by Dee Simon
Soon, I found myself broke and living in one of the most expensive cities in the country. It was then that I came to the bitter realization that I was going to have to put my radio dreams on hiatus and find real employment. It was the start of the new millennium, and San Francisco was experiencing the dotcom explosion. Thousands of people from around the country moved to the Bay Area in search of a quick fortune with some Internet start-up company. Employment was abundant, and I easily landed a production job at The Industry Standard, a weekly newsmagazine about the dotcom industry. The magazine was wildly successful, making millions from the booming economy, and like most people working for an Internet start-up, I was paid an exorbitant amount of money to do very little. Life was good, until it all came crashing down. And it crashed hard. In early 2001, the economy took a nosedive, and practically overnight, the ubiquitous Internet start-ups fell like overpriced, valueless dominoes. In a few short months, The Industry Standard had no choice but to shutter its doors. They were so broke that they couldn’t even give their last remaining employees a severance package. I recall leaving the building with a box of red sharpies and three packets of Post-It notes. Once more, I found myself unemployed in San Francisco, but this time everyone in the city was unemployed.
I still hadn’t discarded my dream to work in radio, and every day I would send out demo packages to unresponsive radio stations throughout California, Oregon, and Washington. My daily routine involved waking around 1:00 PM, masturbating to Internet porn, scouring the various job websites looking for a promising opportunity, and then off to FedEx to send out some demos. One day, when I was returning home from FedEx, I bumped into Hollywood, my old weed dealer and frequent guest on Rampage Radio. He was hard to miss being a 6’5” white guy with blonde dreads and a white polyester leisure suit. Hollywood worked at Teasers, a strip club located on San Francisco’s infamous Broadway strip. He mentioned that with my radio experience, he could probably get me an audition at one of the smaller clubs on the strip. I was interested in anything that would give me a paycheck, and he said he’d check back with me in a few days. Two days later, Hollywood called and told me that the Doll House, a small nudie bar, had just fired one of their DJs, and he had set me up with an audition with Casey, the daytime manager. Up until that fateful day, I had never fancied myself a strip club DJ. Honestly, I’ve never really been a “strip club guy.” Sure, I’ve been to a few strip clubs over the years, but those weren’t places that I frequented on a regular basis. I usually went to a strip club for special occasions, such as a bachelor party or a friend’s birthday. I was instantly reminded of that Kids in the Hall skit with the Chicken Lady at the strip club. A mulleted and mustachioed Bruce McCullough was the emcee, and he used lines like, “One hand clapping against the other makes a very nice sound for Rooster Boy.” For some reason, the thought of myself wearing a sequined blazer with a red bowtie and asking people to give it up for Candy, was strangely appealing. I told Hollywood that I was very interested and thanked him profusely.
The audition was the next day around noon. It surprised me how nervous I was for it. I had more butterflies in my stomach walking into that sleazy nudie bar than when I interviewed for my 70K salaried position at the dotcom magazine. This was my first live audition. I had been doing radio for a few years, but as any performer would attest, addressing a live audience is far more gut-wrenching than talking into a microphone in a studio. I was expected to entertain people. They depended on me to give them a show worth their entrance fee. Not to mention, I also had to deal with strippers. I nervously ambled towards the club, strongly considering abandoning this ridiculous venture altogether, when a hairy, muscular arm grabbed my shoulder and pulled me towards the dark entrance of the Doll House. The arm was attached to a husky Latin American fellow who whispered in my ear that he was going to hook me up with the lady of my dreams. His breath was a mélange of marijuana, pizza, and malt liquor.
“Black girls, white girls, Asians, lovely Latinas. Whatever you want. We got ‘em. Just ten to get in, but for you, I’m going to make it five. How ‘bout it?” He kept nodding his shaved head in affirmation, smiling widely, and tightly clenching my shoulders, pulling me closer to the entrance.
“Thanks, but I’m here to audition for the DJ position.”
He instantly released me, stuck his head through the purple velvet curtain behind the cash register, and screamed, “Case, DJ’s here.” Then he turned away and began a conversation with a lithe, scantily clad blonde girl who was leaning against a mirrored wall, smoking a cigarette. I stood there hovering at the entrance of the club, unsure if I should just walk in or wait until Casey came to fetch me. From the outside, one was not privy to the goings-on inside the club. I could hear Prince’s “Get Off” blasting from inside, but I could not see if anyone was dancing to it because of the long, purple curtain separating the interior of the club from the entryway. For a minute or two, I studied the many cigarette burns and miscellaneous stains in the curtain, when Casey poked his head through the opening and beckoned me inside. I followed him inside the club and entered a dimly lit room slightly larger than a middle-school classroom. There was a stage in the center illuminated by flashing red, blue, yellow, and green lights. A fully nude girl, barely eighteen, gyrated on her hands and knees on the side of the stage directly in front of the only customer in the place. He was staring intensely at her spread pussy as if bewitched by some Santerian pussy trance. A folded dollar bill hung loosely from his lips. It was really dark, and it took a few moments for my eyes to adjust. The only source of light other than the stage lights was a mirror ball that cast little white circles that danced playfully across the walls of the room. What stood out most clearly in my mind and took me the longest to grow accustomed to was the horrendous stench that permeated the place. It was like someone mixed perfume, Lysol, semen, sweat, cigarettes, and vomit in a bucket and splashed the vile mixture all over the room. It actually made me retch.
“Pleased to meet you, Dirty Sanchez, and welcome to the Doll House,” Casey said, extending his hand.
I shook his hand and replied, “You can call me Dave. Hollywood knows me as Dirty Sanchez from my radio show, but my real name’s Dave. Thanks for setting this up. This is my first time here.”
“Really? It’s a wonderful place filled with mystery and intrigue. Like Fantasy Island with sluts. You’ll grow to love it here. Let me show you the booth.”
I followed him to a small DJ booth situated in the back of the club. It consisted of an old amplifier, a receiver, two heavily used CD players, and a microphone, all hidden behind a six-foot, mirror-covered wall. To the right of the stereo equipment was a book of CDs and an erasable board with four names scrawled on it. The DJ on duty was a tall, young black man who appeared less than pleased at having to be working that afternoon.
“Terrell, this is Dirty Sanchez. He’s going to audition for your job,” Casey said sarcastically.
“My name’s Dave. Nice to meet you.”
Terrell shook my hand and grinned. “Dirty Sanchez? I don’t even want to know where that came from.”
“It’s my radio name. I didn’t pick it. Long story.”
“You’re auditioning? Good. That means I don’t have to do this shit no more.”
Terrell was actually a manager but was covering the shift since they had just fired the regular daytime DJ. The booth was barely large enough to fit two people, so I stood to his right and listened intently while he explained how to operate the equipment. He started showing me how to adjust the volume on the microphone when he noticed that the Prince song was coming to an end. Abruptly, his attention shifted away from me and all at once he assumed the character of a strip club DJ. Gripping the microphone in his left hand and rewinding the track on the CD with his right, he said, “Gentlemen, let’s make a little noise for Jasmine. She’s ready to give you a private show in the Doll House VIP Room. Take advantage while you still can.” His voice possessed this inflection of tawdriness that was not present i
n our conversation beforehand. He slowly faded out the Prince song and faded in an R&B song that I didn’t recognize. A new girl wearing a pink thong and bikini top now approached the stage. “Okay, I want everyone to clap their hands for this next hottie. We got Chastity center stage.” He didn’t seem to care that there was only one customer in the room, and he wasn’t clapping at all. Terrell shut off the microphone and resumed the tutoring session; the cheesy strip club DJ intonation had completely vanished. He wanted me to listen to him put a few girls onstage and then try it out for myself. The nervousness did not subside. After listening for about ten minutes, Terrell felt that I was ready to announce the next girl, and shifted positions with me. I was now behind the microphone, butterflies swarming in my stomach. Trite, trashy phrases swarmed through my mind while I attempted to figure out what I was about to say. In hindsight, I don’t know why I was so bothered. The audience consisted of an old pervert, Casey, Terrell, and three bored strippers. Yet, there I was scared shitless. Twenty seconds left of the current girl’s song. This was it. I placed my lips near the microphone and uttered the first of many cheesy lines in my strip club DJ career:
“All right, fellas, let’s get those hands clapping out there for Chastity. That sexy lady is stepping off the stage and onto your lap for a wet and wild ride. Get yourself a private show before you go.”
The words formed freely without hesitation. I introduced the next girl and mixed in a new song. It was simple. There was no reason to be nervous. From their satisfied expressions, I could tell that Casey and Terrell were impressed. They had me work the mic for the better part of an hour till Casey told me that he thought I sounded great and would be perfect for the job. Terrell got back on the mic, and I followed Casey to the back office to fill out paperwork. We headed down a dark hallway lit only by pink neon lights and passed by a row of lap-dance booths. The booths were the size of a walk-in closet with a black velour curtain in lieu of a door, and a bench covered in cheap pink vinyl. There were about eight booths in total, some of which had exotic themes, like the Italian room or the African Safari room. Other than a chipped and faded mural of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, I struggled to comprehend how this dark closet that smelled like bleach, semen, and cotton candy perfume reminded anyone of Italy. The office was located at the end of the hallway, adjacent to the last booth that seemed to have a pirate theme. Casey ushered me in and swiftly shut and locked the door. The office was barely larger than the lap-dance booths and barren except for two folding chairs, a desk covered in paper and fast-food wrappers, and a couple boxes containing porn videos, dildos, and Doll House T-shirts. The walls were plastered with the dancers’ schedules and promotional posters of upcoming feature entertainers. Casey sat down at the desk, threw some papers to the floor, and emptied the powdery contents of a small baggie onto the newly cleared area.
“Do you mind if I smoke?” Casey asked while torching a cigarette.
“Not at all. Can I bum one?”
He handed me a cigarette and a book of matches. “You want some Evel Knieval?” As we became better friends, I learned that Casey invariably used a euphemism for methamphetamine, which allowed him to make light of his addiction.
Though I was a bit surprised that he was so cavalier about snorting lines of meth with a complete stranger, at the same time I felt this was some type of bonding ritual. “Yeah, for sure.”
I noticed that he was cutting up lines with his right hand and stroking the scar on his face with his left. To the uninitiated, Casey had a rather daunting visage. I’ll never forget that face. He stood about six feet and was surprisingly well built for an addict. With broad shoulders and a thick neck, one could tell that he was a probably a wrestler or football player in high school. He had a serious case of adult acne, but his most distinguishable feature was a sickle-shaped scar that ran from the corner of his left eye to the side of his mouth. He wore his hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and always had on dark black sunglasses even indoors and at night. Casey would say that his eyes were sensitive to fluorescent light, but the truth was that he was incredibly self-conscious of the color of his eyes. His left eye was light blue, and his right eye was dark brown. He once told me that this was a rare condition called heterochromia, which he had had since he was a child. It was rare to see him without his shades.
Casey appreciated the scar on his face because it distracted people from his eye discoloration. Every shift, he’d be asked by at least three dancers about the origin of his scar, and every time he’d create a new ghastly tale about what happened. From Chinese gangsters slicing his face open over a sex-slave deal gone awry, to his face being ripped apart by a dancer’s stiletto while she was high on PCP, I would hear some of the most outlandish stories about the scar on that man’s face. He felt justified in lying about it due to the inquisitor’s lack of tact. And the gullible dancers believed his stories despite the absurdity and would relay the story to their coworkers and eventually to me. By then, the tall tale had been so twisted and distorted that Casey himself would deny even telling it in the first place. When I worked with him, we would head to his apartment after our shift to smoke drugs, drink beer, and discuss the rumors we had heard about his scar that day. One night, we sat in his apartment smoking some weed, and he revealed the true origin of his scar to me. He had actually received it while managing at Temptations, a seedy club located downtown. A rather disheveled customer had come into the club that night and began harassing some of the dancers. Casey assumed he was a harmless crackhead who probably lived in the neighborhood, and asked him politely to settle down or he’d have to leave. The man calmed down for about ten minutes and then resumed his previous ranting, except this time he directed all his aggression towards one particular dancer named Rosa. Rosa was a fiery Latina with a short fuse and a propensity for violence. She often proclaimed to be the girlfriend of a cartel member and would threaten management if they dared to cross her. He couldn’t recall what the crackhead had said to her, but nevertheless, it pissed her off, and she jumped off the stage topless and began spitting, swearing, and scratching at the man’s face. Casey and one of the bouncers immediately separated them, and the bouncer hauled the man outside of the building where he and a colleague proceeded to beat the living hell out of the guy. Several nights later, Casey was outside smoking a cigarette with one of the bouncers, and the same crackhead returned to the club. Casey calmly told him that he was permanently barred and needed to head elsewhere. The man stood there glaring at him and without warning smashed a 40-ounce bottle of Steel Reserve across his face. With his face split open, he wrestled the man to the ground and held him in a headlock until police arrived. He then slipped into unconsciousness and woke up in an emergency room high on Demerol with little feeling on the right side of his face. After seven hours of reconstructive surgery, he left the hospital with a heavily stitched sickle-shaped wound initiating under his left eye and curving down to the corner of his mouth. In time, he actually grew to appreciate the scar, because not only was it an interesting and frequent topic of conversation, it also seemed to attract his preferred type of woman. His only regret was that he would have felt better had he been hit with a bottle of Jack Daniels. “At least, I drink Jack,” he’d glibly remark.
“Here. This one’s yours,” Casey said as he handed me a small straw.
I snorted the massive line, and it burned my nasal passage like powdered napalm. “Fuck. That hurts. Who’d you get that from? Hitler?” I muttered, wincing in pain.
“Calm down. It’s not that bad. I’ve done three already.”
“Jesus. I’ll do half next time. I’m not a professional.”
“So, you come highly recommended from my boy, Hollywood. And you sounded fine out there, but that’s not saying much. You could sound like the dude from Sling Blade and the perverts wouldn’t notice. All they care about is the pussy in their face.”
“Yeah, I could tell. It was like they were in a trance.”
“That’s how it always is. Especia
lly with the Mexicans. They have this mutant ability to stare at a girl’s pussy for six hours straight without blinking. It’s uncanny. So, you’re totally hired. Can you start tomorrow?”
“Yeah, thanks. What time should I be here?”
“You’ll be working day shifts Monday through Friday from noon till about seven. The night shift starts around seven, but the DJs are always late. There’s no sense of time around here.” Casey shuffled through the stack of papers on the desk. He found what he was looking for and handed me a manila envelope filled with paperwork. “I’ll need you to fill these out by tomorrow.”
“All right.”
“Stop. Do you hear that?”
“Hear what? ‘Bizarre Love Triangle’?” The New Order song had been playing for the past two minutes.
“That. Listen,” Casey said with his index finger pointing in the air.
“I don’t hear anything except for the end of the New Order song.”
“No. Listen. The girl in the booth next to us is sucking a dick right now.”
“No way. How do you know?”
“I have a finely tuned ear for illicit cocksucking during a lap dance. It’s a vital managerial skill.”