Naked Men

by Alicia Giménez-Bartlett

  “Don’t say that or I’ll never come back.”

  He claps me on the back, laughs. Someone calls to him and he moves away. I probably said “I’ll never come back” in unconscious anticipation of what I want to tell him: I’m not coming back. But I don’t feel like analyzing it now.

  The end of the show is approaching, and I’m facing another thorny moment: taking my bows. I’m worried. If the spotlights aren’t on, I’m going to see the audience and the audience is going to see me just as I normally am: smiling, bowing my head in acknowledgement of the applause, without music or artifice, without the creepy school smock, dressed in pants and a black sweater, like the others.

  But it wasn’t so bad. Yes, just as I feared, the house lights were up, but what I saw was a bunch of normal people smiling and laughing in a civilized manner. We dancers were no longer ridiculous and purportedly sexy meat, and the audience was no longer playing its role as a sex-crazed rabble. The Roman circus was striking its tents.

  I focused on a few people in detail: nice-looking girls; yawning women, tired after the long show; an older man with his younger girlfriend. They’d seen me shaking my ass like a cheap cabaret dancer, but in that moment, for whatever reason, I didn’t care.

  Then it was time to change again, to put on our street clothes. Mariano sought us out one by one in the dressing room. He was paying us in cash! I couldn’t believe it—it was like something out of those novels about the proletariat and the Industrial Revolution: miners receiving their wages, day laborers lining up for their weekly pay.

  “You did great,” Mariano said when he got to me.

  I took the money he handed me and stuffed it in my pocket.

  “Aren’t you going to count it?” he asked.

  “No, of course not!”

  He nodded, pleased by my gentlemanly approach. Iván raced by and pointed at me.

  “Don’t leave. I’m going to say hi to somebody and then we’ll get out of here.”

  I obeyed. I sat in a chair, feeling a little lost.

  Only five minutes later, he was back.

  “Let’s go!” he said energetically, as if the night was only just now beginning.

  El Formidable is a large, rundown bar with garish décor. It serves drinks and cold tapas, and even at two in the morning, it’s packed to the gills. It’s clear there’s a city within my city that I have no idea about. When I walk in with Iván, four guys are waiting for us. I’ve seen them all at the club, but we haven’t spoken to one another. Their names are Andrés, Sergio, Jonathan, and Éric. They all have the same look as Iván: close-cropped hair, expensive athletic clothing, chiseled muscles under their T-shirts. Working-class stiffs who’ve come up in the world. We order ham, chorizo, cheese, Olivier salad, and beer, lots of beer. Everything arrives quickly and fills our bare table, the platters overflowing. I’m dubious that we’ll be able to finish off this feast, but my fellow diners eagerly dive in. They eat like pigs in every sense, chewing with their mouths open, licking their knives . . .

  Iván brings up my performance.

  “Wasn’t Javier awesome?”

  A chorus of praise begins: “Really awesome,” “Like a professional,” “Total rock star.” They quickly forget about me and start commenting on the show—like Iván, they all say “show” in English.

  “Shit, man! Did you see that group of middle-aged women over to the left, right below the stage? They were so man-hungry it was like they’d been off at war.”

  “Yeah, I saw them. When the boss was performing, I peeked out from behind the curtain, and they were practically drooling. They’d have taken a big bite if they could.”

  “Shit! The last dick those old bags saw was probably in a baby photo!”

  They laugh. They’re talking loudly enough that anybody can hear them. I’m uncomfortable, the food hard to swallow. I want to leave, but I just smile. Tomorrow I’ll tell Iván I’m not going to go out with them after the show. I’ll make some excuse: I like going to bed early, I need to take a walk before I go to sleep.

  “There was an awesome couple in the first row. He was an older guy who looked like he had some scratch. She was a babe, super hot. The geezer probably can’t even get it up with a crane at this point.”

  “That’s why he takes her to the show, so she can at least get some eye candy.”

  “No way, man. He takes her so she’ll get some motivation and suck him off real good afterward, thinking about us the whole time.”

  This comment is uproariously received. Their laughter booms like thunder. Iván laughs hardest of all. He looks at me conspiratorially, as if to say, “I told you these guys were awesome.” I smile like an idiot, and it’s just my luck that Jonathan suddenly asks me:

  “What about you, new guy? What did you think of everything?”

  “Shit, it was amazing, really fucking cool!”

  I hope the proliferation of swear words is enough to reassure them about my opinions.

  “That’s right, man, fucking amazing. If Tarantino came to the club, he’d make a movie that’d blow your mind.”

  “Yeah, but he’d spray fake blood everywhere.”

  “I can picture it: one of those biddies from today goes up to Mariano to give him a blow job, but he turns around and kicks her in the teeth.”

  “Yeah, and then Éric shows up with a machine gun and starts blasting away at all the ladies.”

  “He blows their heads off!”

  “And their tits! Pop, pop, like balloons bursting!”

  “And then Wong comes out throwing knives like in a kung fu movie.”

  The spontaneous brainstorming session cracks them up. It’s like being in a schoolyard. I am overwhelmed by all their stupidity, offended by all their vulgarity, and it must show on my face because Iván looks over at me and chides the others.

  “All right, guys, don’t go overboard. Teacher here’s going to think we’re fucking retards. Did I mention Javier’s a teacher? He’s out of work at the moment; the goddamn nuns put him out on the street. And I’m not talking about computer classes or driving lessons—he’s a real teacher. Literature—poems and that sort of thing.”

  It’s clear Iván is proud of me. His friends look at me somewhat jeeringly. They don’t seem to share Iván’s inexplicably high regard for the profession.

  Back home, Sandra was sleeping, or pretending to sleep. I undressed noiselessly, with only the hall light on so as not to wake her. I took off my shirt, and when I was emptying my pants pockets before taking them off too, I came across the money Mariano had given me. I looked at it in surprise. My first thought was to hide it, but I ignored that impulse and left it out on my nightstand.

  * * *

  Who the hell knows what this woman wants. I don’t know if she’s looking for a fight or if she’s just talking to hear herself talk. When she says nothing’s any fun, it’s because she’s looking for bigger entertainment. But who knows what someone like Irene is after—maybe she’d enjoy hang gliding. In any case, I hope she hasn’t mistaken me for a lady’s companion. I’ll go out with her and make sure she’s OK, but I’m not going to let her into every nook and cranny of my life. Sometimes I wonder if she’s on to me, though that can’t be—I’ve always been extremely discreet about everything. Maybe she senses it, though I’d be surprised. Daddy’s girls like her could never imagine that sort of thing. So I don’t know what to think. It would be easiest to just get rid of her, have her find somebody else who can show her a good time. I don’t have any obligation to go out with her. After all, doesn’t everybody think I’m a slut, a man-eater? Well, they can leave me alone, then! Of course, Irene’s never said anything bad about me—it’s not her style. The other women in the group did talk about me behind my back. But they’ll come crawling back one day when their husbands leave them and they’re feeling lonely. Life is long, and they’re young still. They’ll come b
ack to Genoveva then. I’ve never cared about people’s gossip, but some things do hurt. When everybody turned their backs on me and I wasn’t as over everything as I am now, that hurt. That’s why I was so pleased when Irene called, looking for company. Now everybody else will see that the good girl of the group has turned to Genoveva to help her get out of her hole. But Miss Goody-Two-Shoes is getting awfully tedious, and that’s the issue here. If I take her around with me and she finds out about everything, there’s no guarantee she’ll keep her mouth shut. That would be really annoying, because there’s no need. Or she might be shocked and make a huge scene—though that would be the least of my worries.

  Anyway, I’ll see. For sure, though, I’m making my life a lot more complicated—but that’s the way I am. Despite my reputation for being tough and doing my own thing, I’d do anything for a friend. That’s who I am. I don’t think a selfish, egotistical person would do all this. What have the other women in the group done to help Irene? Nothing. I’m sure they’ve called her a few times to gossip about what her ex is up to. As if that’s going to help anything! Exes are part of the past, and your life isn’t over when your marriage fails. You have to keep looking ahead, and above all take care of yourself. Be really clear that you come first. I take good care of myself. If I don’t feel like doing something, I don’t do it. I don’t make excuses. And I go all out to take care of my body. I’m heading to the gym right now. Today I’ve got a spa treatment, and then an Ayurvedic massage that always makes me feel as good as new. That time relaxing in the water is like a dream. Even the scent is incredibly soothing. They add seaweed and essential oils, so you come out of the bath smelling like a rose. It’s incredible. Other days I go to Latin dance class. We goof around and have a good time, and that’s the point. I appreciate the little things in life—those are the things that make you happy. If you aren’t willing to enjoy the moments, you end up like Irene: bored by everything. These younger girls don’t know what they want. Much less Irene. The two of us have been going out for months now, and she hasn’t said a word. I don’t know if she thinks about her ex or not, if she’s bitter about him, if she still cares about the whole mess or is over it. She’s very introverted, very odd. That’s why I’m afraid to confide in her about certain things.

  Shoot! I got caught up thinking about all this, and now I’m going to be late to the spa. I always end up rushing everywhere. I’d like to change that about myself, but oh well—gotta run! And on top of all that, now I remember I left the car at the mechanic. I’ll catch a taxi on the corner. Thankfully, with the crisis and everything, you can always find an empty cab.

  * * *

  During the week, my life isn’t any different. I keep up my usual routines: grocery shopping, walks in the park . . . I’ve got more money now, so I never eat alone at home. I go down to the bar and order the lunch special. The money I earn at the club doesn’t get combined with Sandra’s to cover shared expenses. I spend it a little more capriciously. I’ve bought a ton of books and records, a chambray shirt. At first I thought I was keeping the money for my own whims because I wanted to enjoy the advantages of increased income. Later, upon further consideration, it’s become clear I consider these earnings to be tainted, something I don’t want to use in my normal life. Contaminated money, blemished with the stain of sin. Seems like I’ve turned into a sheep: I never would have entertained such a reactionary notion as sin before. Apparently I’m leading two parallel lives with two corresponding parallel selves. If that’s the case, I’m in trouble. Iván, who despite his limited education is as sharp as a tack, has an uncannily accurate sense of what’s going on in my head. He’s always telling me, “Change your mind-set, man, and stop worrying about everything.” But it’s not that easy.

  I’ve been performing at the club for a month. The third weekend was the worst. I’d stopped being nervous and started seeing everything really clearly. I saw myself half naked, moving my body to the beat and trying to be sexy and jocular at the same time. I observed my fellow dancers, dumb smiles plastered on their faces. I watched the audience shrieking, clapping, almost indifferent to what was happening onstage, focused only on shedding their inhibitions. It was all too much for me, so I asked Iván if we could get a drink just the two of us, and I launched into it: I couldn’t keep going, it was humiliating, it was grotesque. I wanted him to come with me to hand in my resignation to Mariano. He would know how to present the issue without offending the boss. Iván didn’t get upset. He told me what I was going through was normal, and then he went enigmatic on me: “We all feel like that the first few times. Your problem is you’re trying to do everything straight, and that’s no good.” He explained the enigma: I always refused the line of cocaine that he and the other strippers did before going out onstage. He continued:

  “Doing a little coke doesn’t mean you’re a junkie or something. Nobody hates drugs more than me—look what they did to my folks. But just a rail, that’s it, man—it helps a lot. It gives you some inspiration and energy, though that’s not actually the most important thing. Most of all, it makes it so you don’t give a shit about what’s happening around you. One shot, and it’s like you’re on another planet. You think shaking my ass doesn’t make me feel like a goddamn idiot? But doing a line makes everything OK.”

  To make things even easier, Mariano himself sold the coke at a special price he got thanks to his contacts. I listened to Iván and tried it. It was great. I’d never done coke before because it’s expensive. My circle of friends was more into pot—but there’s no comparison. A weed high depends on your mood at the time. Pot has made me alternately happy, weepy, anguished, and apathetic. Cocaine is more predictable: it always perks you up, and it makes you not give a shit, just like Iván said.

  Once I started doing coke before the show, I felt calmer about everything, fundamentally more realistic. The white powder freed me from prejudices I didn’t even think I had and put my conscience, my critical mind, to sleep. That way I could do what I had to do. But the drug also had undesirable effects: I’d sworn I’d never go out with Iván’s gang after the show again, but I always did. The rowdy gatherings alleviated the uneasiness that flooded me after the performance. Talking with people who did the same work normalized the situation. The hits of coke helped me put up with the sexist comments, the crude jokes, the cruel pranks.

  Today—Friday again—Sandra didn’t go in to the office. Her job owed her a day off because of one of those workplace arrangements I’ve never understood. We went out for lunch at an Italian place. Since I started my new job, we’ve been seeing less of each other, talking less—and when we do talk, we never mention the club. It’s not normal. She never asks me anything, not even a simple, “How was your performance today?” It’s become a taboo subject. If I try to tell her what I’m up to, she dodges the conversation. She’s decided to be Dr. Jekyll’s girlfriend and pretend she has no idea she’s also dating Mr. Hyde. It’s a fruitless effort, since our silences are charged with everything we’re not saying. The worst part, though, is that her attitude doesn’t make things better for me; it only increases my sense of marginalization, which I do my best to ignore.

  The Italian restaurant was neutral ground, so I seized the opportunity to put an end to the pretense. Fully aware of what I was doing, I said, “Tonight we’re including a happy birthday wish in the show.”

  Quick as a flash, she asks me to pass the Parmesan and starts remarking how delicious her pasta is. As if I hadn’t heard her, I kept going: “It’s for this girl whose friends are bringing her in for her thirtieth birthday. She doesn’t know we’re going to congratulate her up onstage. It’s a surprise for her from her friends.”

  “Uh-huh,” she mutters like a sick princess, and looks away.

  “There’s a price for that, of course. The club owner’s decided . . . ”

  Her eyes blaze, and in a pleading yet harsh tone she says, “Javier, please . . . ”

  Determined, I
finish my sentence. “ . . . decided to charge for that sort of thing. Otherwise we’d do nothing but wish people happy birthday and read out dedications for our dance numbers.”

  “Javier, if you don’t mind, I’d rather you didn’t talk about the show.”

  I stop eating. I stare at her.

  “But I’m part of the show, understand? It’s my job.”

  “You’re a teacher.”

  I wring my napkin in my hands—displacement, since at the moment I’d like to be wringing her neck. I haven’t been this angry in years. Swallowing my rage, I spit, “Reality check, Sandra: I don’t have a job as a teacher.”

  “And you’re not looking for one, either. How often have you called the employment office to ask if they’ve got anything for you? When was the last time you sent out your résumé? Have you tried using social networks?”

  “It’s no use. There are only so many schools in this city.”

  “All right, if not as a teacher, you could look for some other kind of job.”

  “I already have a job.”

  “But seriously, Javier, how do you fit in in that environment?”

  “If you’d ever let me talk about it, maybe you’d understand. Look, I’m not a professional stripper, and I’m not going to get naked on stage my whole life. But it’s my temporary occupation for now, so I don’t see why you have to treat me like I’ve got the plague.”

  “I don’t treat you like you’ve got the plague, but I don’t like talking about it.”

  “All right, Sandra, that’s fine. Denying reality has always been one of your specialties. Your morals are less offended as long as you don’t talk about it . . . ”

  “It’s not a question of morality—it’s more complicated than that. It’s . . . It doesn’t matter. Let’s drop it.”