground to cover during a party designed to show everyone how fabulous one’s life is. So Sam stayed away.
Biting her lip, she wanted to tell her parents about Lena. Wishing she could spill all the secrets she’d been keeping, but knowing that unburdening herself would only be at their expense, she swallowed the truths.
“Well, I’ll be around working if you want to give me a ring.” Sam signaled the wrap-up in conversation as the news ran dry.
“We love you.” They chimed in unison.
“Love you too.” Sam said, feeling the tears begin to sting. “Bye guys.”
Replacing the cordless phone in its charging cradle, Sam leaned against the softness of the ultra-suede covered custom sofa. Her home was tastefully furnished in warm palette of brown and cream. Dancing had provided Sam with a comfortable life, especially considering her young age. Tired of milk-crate furniture and piece-meal hand-me-downs, she’d craved a comfortable space. A sanctuary. During her drug years, any tattered thing would do. The need for high quality pharmaceuticals far surpassed the need for comfort.
Sam had become a bit of a homebody. Since she worked in a club, ‘going out’ was the furthest thing from her mind during her off hours. She wanted to burrow into a comfy couch, wrap a blanket around herself, crack open a book, and drink cocoa with marshmallows. She craved the feel of safe surroundings. The first thing Sam treated herself to was what she considered a ‘grown-up’ décor. She couldn’t help but feel slightly guilty about the splurge, but she was proud as her gaze traveled around the room, drinking in the space that looked like it was pulled from the pages of Elle Décor. She earned it, after all.
Expenditures were no longer calculated in dollar amounts. Table dances were the new unit of monetary measure. Sam felt it was easier to buy something worth fifty table dances rather than a thousand dollars. She would break it down in other ways too, like, it’s just two hours in a VIP room. Strange how dancers would change their thinking about money since it came and went so easily. There was always more to be made, and the young never have the foresight to realize they’ll be too old to dance before they know it.
When it looked like Sam would lose her struggle with her addictions, her parents checked her into one of the best treatment facilities in the country. Her father’s insurance plan refused to cover the cost so they took out a second mortgage on her childhood home. She knew her mom and dad didn’t regret it. Or if they did, they’d never admit it. They always told her, “Possessions can be replaced, people can’t.” She carried the guilt.
Sam was stashing money away to pay off their mortgages. When she started dancing, she guessed it would take her a year to earn the money. She’d underestimated the amount she’d make dancing. She’d also underestimated the funds required to maintain herself. The yearly cost of make-up, costumes, hairpieces, waxing, lasers, nails, tanning, massages and acupuncture, just to keep her upright and earning, was more than most people make. She realized quickly that the ‘spend money to make money’ adage applied ten-fold in this business.
Sam had often thought of returning to a more low-key office job and living like the rest of the world. The growing gap in her resume would make the hunt increasingly difficult. Compound that with taking a hundred and twenty thousand dollar a year pay-cut made the decision difficult at best. She struggled with her feelings of greed. Just one more year and I’ll quit, she would tell herself, knowing she’d heard herself say the same words about her first love — drugs.
She pulled the soft Alpaca afghan off the back of the couch and over her body. The feel of the fabric nest comforted her, allowing her to put off decisions for just a little while longer. She slipped easily into a dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER 5
Returning to work the following evening, Sam heard Gio’s mother, Pietra Maria Speranza DiFrancesco, approach before actually seeing her. Even over the din of the club, the sound and smell of Pietra was unmistakable. The click-clack-smacking sound of kitten heels, the jangle of gold chains and the heavy scent of slightly fermented Halston laced medicinal cream, were sure signs Pietra was near.
In the middle of a table dance for an engineer from Boise, Sam flipped her hair and moved slowly in time with the music. Turning her back to her customer, she spotted the third generation Italian’s orange hair a few yards away at the top of the steps of the main floor. Judging by the hairspray lacquered style, Sam was certain Pietra had a weekly standing appointment at her favorite salon to have her hair ‘set’.
Pietra plunked her hands on her ample hips as if all she was surveying was hers, and hers alone. Her elbows stuck straight out from her body, making passage around her difficult at best. She was squeezed so tightly into her leopard print shirt the buttonholes strained to keep their agreement with the buttons. There was a puddle of soft wrinkled skin at th
e apex of her cleavage and a wattle dangling under her chin, framed by several thick gold herringbone chains. A diamond-studded crucifix surfed the waves of skin as a gauche reminder of her supposed devotion to God. Her white clam-digger slacks fit so snuggly in the crotch, she looked more obscene than the scantily clad twenty somethings that darted around her. A stack of gold, rope chain ankle bracelets rested above her white patent leather slides. Her nails were painted an orangutan red that was an almost perfect match for her hair. A bottle tan streaked her skin with an orangish glow creating the overall effect of an Italian pumpkin partially eaten by a wild beast.
Clicking her gold, chain-link belt with long, thick acrylic nails, her heavily mascara’d beady, dark eyes darted around the floor from girl to girl, assessing what she perceived as her competition. The way Sam heard the story, Pietra once confided in one of the girls, saying that she was sure her son, the night manager, Giovanni Enzio DiFrancesco, was secretly in love with her. She felt that he had an “Ea-da-puss Complex.” Supposedly, the girl was fired shortly thereafter for laughing so hard she shot champagne through her nose onto Pietra Maria Speranza’s imitation Gucci bag.
Sam turned back to Boise and continued her dance, praying Pietra wouldn’t decide to intrude on the hypnotized state she’d worked so hard to lull her customer into. No one knew why Pietra would stop by the club on random nights. Sam was boggled by the inappropriate nature of her presence, but not surprised by the bright, summer white she continued to wear after Labor Day. Even strippers knew the basic rules of fashion.
Focusing on her dance, she gazed at Boise with a practiced sleepy, sexed up bedroom look. Rolling her hips in an invisible figure eight, Sam looked down at her own bare body, slick with sweat, her muscles flexed beneath her thin, tan skin, then back to Boise in a nonverbal plea that let him think ‘If only we’d met somewhere else, we could have fallen in love and lived happily ever after.’ The ploy worked. It always worked.
Table dances at the Pussycat were performed on the floor, rather than on a table. Yes, some clubs do require a table dance to be on the table — a precarious feat in stilettos. Sam stood just inside Boise’s knees, leaning against them at times for support. The rules at clubs vary more than the denim selection at The Gap. Some are nude, some topless, some bikini bars and the level of contact varies widely. A good rule of thumb is the more clothing, more contact — less clothing, less contact. For that reason, Sam chose a nude club with a reputation for a high-end clientele. Customers were not allowed to touch dancers at all when they were disrobed and limited to a hugged greeting when dressed. Lap and friction dances, were strictly verboten. So Sam danced, table danced, for her money.
The music pulsed, and Sam breathed in the second hand smoke and industrial strength orange-scented air. She learned early on that mundane matters are for real life, not for life behind the heavy doors of a gentlemen’s club. Things like inflation, health problems, mortgages, taxes, children, petty arguments, politics, economics, career difficulties, relationship troubles or anything else that might detract from the fantasy is not conducive to a festive, money-making environment. Customers want to feel special. Good dancers were well aware their job was to give the white glove treatment the customer missed during their nine-to-five rituals where they were stepped on, picked at and pushed around. No matter how important they are, everyone’s got a boss. Except maybe God and Pietra.
So, if only for a little while, customers want to suspend reality. That’s why places like the Pussycat make the money they do — strip clubs are one of the last holdouts where customer service is king. In fact, customer service is the primary commodity, the tits and ass just happen to be an appealing delivery system. Anyone who tells you differently doesn’t understand the game.
Pietra posed a threat to the controlled social terrarium and everybody knew it except for her otherwise savvy son, Gio. Bouncers, waitresses and “Pink Pay” girls all scampered to get away when she came through the doors. One of a brave few might make a beeline for her, like a soldier throwing himself on a grenade for his platoon. It was a slow-motion symphony, with the customers oblivious that they were in the presence of the most arrogant and ignorant woman south of the Mason-Dixon.
Sam knew about the communication networks that exist in all clubs like the Pussycat, some subtler than others. The key to making men spend is to perfect the illusion of careless freedom and easy relaxation. When Gio’s mom showed up, a call went out from the front door to the bars and the DJ booth — “Pietra Alert” — which was nothing more than a futile attempt at damage control and a warning to take cover. Using closed-frequency headsets, the valets would radio the door girls, who radioed the bouncers and the bartenders, who radioed the housemom, who radioed the DJ. From there, the bartenders would tell the waitresses, who in turn told the Pink Pay girls, who would pass it along to the dancers. News spread like a virus through the club, and within minutes everyone was aware of her presence. The idea that these places are low-tech sleazy dumps is perhaps true of some. But the best clubs in the country are more wired than the F.B.I.
As the song ended, Sam needed to give her aching muscles a rest. Instead of asking Boise if she should continue dancing, she reached for the soft, red, strapless dress she’d draped across his knee and stepped into it. Having learned long ago that every movement was watched, she threaded her legs slowly into her garment and slid it up the length of her body in one fluid motion. Throwing the dress over her head and working it down would have been infinitely easier, but sexy? No. It was an unwritten rule that every stitch of clothing went back on from the bottom up. Having learned from experience that pulling things over your head would quickly wreck hair and smear make-up into an unpleasant mess. It was a rookie move only new girls tried before the more seasoned dancers trained them as to the ways of seduction. Settling herself back into the seat next to Boise, she reached for her champagne flute filled with ginger ale.
Fixing her customer with an inconspicuous look, she said, “So, where were we?”
“Sam! Dawling, have you gained weight or a’you just bloated?” Pietra’s voice cut the mood like a chain saw. She had wandered down from the steps and positioned herself a few feet in front of Sam. Her thick Jersey drawl pierced the air above the thrumming music. Pietra leered through eyes squinted into slits, a result of her refusal to wear glasses. Her face twisted into a scowl that could only be prompted by strong liquor or lemon juice. Or both.
Sam patted Boise’s leg and gave him a wink. “Sorry sweetheart, let me take care of this. I’ll be right back.” Her face flushed with anger.
“Pietra, how are you, dear?” It pained Sam to not let loose on Pietra, but social and professional survival at the club involved tolerating her sardonic demeanor without retaliation. She took Pietra’s elbow and steered her away from Boise. “You look incredible, is that a new necklace I see? You’re so lucky to have a man like Giovanni Sr.” Sam referred to Pietra’s rarely seen, hen-pecked husband.
Flattery, no matter how insincere, was the only way to soothe Pietra’s bitter temperament.
“Oh, well yeah in fact, Giovanni Sr. gave it to me just b'cause. I’ll never forget how that man begged me to marry him . . .”
“Of course,” Sam nodded having heard the story twenty times before. She guided Pietra toward the office, “Anyone would know that just by looking at you! I remember you talking about how people used to mistake you for Anne Margaret? Or was it Sophia Loren? You could double for either one.”
Pietra relaxed into the thought of her own irresistible beauty as the two made their way through the sweaty crowd and approached the second floor manager’s office. Faces of relieved co-workers blurred past, darting out of Sam and Pietra’s path to keep from slowing their progress. Sam successfully pawned Pietra off onto one of the bouncers who had been loitering outside Giovanni’s door and clearly hadn’t had his earbud in. He looked composed on the outside but panic flashed in his eyes as Sam turned to flee.
“Always a pleasure Piet
ra. Take care of yourself and I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”
Pietra waved her off, already absorbed in the prospect of making this young muscle-bound hottie sweep her off her kitten-heels. Her plans were thwarted by the sound of young Gio’s voice “MA! What ah you doin’ here?”
Sam quickened her pace, heading for the staircase leading back to the main floor. Once out of range, she took a moment to rest against the railing and scan the club.
The Pink Pussycat was decorated as you might imagine the library in a high-end brothel, if such a library ever existed. The walls were covered in mahogany wood paneling and massive Baroque, gold-framed mirrors. The seating was a mix of overstuffed leather, velvets and tapestry prints with a leather bench rimming the perimeter of the main room. The floor was a dark, wide-plank laminate that mimicked a rich wood but was much easier to clean.
From her perch on the second floor, Sam could see the entire club with the exception of the front entrance, which was tucked down a long hallway on the right side. The wall of mirrors to her left was the backdrop for the main stage. The manager’s office sat on the second floor, behind two-way mirrors, for easy monitoring.
The center stage was home to the two-story, floor-to-ceiling brass pole. A floor vent blew cool air up the girls’ legs and into their hair for that slow motion, cover of Cosmo effect. A balcony ran the perimeter of the second level, where all thirty-five VIP rooms were accessed. At either end of the stage, staircases ascended to the balcony. These were used for what the club called the “Catwalk,” otherwise known as full dress walkout, or the Pussy Parade as the girls nicknamed it. The walkout, a break taken twice an evening, was an opportunity for the club to push logo imprinted swag onto unsuspecting customers. Shirts, hats and golf tees were just a few of the items the dancers were expected to sell for thirty bucks, along with two “free” table dances. The girls kept ten of the thirty and the house got twenty. So, the free part was on the girls.
Tea Leafing: A Novel Page 3