by SJ Cavaletti
When I finally got my acceptance letter I was elated. I had gotten into my Ivy League dream school, Columbia, and it did allow me to escape on many levels and to New York City, no less. The one thing that pleased my Father was that I was incredibly good at math and had signed up to major in it. He was for once a doting, supportive and proud Dad the day I left for college.
His adoration didn’t last long. My school schedule was serious. I was among some of the brightest kids in the country and for the first time ever I found school incredibly intimidating. Everything seemed to click for my classmates whereas I had to buckle down and work harder than ever. I got through the first two years okay but in my third year I started my undergraduate seminar meaning I had to learn a specialized topic and then lecture on it. The anxiety of presenting to other students overwhelmed my shy and private soul and I worked on school all but the hours I slept. I stopped answering my Dad’s phone calls. His mania had reached new heights, calling me mid-class and blowing up my phone with texts if I didn’t pick up. Eventually, I told him that I would call him once a day, before I went to bed; I needed to focus.
But ME telling HIM what to do was the ultimate mistake. It was the last semester and he told me that if I didn’t answer the phone EVERY SINGLE time he called, he wouldn’t be paying for Columbia. That was when I broke. This man didn’t care about me. So I told him that I loved him but that upon hanging up I would be throwing my phone in a dumpster and would figure out a way to pay for university myself. I can still feel the trembling in my body to this day. I was so scared, as if he could somehow murder me through the phone.
That summer was brutal. My Dad came to New York and hunted me down. We had a showdown that made my hair stand on end. He shouted at me so loudly, so close to my face that I ran out of my apartment and let him do that at me in the street. I truly thought he was only moments away from hitting me but in public, he found restraint.
Misogynist that he was, he didn’t truly believe I was anything but a helpless girl so in the end, he left me alone, crying on my stoop. With his final breath, told me not only would my tuition be unpaid in Fall but that I could kiss my flat goodbye, too.
I had three weeks until rent was due to find a part time job that could pay my $55,000 tuition fees and gave me enough extra to put a roof over my head. A strip club was not my first stop, rest assured. Though my Mom strutted around in a bikini for money, no, no, no! That was hardly the same thing as being a topless dancer! Strip clubs were full of slutty girls on drugs and men that were high on testosterone who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves. Not for me!
But necessity is the most powerful tool in forcing compromise.
So many of my scathing feelings toward beauty queens, models and the like came from my own low self image. I had never thought much of myself. In fact, at the time of the ‘Dad Dumping’ I thought I was a completely invisible, ugly little nothing.
My self-esteem was rock bottom at that time. I had spent so many years trying to prove my worth to my Father and in an instant he showed me that I had no value to him- that made me feel more hideous than ever. I believed his assessment and experienced such an intense and immediate bout of depression. That day, I turned to booze to soothe. I even felt suicidal in my drunkest moment.
Shame prevented me from reaching out to anyone but I am forever grateful for getting a landline. My sister’s phone call the following morning saved my life.
I woke up with a pounding headache to the phone ringing. My caller ID lit up with a Boston area area code.
“Hello,” I answered, slurring my words
“Ana, you’ve been drinking? It’s 10am,” Rebececa said.
I hadn’t had a drink that day but was likely still drunk. A surge of shame came over me. Now I was a terrible big sister to top it all off.
My sister was a Freshman at Harvard. She never touched alcohol and on the whole had an aversion to it. An alcoholic parent can do that to some people.
“Ana, I’m worried about you. Are you ok?” she asked with fret on her tongue.
She continued, “Sarah called me today. She told me that Dad came home in a rage last night.”
Sarah had been our nanny since I was in diapers. Dad had kept her on as a housekeeper.
Rebeccas continued, “She said he called you a little bi…”
She stopped herself but I knew what the word had meant to be. Being called such a thing by my Father was devastating.
“I mean, he must have been really, really , REAALLY angry… what happened? Sarah said he’s cutting you off? I’m confused.”
I told her what had happened. She listened. I needed to talk. When I was finished, she spoke with hurried distress.
“Ana, I can’t stand hearing you like this. You are so strong. You are stronger than you think you are right now. I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for you. I couldn’t have survived that house, Dad and Nancy… without you holding me up. I can give you my money, Ana. Even doing that could never repay you for playing Mom to me all those years. Please don’t worry. You can do this.”
Her voice sounded so small and she held back tears. She was desperate not to lose me as her pillar. Somehow, her belief in me, and her need for me, brought me to my feet.
I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself for her. I needed to show her that we don’t need our father to make lives for ourselves. To prove all that, I needed to get a job.
I thought about the girls I had known, or rather seen, when I lived in the dorms for first year students. There was one girl that always paid for the other girls’ alcohol, a treat most first year students couldn’t afford. Once in a while I stared aimlessly out of my dorm window, I had seen that generous girl come back late with a “Hooters” t-shirt on. I guessed it was a lucrative place to work.
Thinking back on that moment I decided that desperate times called for desperate measures. Waiting tables would probably be the only quick turnaround application to employment process. Although, I didn’t think much of my face, I knew that my healthy C cups were as good as anyone else’s.
It was 7pm but the time I plucked up the courage to walk into Hooters and ask for an application. Visibly shaking, I waited in a small line of people in front of the reception podium and was mortified thinking how the two attractive young men in their Wall Street suits would hear me asking to apply. The bustling restaurant and bar was serving its happy hour clientele and it was too loud to ask in a whisper. I half expected the hot guys to scoff and laugh. They were boisterous and had clearly been drinking a bit. I knew how rude drunken men could be; I had come to fear them.
Even though I asked the blonde with too much blush on as quietly as I could, the Hot Guys overheard. They were probably attuned to me being so out of place. After all, how many girls go to Hooters on their own for a meal and a drink?
After asking the receptionist for an application, Blush Girl walked off saying she would fetch the manager. I held my breath.
“So you want to work here,” the light haired suited guy said to me, causing me to sharply turn around and inhale as though I’d seen a ghost.
I let out my breath slowly to regulate my nerves.
All I could do was shake my head “yes” and smile weakly.
The brown haired one chimed in with a thick, Brooklyn accent, “What’d’ya wanna work here for? Money tight?”
I shrunk inside myself at his directness. I expected him to call me out and tell me what a fool I was being.
“Course she needs money, dickwad,” said his friend, not meaning to be rude.
The brown haired Brooklynite continued, his breath smelled of beer, “I’m just sayin’ the pretty ones don’t work here, they work at Sapphire. You’re too pretty to work here, sweetheart.”
Sapphire was a Gentlemens’ Club.
That one comment suggesting I was pretty, from a meaningless but attractive man, gave me not only the idea to become a dancer but also just enough confidence to try. It was the strangest compliment, but the only
one I had ever received from a total stranger.
Blush Girl came back with an application in her hand. I thanked her, took it and turned around, making eye contact with Brooklyn man. He winked “I’ll get a dance from you later, cutie.”
On the day I walked into my first strip club, I never would have thought that my internal moral justification would lead to anything but a college degree.
“Wow,” said Carlos, “Hell of a story. I hope I didn’t dredge up too many bad memories.”
He filled up my champagne flute, which I had emptied quickly upon finishing my story.
“I just hope I didn’t bore you. It’s not exactly the light-hearted, sexy subject matter that makes for a good private session at Brick Road.”
He laughed. I liked his laugh. It was warm and jolly, coming from deep within his chest and vibrating outward like ripples in a pond. I smiled at him, a thankful sort of smile; it was so nice to talk about myself, which was something that I had tried not to do for over 4 years now. It made me feel close to him; that he knew something real about me. It made me want him not to leave, for all of this not to be over and not to be make-believe. Carlos was the most sensitive man I had ever met, which probably isn’t saying much, but still, it made me want to keep him.
But all good things come to an end. I could sense that Ed was not far from asking us to extend our time. I was both hopeful and feeling quite exposed, so rather than make any convincing statements about why we should stay another half hour, I decided to just let this one ride. I was sure Carlos had made up his mind already and he did not strike me as a person who did what he was told.
Sure enough. Ed arrived just a few minutes after and Carlos said he would not be able to stay but asked Ed for a couple more minutes of privacy. My heart sank. He was leaving. I would never see this special person again.
He turned to me and grabbed my hands in his. It made my heart sizzle like TV static. I became warm and blushed.
“Ana, I have meetings early in the morning and I’m no spring chicken anymore. I have to go home but I’d like to invite you out with me. Not here. If you say yes, you’ll have a time to remember… I’ll take you to the circus.”
The circus? I couldn’t imagine this man was into Ringling Brothers and there were no Cirque du Soleil shows in town. Details aside, this was an awkward moment. I had promised myself that I would NEVER date anyone that I met in the club. When I made that promise, it was to protect myself from bad guys. To make sure I didn’t get drunk one night and think I liked some guys then go off and be assaulted.
I hesitated, wanting to say ‘yes’ so badly but worried that my moral landslide would send my well-constructed world into a flowing river of mud, never to be seen again. Carlos didn’t let me think for long.
“You are having trouble deciding. I’m going to assume that I’ll pick you up tomorrow at noon,” he handed me a business card, “Call this person and give her your details.”
Then he kissed me on the cheek, not a peck, not a cordial greeting, a real kiss. He pushed my hair behind my ear and touched my face with his nose. Inside my chest was that fuzzy white noise again. He said nothing more but stood up, smiled and winked. He headed for the glass door and turned around one last time.
“When the heart speaks, the mind is silent,” he said.
When the door closed behind him and the music from outside came to an instant silence, it was as if I was floating in outer space. The center of my universe was about to change and the lack of gravity numbed my ability to move. Thankfully, it wasn’t long before Ed burst through the door with ‘Firestarter’ rocking in the background, which roused me from my shock.
“What was that about?” he asked and sat down next to me, “It isn’t often a guy settles down with a bottle of Cristal and then only gets thirty minutes.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not sure he was really meant to be in a strip club. I think he just came with his buddies, bit of peer pressure. You know the type. I think he only came into the Champagne Room because he didn’t like the floor.”
“Ah. Well, he must have come here for more than that,” he said, lifting his brows.
He handed me a wad of funny money.
“He left you a grand, and me five hundred,” Ed shook his head, “Not sure what you did or said but he definitely didn’t come in here just to get off the floor.”
I looked at Ed, searching for suspicion. Big tips for little time were cause for it.
I still remember the day that Teddy came over to me at the bar after a particularly slow night at the club. I had given up and sat to have a nightcap.
He looked at the floor shaking his head then lifted it and looked at me coyly, “Angel strikes again.”
I was truly confused. “What does that mean?”
“Thirty minutes in the Champagne Room. It’s nearly closing time and a guy takes out a couple grand in funny money to give her. What do you think it means? Late night fuck fest.”
Would Ed be telling that same story about me? The thought horrified me but his face did not tell that tale. Perhaps Carlos’ generosity toward him dominated his thoughts instead.
And in that moment, I chose to focus on the money, too. Thank goodness he had left me enough to not hustle anymore that night. The last thing I wanted to do was to eat peanut butter after having caviar.
I laid low for the rest of the night, and spent most of it hanging out in the dressing room with a magazine and chatting to Angelo, emerging only for my stage sets. When the music went off and the lights turned up a notch, the gaggle of girls started flowing in to quickly rip off heels and jump into cozy tracksuits.
Angelica, Jamie and I always posted up together in the same corner of one dressing room so they soon arrived to fetch their things. I had already changed and was ready to go.
“Where have you been? In the Champagne Room all night?” asked Angelica, slightly sour.
“Not at all,” I replied, “I’ve mostly been down here. Carlos only got thirty minutes then left.”
“Oh that’s too bad. He seemed really into you,” said Jamie.
I wasn’t really sure how to reply to that comment. So I didn’t.
“Well, you didn’t miss much anyway,” Angelica said, “Jamie took her guy into the Sky Box and I went to the bathroom. When I came back, fucking Angel was sitting on Simon’s lap. She’s such a leech. Of course once he was promised a suck off I was done for.”
Angel strikes again.
Jamie interjected, “I’m sorry, hon, I so would have warded her off if I had been there.”
“I know,” Angelica replied, hot and bothered as she tugged on a sneaker, “She so pisses me off. And it’s just fucked up that the management tolerates a total whore working here. They talk about this being the classiest club in town but there’s no WAY that they don’t know this shit is going on.”
Of course they did.
Club managers are real professionals that receive industry awards and have career advancement opportunities just like any other occupation. They take their jobs seriously and are generally quite respectful of everything to do with the job from food cleanliness and quality, to waste management, to having the highest quality entertainment. And eliminate from your mind the scummy, sleazy strip club manager who salivates over the girls that work for him. Au contraire! These guys see tits all day long. Though part of an audition does require taking off one’s top and bra in the back office, nearly every club has the house mom present for this part of the audition and it takes but five seconds. Managers are looking for oddities like third nipples, not scaling women on 1 to 10. The managers I have worked with have understood that happy girls make for happy customers make for healthy accounts.
It’s the drive for good books that perhaps led to them occasionally turning a blind eye. The managers were commercially minded people. From that point of view, Angel was great for the club. She never seemed to walk with less than a couple grand a night and often that was in funny money. Funny money allowed men to pay for dan
ces on their credit cards at a 15% mark up on the cash equivalent. They had to buy a minimum of $100 (which was $115) so Angel brought the club good money each shift she worked. Let’s do the math on Angel’s shift contribution.
House fees: $100
Food Sales: $25 (She always got a customer to buy her dinner)
Alcohol Sales: $100 (minimum)
Funny Money House Commission: Circa $200 (I’m being conservative)
So all in, every night, she would make the club a minimum of $425 and kept floor staff happy with her own “turn a blind eye” tips. Yes, Angel did run the risk of costing the club a closing penalty for breaking the law and soliciting sex but then again, she was a pro. I think we all knew she could smell a cop from a mile away… or rather it was what she COULDN’T smell that kept her away. Cops (and they did come in undercover from time to time) just didn’t smell of money.
But, it wasn’t the time or the place to tell Angelica about my computation and conclusion. It was simply rotten to have a good customer stolen from underneath you.
I gave Angelica a cuddle, “Sorry babe. Let’s just get out of here. Sleep it off. We’ll kill it tomorrow.”
We headed to check out, paid our fees and caught a cab in the dark, damp air.
The Challenger
It wasn’t easy slipping out of bed the next morning without waking Angelica. She had been staying at my place most nights that she worked because driving home to Sonoma after even one drink was something I couldn’t allow. When she first moved, she had been ‘sobering up’ with a little baggie of coke and driving all the way home. My analytical brain couldn’t allow her those stats. Anyway, after so many lonely years, it was nice to have a roomie a few days a week. It was a partially selfish move.
