The new girl, Sunny she’d called herself, was prettier than me, a lot prettier than me, and this shouldn’t have been an issue because there were many women at the Bubblegum Kittikat who were significantly prettier than me. Every single night that I worked I was surrounded by women who were prettier than me, but somehow this one particular girl felt like a threat and why did her name sound so familiar? Sunny Priest. It was really bugging me that I couldn’t recall where I’d heard that name before.
It took me all of eight minutes to show her around the box. This is where the Marlboro Lights are. Cut the cigars like so. Here’s the panic button. Say “Good evening, Bubblegum Kittikat” when you answer the phone. It’s not astrophysics.
“How long ya been workin here?” she asked.
I gave her the short version of how I ended up at the club.
“Wow, that sure sucks a big one,” Sunny said.
She had the most irritating accent; nasal and New England with a funny clip that reminded me of gangsters in black and white movies. Her distinctive speech seemed at odds with her appearance. Tall and willowy, green eyed and graceful with delicate features like a tiny nose and a pointed chin, most men would have paid a fortune to see her slide out of a high-slit spandex gown. Her boobs, a full C-cup at least, were real, so I couldn’t even fault her there.
“So what brought you here?” I asked, but I didn’t really care. Business hadn’t picked up. I could either make small talk with her or turn my back to the door and stare at Lila grabbing her ankles on Stage Three while a dwarf tucked a five into her shoe because he couldn’t reach her garter.
Sunny told me she’d just moved to South Florida from New Hampshire and needed a job and the guy she was living with said a guy he knew was dating a girl whose friend worked the door and made pretty good money and oh my God she was talking about me! Sunny was Adam’s girlfriend and what fucking nerve. What fucking, god damned nerve this guy had screwing me over, leading me on, cheating on his girlfriend with me and then sending her in to MY workplace to take over MY position! I was livid.
“Are you living with Adam Zuckerman?” I asked.
I could have played it cool. I know. I could’ve let it go, maybe. Pretended it didn’t matter to me, that I didn’t care, ignored it. I could’ve told myself that it wasn’t Sunny’s fault, that she was just as much a victim as I was. I could’ve been professional, but fuck that. I was mad and I was sick and damned tired of men taking advantage of me and casting me aside for hotter girls and Sunny being prettier than me was reason enough for me to hate her. In fact, I was glad I fucked her boyfriend. How do you like that Miss Perfect Curls?
“Oh my God, how do you know him?” she asked, excited.
Obviously this bitch was stupid because she’d just told me how I knew him. His friend dated my friend Angelina. Duh dumb ass, I was the friend he was talking about. How was that not obvious to her? I was about to explain it, to possibly get out a legal pad and draw it all out in stick figures if need be, but I didn’t get a chance because five inches of clear Lucite careened through the front entrance and slammed heel first into the door so hard it quivered the impact glass.
“What in the hell?” Sunny asked.
“Duh, somebody threw a stripper shoe!” I said.
I swear every guy on the floor stood up and started chanting “GIRL FIGHT! GIRL FIGHT!” You would’ve thought it was The Jerry Springer Show, but this wasn’t contrived, campy entertainment. Romance was whipping Bambi’s ass for real.
I immediately knew what it was about. Romance and Bambi were both after Chris, the new manager. Romance shocked everyone by being the first to get him in bed. It had happened one night when the club closed and a group headed over to the afterhours club, Rottweilers. They’d gotten pretty tore up and Romance made her move, taking Chris back to her apartment for a predawn thrill, but Romance wasn’t Chris’s type. Romance was a little street, a little thug. Chris had designs on Bambi from day one and you really couldn’t blame him. Bambi’d gotten her stage name because of her huge brown eyes which she accented with false eyelashes made from real mink. They must have cost a fortune but she could afford it because Bambi was smoking hot and a top earner – so gorgeous that she appeared on all of the club’s promotions. You could see Bambi all over town in the back of The New Times and flashing her coy smile and spherical décolletage on the doors of taxis. The year before she’d won the cover of the prestigious Bubblegum Babes calendar.
The Chris, Romance, Bambi love triangle dominated Kittikat gossip. Chris wanted nothing to do with Romance, who’d gone all Fatal Attraction on him when he didn’t call her. She’d shown up at his apartment, blown up his phone and followed him around the club trying to hang all over him when he was working. He’d recently threatened her with day shift exile if she didn’t cut it out. When Romance saw Chris flirting with Bambi she lost it and started threatening her in the locker room, calling Bambi, who was Italian, a Guinea poo-putt ho. Bambi told her to shut her stupid mouth and Bambi vowed revenge. This is all the drama I’d missed while I was in Georgia but the cocktail waitresses had been eager to fill me in when I came in Sunday night.
I don’t know what, if anything new, caused Romance to jump Bambi in the middle of the floor right before the Amateur Contest started, but I imagined it had something to do with the rumors that Bambi had spent the past two nights with Chris and that she’d caught a ride to work in his silver Camaro. I understood Romance’s rage. The rejection seems so unfair. You get so sick of not being picked, not being “the one,” always being turned down, sent away and you wonder what the hell is so unlovable about you and so damned magnificent about these other girls and you hate the guys who don’t want you, but you hate the perfect girls they choose just as much, maybe more. You hate yourself because you aren’t them, because it is so unfair that they get everything that you want and because you deserve it too dammit. I’d never been in a fight and I’d never attack someone like Romance did, but I understood. The same anger tumored and metastasized within me. I was just too much of a wuss to act on it. Not that I hadn’t fantasized and if I didn’t take the Ambien my psychiatrist had prescribed along with the Zoloft for anxiety induced insomnia, I had recurrent nightmares where I tore limbs from the faceless girl who’d slept with my fiance in my bed while I worked evenings at the pottery studio.
Romance unleashed a lifetime of fury on Bambi, who didn’t stand a chance. The violence probably lasted only seconds before Paolo, Sean and Charlie tore Romance away and it took all three of them to hold her back, her peach gown splattered with a spray of blood. She’d used the heel of her shoe to beat Bambi’s face in and it was bad. Blood droplets landed as far away as the front door. This must be what they mean by trajectory when they investigate crime scenes on TV mysteries.
“God dammit, call 911!” Brent yelled, hurdling overturned chairs to get within my earshot.
I forgot Sunny, practically knocking her down to get back to the phone.
“There’s been a fight at the Bubblegum Kittikat. I need police and an ambulance immediately,” I said and before I could hang up the phone with the dispatch, Sunny was already telling everyone to stand back and offering to administer first aid to Bambi, who was, thankfully, still conscious and refused any help. Apparently Sunny’d learned life-saving in the Coast Guard.
Of course she had. I couldn’t even look in the direction of where the fight had taken place without feeling woozy and gaggy. My hands shook and my knees knocked together so badly I had to take off my heels because I couldn’t stand up right, but here was Sunny on her first night of work knowing exactly how to handle and emergency, staying perfectly calm and of course not a single golden curl had yet to fall out of place. Some help I was. Fuck her. Thank God the police and medics arrived in what seemed like all of one minute so Sunny could stop irritating me with her perfection and go back to learning how to sell Cohibas.
The cops added “resisting arrest” to Romance’s already long list of serious charges. She�
�d bitten one officer and kicked another - a pissed off lesbian who I recognized because she often enlisted a male friend to escort her in when she was off duty so she could get friction dances from Sierra. Romance was still cussing when they led her out and I couldn’t help but cringe when the DJ played Ice Cube’s “You Can Do It.” Mona, Mystique and Charisma tossed their extensions and pouted on the main stage because the show must go on, but you could see them trying to crane their necks at the same time they “put their ass into it” so they could see the action on the floor.
When I say the girls danced through the fight and its aftermath because “the show must go on” I’m not resorting to weak clichés to explain the situation. I mean it literally. Right after Angel’s overdose on stage when the DJ stopped playing and all the dancers froze, Mr. Haines had lost his absolute shit. He’d even called a special meeting on a Tuesday evening during shift change to bitch out all the employees and he was so mad that his hair actually moved. His head tended to nod vigorously when he yelled and he was one of those people who can’t get mad at anything without pointing his finger all over the place. It was awful. We were not, he explained, to stop the music, cease dancing or halt the sales of alcohol or tobacco products in the event of an emergency.
“THE SHOW MUST GO ON!” he’d roared.
I wanted to ask what if there was a fire, but a smart ass remark like that would’ve gotten me kicked out and my parents being friendly with the owner wouldn’t have made much difference.
So yeah. That night the show went on. Don’t stop. Get it. Get it? Yes, I got it.
They wheeled Bambi out. She was sitting up with her face covered by ice packs. A wedge of her neon pink gown, torn and scuffed, jagged and Jackson Pollocked in red, fluttered over the edge of the stretcher and the last thing I saw as they heaved her into the back of the ambulance under the valet awning were her shoes. Five inches of Lucite. The same kind that had just disfigured her for life and God, why couldn’t they at least have taken them off for her?
Two young girls, pretty enough both of them, sleek bikini bods, all tits, ass and trim waisted, making money, their lives nothing but the freedom to shop and party and this is what happens to both of them over some dick. Their destinies forever altered over a one night stand and a weekend fling. Felonies and scars. Jail time and cosmetic surgery. Fines and hospital bills. It would be months before Bambi would return and we’d never see Romance again. Once her time was served and her fines paid up, the restraining order would remain to keep her away and she’d have to work at one of the skanky bars in the hood where the customers were poor and still expected blow jobs in the parking lot. And what was it all worth? A week later we’d hear more rumors that Chris hooked up with Savannah, the generic peroxide blonde I’d bought my beamer from.
37
The fight happened early on, at the beginning of night shift. The Amateur Contest crowd hadn’t even shown up yet by the time the Haitian janitors had wiped up all the blood and it was still early. I looked at my watch. I wore a little Timex with a black leather band because it drove me insane not knowing what time it was when I was at work. Nine pm meant at least five more hours trapped in a box with Miss Perfect and her “New Hampsha” accent and she persisted in trying to make conversation. For an hour we had the fight to talk about but I knew once we’d exhausted that she’d want to know how I knew Adam and I had two choices. I could say he was a friend of a friend or I could say I fucked your boyfriend. Option number two could be construed as doing her a favor.
“You want to know how I know Adam?” I asked.
A string of customers tangled up the lobby waiting to hand me their ten dollar covers and I rang each of them up while still talking to Sunny. I never even looked at her.
“I had sex with him,” I said. I punched a one, a zero and the .00 key into the register. I banged in twenty and hit the big C key to make the drawer fly open. I handed the customer two fives and slammed it shut.
“On several occasions,” I went on, “And he led me on. He’d call and promise to take me out. He’d say all kinds of nice things to me and then he’d make up excuses why he wasn’t available. Then I wouldn’t hear from him until the next time he was bored and alone and couldn’t find anyone else to call.”
“Adam’s an asshole,” Sunny said, “Here let me take the next group. I wanna practice the credit cod chodge.”
That was it? I thought for sure she’d be shocked, dismayed. Heartbroken maybe, but she was more concerned about how to ring up an Am Ex as opposed to a Master Card?
“I had no idea that all along he had a girlfriend,” I continued.
“Adam has a girlfriend?” she asked.
“Um yeah. You, right?”
Sunny cackled so loudly that she caused the stout bald man handing her his Discover card to take a step back.
“I’m not his fucking girlfriend. If that’s what he’s telling people he’s got another thing coming.”
Sunny took the card and keyed in the numbers and expiration date. The machine unfurled a receipt for the bald man to sign and she handed him a pen, still laughing.
“I shoulda known. The bastard tried to buy me a diamond last week,” she said.
“So, you’re not his girlfriend? Really?”
“I mean sure, I fuck him if I’m horny. Why not right? You know, he’s wicked awesome in bed, but he’s not my boyfriend.”
“But don’t you live with him?” I asked, trying to process it all.
“So what? I need a place to stay. I wanted to move to Florida. Couldn’t stand another freezing New England winter.”
“This guy’s a regular. Spends a ton of money so never charge him,” I told her waving Money Mike through the door.
“Adam’s a little prick,” she said.
“You got that right,” I snorted.
“He’s a spoiled brat. Rich parents. He only wants what he can’t have because he was handed everything his whole life. He probably blew you off because you were too nice or something. He likes me because I’m a bitch and because I don’t give a shit about him.”
“I think he didn’t like me because I was smart. I think he only likes dumb girls.”
Sunny turned and looked at me. I tried not to make eye contact with her and pretended to brush a fuzz ball off my skirt. Her brow creased for a second and her mouth tensed slightly as if she were sucking a sweet tart, but she didn’t defend herself against my passive aggressive insult.
“Sweetie, I’m not the one who dicked you around and left you waiting by the phone,” she said and I couldn’t tell if she was condescending or sincere so I tried to act like I didn’t care.
“I didn’t think the sex was that great anyway.”
“Don’t waste your time on him. Lots of fish in the sea or whatever. He ain’t worth it, trust me. And look, he can be a dick but Adam’s my friend and I’m staying with him so try to be nice when he comes in later, ok?”
Instant diarrhea.
“Adam’s coming? Here? Adam’s coming here tonight?” I stammered.
“Sure. He said he’d come in and help me out on tips and see the Amateur Contest. I hear that shit’s hysterical.”
“You watch the door. If you have any questions you can ask your door guy Charlie and he can cover for you if you need to go to the bathroom. I’m going on dinner break,” I said.
38
I snatched my purse up from where it had fallen under the barstool by the register that Sunny and I had been sharing all night. My hands still trembled. I felt like I’d had a liter of Red Bull, though I hadn’t had any. My stomach clenched and stomach acid burned the back of my throat. Adam was coming in and he didn’t even care if he saw me or not. This guy really had nerve and of course it had to be on a night when the club was roiled with major drama and everyone was already out of sorts, not to mention my hair was slapped up in a ponytail and I wasn’t dressed in a particularly flattering outfit, though it had to be better than Sunny’s. She wore a ridiculous pink bustier. It looked l
ike the top of a can-can dancer’s dress and I didn’t think it matched her sequined go-go shorts at all. She looked like Charlotte Russe threw up on her, but I guess when you’re that pretty no one cares what you have on because they just want to take it off anyway. Me, well, I could never get away with wearing something like that. My ass in glittery hot pants? God help us.
Help is definitely what I needed and I knew exactly where to find it. Velouria was a genius. If there was a Nobel prize in hair and makeup, she could have won it. On a nightly basis, like a magnificently sequined, three hundred and fifty pound, five foot ten fairy godmother, Velouria transformed ordinary girls and just plain skanks into belles of the ball. Easily the most intellectual (make that only intellectual) Kittikat employee, Velouria had graduated from NYU’s theater school. She was elegant and sophisticated, often listening to her favorite Nina Simone cd while she clipped in extensions and curled false eyelashes on girls without GEDs whose idea of high culture was Snoop Dog’s new video. She sipped Indian chai and read Colette and Gertrude Stein when things were slow in the back of the house. It’s fair to say that I kind of worshipped her, if only because with her I could engage in an intellectually stimulating conversation over take-out Mexican.
I used to think that gorgeous people were born that way, that they just got lucky and won an unfair genetic lottery. A select few people do, Sunny for example, but not most. Spending time at the strip club, I’d realized that beauty can be created like a magician’s trick, that most of looking good is an illusion. It took some work and some effort, but for most of us, beauty is attainable, and this gave me great hope. Look at Diana after all. If Velouria could make her hot, and sizzling she was, then surely I could glam it up too.
My mom liked Diana better than all the dancers and she wasn’t alone. Diana ruled the Bubblegum Kittikat A-List along with Brooklyn, Chanel, Amberlynn and poor Bambi before she’d taken a shoe to the face. Customers called Diana Jessica Rabbit more often than they asked me my secret and because Diana was quiet, customers found her mysterious and irresistible. Her unique dancing, so slow that she barely moved at all, made her seem dreamy, almost supernatural. She called to mind a lioness stretching in the sun. When she moved, she was thick syrup dripping down the sides of a chilled bottle. Statuesque Diana with a drape of strawberry blonde hair swishing past the small of her back and those feline yellow-green eyes peering out from beneath a heavy fringe of bangs, well, she was obviously one of the lucky ones who had to have been born that way. Or that’s what I used to think anyway.
Amateur Night at the Bubblegum Kittikat Page 22