by Dee Simon
“Umm, Star told me.”
“Star? And how’d she know?”
“She said she heard from Mercedes that your nuts had swelled up and you had to go to the clinic and have ‘em drained.”
“My nuts were swollen, huh?”
“Yeah, she said they was like the size of a mini basketball. Damn, did that shit hurt?”
“Derek, my testicles weren’t swollen. That’s not the reason I was there. Regardless, how did Mercedes hear about this?”
“I dunno. I heard it from Star, but she said all the girls be talking about it today.”
“That’s good to hear.” I was so angry that I felt like beating his simple face into a bloody mass of torn tissue and broken teeth. But this wasn’t his fault. Gossip moves through a strip club like cocaine at a Kiss concert. I’m sure Chyna had told one or two girls about seeing me at the clinic and within an hour everyone at the club knew about it.
“So, can I show you my dick? I got this red bump on it and I don’t know what it is.”
“No, you can’t show me your dick. I’m not a doctor. You should go to the clinic and show them your dick. Jesus.”
“Come on, man. I been freaking out all day. If my girl sees this shit, I’m done. I can’t lose her. Come on, please.”
“Derek, you need to take this girl off the stage and put up the next one.” He was so concerned with having me look at his dick that he had forgotten that he was still working. In a panic, he quickly jumped over to the mixer, faded out the 50 Cent song that was playing, announced the next girl to the stage, and started playing some rap song that I didn’t recognize. He then turned around and resumed pleading with me.
“Sanchez, please, I’m beggin’ you, man. Just take one look. I don’t have anyone else I can talk to about this.”
I sympathized with his plight. I was in a similar situation a couple days ago, but at least I had my brother to confide in. Poor Derek had no one but me. Begrudgingly, I consented. “Okay, I’ll take a quick look, but as I said before, I’m not a doctor. I don’t even know what to look for.”
He was instantly relieved and began to unbutton his pants. “Thanks so much, man. I totally owe you one.” He pulled out his penis and rolled it around in his hand, trying to find the mysterious red bump. “It’s too dark in here. I can’t find it. Do you have a lighter?”
“Ugh, okay,” I said, unable to conceal my disgust. I lit my lighter and held it above his penis.
“Okay, that’s it. Right there. See that bump? What is it?”
I looked closer at the tiny red bump on the base of his penis, but I was unable to diagnose what it was. “Derek, I think that’s a pimple. I’m not sure, but that’s what I think it is.”
“A zit?” he said incredulously.
“Yeah, a zit.”
“Nah, man. It hurts too bad to be a zit. I think it’s herpes. Look at it.”
I leaned over and took one more look at the sore on his penis and said, “Dude, I’m not a doctor. I think it’s a zit, but you should…”
“What the fuck is going on over here?” boomed a loud voice behind us.
Startled, we both turned around and found Randy standing in the doorway of the booth with a look of complete and utter revulsion on his orange face.
“What the fuck is this faggot shit?” he screamed, aggressively wiping his nose with his right hand. He was so angry that spit was forming in the corners of his mouth, making him look like a rabid Oompa Loompa.
Like everyone else, I was scared to death of Randy. And once provoked, it was practically impossible to reason with him. I knew Derek was going to be of little help, so I had to think of something fast.
“Randy, this is totally not what you think. I know it looks bad, but it’s not what you think. Derek, over here, burned himself on the mixer. You know, it’s been heating up a lot lately due to overuse or maybe faulty wiring. I’m not sure which, but I suffered a mild burn the last time I worked. A lot of DJs have been complaining about it. It’s a ticking time bomb.”
By this time, Derek had pulled his pants up and was staring at Randy, paralyzed with fear. Randy stood there fuming, but I could tell that he was listening to me. My excuse wasn’t a total fabrication. The last time I had worked, one of the day shift DJs mentioned that the mixer was unusually hot during his shift. I noticed that it was a bit warm, but I didn’t feel it was necessary to bring it up with management. Until now.
“I was worried that Derek might have sustained an injury from the club’s mixing board, and in order to avoid any type of lawsuit situation, I told him that I would take a look to see how serious the burn is. It’s not that bad. I think Derek may have been overreacting a bit. Right, Derek?”
With his body still frozen and unable to speak, Derek managed to move his head up and down. I wasn’t sure whether Randy was buying my explanation. He was a difficult person to read. He just stood there eyeing the two of us suspiciously.
I continued, “I don’t want the club to have to suffer through a prolonged and expensive lawsuit, so I was just trying to help out. As a witness, I was trying to pre-empt any kind of legal situation here.”
Still looking at us warily, Randy ambled over to the mixing board. He reached out, gingerly touched it, and instinctively wrenched his hand back. “Damn, you’re right, this fucking thing is hot. We’re gonna have to replace it before someone gets hurt.”
“That’s a really good idea,” I said, shaking my head. I looked over at Derek and noticed that he was still moving his head up and down from before.
“So, you two weren’t trying to suck eachother’s dicks. I won’t stand for any faggot bullshit in my clubs.”
“No, sir. I assure you that there was no faggot bullshit going on in here.”
“Okay, then. Thanks for telling me about the mixer. I’ll have it replaced tomorrow. Will you be all right with it tonight?”
“Yes, I think I can manage. But thanks for replacing it.”
He flashed us one more wary glance and turned to leave when I stopped him, “Randy, hold on a second. When I was walking over here I smelled some marijuana smoke coming from one of the cars parked near the back door. I think it was coming from a black Honda Civic. I don’t know who is smoking drugs outside, but I just don’t want the club to get in trouble.”
Randy’s eyes lit up when he heard the word “marijuana.” “What time did you smell the marijuana?”
“It was about fifteen minutes ago. Maybe less.”
Randy nodded his head and slapped my shoulder with his right hand. “You’re one of the good ones. I’ll remember this.” He bounded out of the DJ booth on his way to enforce his martial law. I smiled as I watched him leave. I honestly hoped that he didn’t fire Chyna. After all, she was a single mother. Rather, I hoped that she would be banished from working on Broadway and forced to work at the deplorable clubs in the Tenderloin for a year.
Though my gonorrhea cleared up in a week, it took about a month of damage control to dispel the rumors circulating through the club. Derek was so appreciative that I had saved his job that he appointed himself my PR person and made it his mission to clear my reputation. In a few weeks, the girls had completely forgotten about my venereal misfortune and were spreading rumors about something else. It’s rare that news lasts long in a strip club, thanks to narcotics and attention deficit disorder. I never found out what happened to Chyna, but on my next three visits to the San Francisco City Clinic, I made sure to keep an eye out for her.
Kashmir
“Fuck. I’m late,” I muttered under my breath as I rushed to the train station at Church and Market. One of my myriad shortcomings is that I tend to talk to myself out loud when I’m anxious. This habit of mine used to make me feel self-conscious because I thought I looked like an insane person walking down the streets yelling audibly at myself with my hands wildly gesticulating in the air. However, after living in San Francisco and encountering someone at least once a day screaming out loud with their pants around their ankles a
nd defecating on the sidewalk, I realized that most people paid little attention to my harmless ramblings. My Saturday night shift at the Ruby Club started at 7:00 PM, and it was just after 6:30 PM, which should have given me more than enough time, but I really wanted to get a burrito before I went to work. I hadn’t eaten anything at all that day and there was no way I’d be able to deal with fifty strippers without some nourishment. Drugs can sustain one’s appetite only so much. El Castillito, my favorite tacqueria, was located on Church Street, a couple blocks from the train station. If I ran and there was no queue, I’d be able to buy a burrito and make it back to the station just in time for the 6:45 downtown train. I booked it down Church Street, and when I got to El Castillito, I was relieved to find only two people standing in line in front of me. When it was my turn to order, I requested my usual.
“Hi, can I have a vegetarian burrito with black beans and no sour cream please?” San Francisco tacquerias aren’t renowned for their hygiene standards, and I’ve learned from dire past experiences to steer clear of the sour cream.
“No crema?” the youthful Mexican cook asked, obviously not hearing me the first time.
“Si, no crema por favor.” I repeated in Spanish so he’d be sure to remember. I walked over to the cashier, paid in advance, and watched him shove a handful of tortilla chips into a plastic bag and gingerly place the foil-wrapped burrito on top. The cashier handed me the bag along with my change, and I set off in a mad dash to the train station. I practically slid down the staircase and barely slipped through the doors of the M train as they were about to close. Breathing a sigh of relief, I sank back into the hard plastic seat and shoved a couple chips in my mouth. My manager was not very empathetic when it came to tardiness, and this definitely wasn’t the first time I was running late.
I ended up making it to the front door of the club five minutes before my shift started, and Tony, one of the bouncers, held the door open for me as I ran upstairs to the booth. I hastily unpacked my CD books and threw on a trance compilation while I waited for the house mom to come upstairs and write the dancer list on the whiteboard. The house moms served as the liaisons for the dancers and management, and it was prudent to stay on their good side because you never knew when you might need them to help you out. Autumn was working as house mom that night. She and I had worked together for years—long before she became management—and we had a close relationship. Most house moms were former dancers who either gained too much weight or were simply too old to continue dancing. Autumn was in the latter category, but she was well aware that it was time for her to retire and become a house mom. I was in the process of unwrapping my burrito when she entered the booth.
“Hey, sexy, how you doin’ tonight?” I asked.
“I’m fine.”
“I know you’re fine, but how you doin’?”
She laughed. “I’m doing good. What you got? A burrito?”
“Yeah, I went to Castillito. You wanna bite?”
“Yeah, I’d love one.” She took the burrito from me and was about to take a bite but then suddenly stopped. “Gross, you ordered sour cream.”
“No. I didn’t. I explicitly asked in Spanish for no sour cream. What the fuck?” She handed me the burrito and to my chagrin, I discovered that it was filled with sour cream. “Fuck. I hate sour cream.”
“I know. Me too,” she said while writing the dancers’ names on the whiteboard in flawless cursive.
“Wow, there are a lot of girls working tonight.”
“Yeah, I counted about forty before I came up here. There’ll probably be at least twenty more in a couple hours.”
I was starving and knew that this was going to be a long shift. I had no other choice but to eat the sour-cream-infested burrito.
“How is it?”
“You know, it’s not that bad,” I replied while shoving the last couple bites into my mouth. “I don’t usually like sour cream, but this time it’s all right.”
“I’ll take your word for it because I love Castillito. So, the first dancer tonight will be Destiny, okay?”
“Yeah. That’s cool.” I remembered that Destiny liked to dance to Incubus and flipped through my book of rock CDs looking for their new album. Autumn smacked my ass as she left the booth, and I announced that Destiny would be the first dancer onstage. About two hours into the shift, I felt a deep, unnatural rumbling in the pit of my stomach followed by a dull painful feeling. Though I was slightly unnerved, I ignored it, flipped on the dancer’s next song, and then felt another unmistakably sharp pain in my gut. My stomach was not feeling good at all. I knew I shouldn’t have eaten that burrito. I contemplated switching to a longer song and going to the bathroom, but then Alfredo—one of the club’s bouncers—walked into the booth. Alfredo was, without exaggeration, a hulk of a man. He stood about 6’6” and weighed at least 280 pounds. His face was a battlefield of hypertrophic scars, and with his short dark hair, he reminded me of the actor who played Luca Brasi in the movie The Godfather. I’m not quite sure if he was actually Italian, but he did give a convincing portrayal.
“Hey, man, do you have any smoke? I’m out tonight,” he asked, sounding like a New York City mobster from the 1970s.
“Yeah, yeah. Give me a minute.”
Alfredo was always out of marijuana. I had worked with the guy for over two years and supported his drug habit the entire time. He never had any marijuana. Never. He worked at a strip club in San Francisco. A blind man could find drugs in less than five minutes at this place, but for some reason, Alfredo never seemed to have any luck. I fumbled in my backpack, found my Sneak-A-Toke, and tossed it to him. It looked like a tiny black bullet in his massive palm.
“Thanks, buddy. I’ll bring it back in a minute,” he mumbled, and lumbered out of the booth.
By this time, my stomach was in knots. I felt a steady series of sharp stabbing pains, as if someone kept punching me repeatedly in the same spot. I knew I was going to have to use the bathroom at some point, but I was doing my best to delay it. Although it was a plus that the upstairs bathroom had a single toilet, it was also gender neutral, and at this time of night, it was most likely disheveled and filthy, and undoubtedly there was a queue. I stuck my head out the door of the booth and, sure enough, there were four people in line for the restroom. Fuck. This was going to be a rough night. My stomach continued to rumble and I could tell that diarrhea was imminent. The situation was becoming drastic. I was on the verge of explosion and had to get to a bathroom in the next few minutes. I’d play a long song for the next dancer and use my position as DJ to cut in front of the people waiting in line for the bathroom. Slightly relieved that I had a plan, I took a deep breath, pulled myself together, and looked to see who was appearing onstage next. Gigi was coming up next. I loved Gigi. She and I had hooked up several times in the past but never actually dated. She always said “familiarity breeds contempt,” which is the reason she avoided monogamous relationships. I didn’t mind. Though she was my type exactly—dark hair, pale skin, buxom—I didn’t want to date someone I worked with. Employee relationships are usually frowned upon at most strip clubs but it’s rarely a good idea for any workplace. I knew Gigi liked to dance to trip-hop and was flipping through my book looking for Tricky’s Maxinquaye CD when she sauntered into the booth.
“Hey, sexy, what are you going to play for me?” She grabbed me by the waist and started slowly kissing the back of my neck.
“Hey, Gigi. How you doin’?” I turned around and embraced her. Even with my bowels in their current state, I still found her incredibly attractive.
“I’m doin’ okay. You’re looking sexy tonight. Are those new jeans?”
“No, I don’t think so. Maybe.” It was difficult to pay attention with my stomach in such pain. I tried to play it off and did my best to act composed. “What do you feel like dancing to?”
“I dunno. What do you think would make me look sexy up there?”
“I don’t think you need much help with that. You look sexy in y
our sleep.”
“You’re a fucking pervert. Didn’t you fuck me when I was passed out at your house?”
“I haven’t the faintest clue what you’re talking about.” I had to clench my ass cheeks together because I felt the sudden jolt of hot liquid shit attempting to make a most ungraceful exit.
“Are you okay? You look paler than usual.”
“Uh, I’m fuh-fine,” I stuttered, still clenching my ass together struggling to hold back the brown tsunami forcing its way out. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. I couldn’t imagine a worse scenario than shitting myself in front of one of the hottest dancers in the club. I would never live that down. I’d have to change my career.
“Do you have an extra smoke?” she asked as she walked over and put her hands on my waist.
I moved her hands away lest they distract me from my sphincter control, and reached for my backpack. I pulled out a pack of Parliaments and handed her a cigarette. “Here you are, my dear,” I said, my ass clenched together so tightly that it sounded like I was holding my breath.
“Are you sure you’re okay? You look sick or something.”
“No, I’m totally cool,” I replied, wiping a thin layer of sweat off my forehead and running my hand through my hair all in one motion. If I made one wrong move, my pants would be filled with diarrhea in a matter of seconds. I stood there, motionless, too petrified to move. God, please finish that smoke and leave was the only thought reverberating through my mind.
“Shit! Do I have to go onstage right now?”
“Yeah, yes, I think you do,” I answered, holding my breath in, barely able to force the words out. I was seconds away from shitting my pants.
She mashed the cigarette out in the ashtray and asked, “So, what are you playing for me?”
“Um, uh, I’ll play you some rock. Is that cool? I think we have a rock crowd out there tonight.” I could barely hold it in at this point and was staring at her in desperation. All I could think was, Just leave, you fucking moron. I don’t care if you’re beautiful. I’m about to shit myself in front of you. Just fucking leave.