by K. B. Draper
“Hey, boss. You need something?” I asked, waiting for my errand instructions.
“Come in. I want to talk to you.”
Another mental groan. It was worse than I thought. He was bored and wanted to tell me stories about the good ol’ days when he was a cop. I thought about entering his office, walking straight past him, opening the window, and jumping out but we were only on the second floor. He signaled me to take a seat. And this is why people bring guns to work.
“I wanted to talk to you about an opportunity.”
Oh damn, it’s even worse than old cop stories. He’s going to talk me into doing another mind-numbing task. Please don’t let it be worse than when he had me count and tag the burnt out light fixtures or locate all 157 fire extinguishers. Oh God, or when I sat for the entire eight- hour shift in a stairwell waiting for the mystery pooper, who apparently had a phobia of clean restrooms and toilet paper. I bet if I dove headfirst out the window then—
“I’ve been impressed with your work. I’m going to give you a promotion and a raise.”
I was surprised, but then again I do excel in the areas of counting, locating, and sitting for long hours. I thanked him, left his office, and decided that my first official act was to put a certain asshole-ish male officer on permanent stairwell poop patrol.
Excited for the raise and the power to punish the other polyester-wearing peasants, I was actually in a good mood when I headed home. I wanted to get out and celebrate. I wanted to call Jordyn. Having pondered the idea for a minute, I decided it was a better idea to talk Stacy and my new roommates into going to the bar instead. Sheila, who moved home after The Great Breakup of ’94, was now living with me again in the city along with her new girlfriend, Stacy. This was a Stacy, who for some random reason, we called Little Jo. I guess so she wouldn’t be confused with Stacy the ex or Straight Stacy. Note to self: Find some African American or Native American friends and get a little name variety in my group of friends. I need a Natasha, Lawanda, Pocahontas, or Red Cloud instead of another Stacy.
An hour later we walked into the bar. I scanned the room. Yep, nothing had changed since my last visit. There was the same bartender, the same décor, the same stale smoke, the same people at the bar in possibly the same clothes, and the same dark bar drabness. Why the hell did I think this was a good idea? Unfortunately, I’d already paid a five-dollar cover, which committed me to at least one hour of bar time. Damn my moral code.
History had taught me the bar gets better after alcohol, so I bought a round of shots. My friends had apparently come to the same conclusion, and Stacy bought the next round, then Sheila, and then Little Jo. With thirty-seven minutes left of required bar time and the exact amount of alcohol that makes me think I can dance like Prince, Michael Jackson, and Eddie Van Halen simultaneously, I decided to entertain myself and the rest of the bar patrons with my dancing skills.
I was enjoying myself. More accurately, I was drunk and didn’t know any better when in the middle of executing my trifecta of dance moves—the jumping air guitar into a moonwalk and pelvic grind—I froze mid-grind. Above the thudding bass, the noise of the bar, the clinking glasses, like a shot straight into my ear, I heard her laugh. My palms began to sweat, my heart began to race, and I fought the urge to dive under a bar table. I knew right then there was no need for Harvard or Vanity Fair to do a study. It was official: You can be instantly sobered by hearing your ex-girlfriend’s laugh.
Despite my weak legs and dizziness, I made my way back to the table by using a rather large flannel shirt as a shield. But then I had two problems. One, I still had thirteen minutes of required bar time and two, I needed to pee. Bad. I checked with my moral code and discovered, considering the alternative, I was perfectly okay with getting only $3.92 worth of my $5 cover and that yes, I was willing to pee my pants. However, Stacy, Little Jo, and Sheila were nowhere in sight and Sheila was driving. I considered calling a cab but I didn’t have a quarter and the payphone was in the back of the bar. I sank low in my chair and crossed my legs. Nine minutes later, I still hadn’t seen my ride and a “Danger, Danger” announcement was coming from my bladder. I was deliberating the possibility of using a beer bottle as a Porta-Potty when I saw my flannel wall stand and indicate that she was heading toward the bathroom. I figured it was dark enough to get away with using the beer bottle but the possibility of peeing all over my hand was not particularly appealing.
We reached the bathroom and I smiled in relief, relishing in my good fortune at reaching the restroom undetected just as the handicap stall became available. I typically don’t use handicap stalls, figuring it is bad karma. However, since all the other stalls used shower curtains versus a door as the barrier between the free world and peeing privacy, I took my chances with karma because I’d used the shower curtain stalls numerous times, which resulted in my hovering skills being exposed to the rest of the bathroom visitors.
I headed into the stall and slid the lock into position. Midstream I heard the exterior bathroom door open and the ensuing panicked and embarrassed gasps. Someone should really kick the bathroom designer’s ass because he, and it had to be a he, totally should’ve realized that each time the exterior bathroom door opened it created a vacuum. I immediately felt sorry for the poor suckers in the shower curtain stalls.
Business completed, I unlocked and opened the door, anticipating the look of relief and excitement I’d see in the face of the next woman in line once she realized she too had just won the “solid door” prize in the bathroom stall lottery. Instead, I saw a tall, smiling blonde with her butt resting on the edge of the bathroom sink. Ohh, damn.
“Hey there,” Loren said.
“Hey,” I replied. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the state-required, “Wash your hands after use to prevent the spread of disease” sign. I wondered exactly what diseases I’d get if I didn’t choose to wash my hands this one time. Surely it would be nothing a few months of penicillin shots couldn’t clear up. I glanced at the door then back at Loren, who was still smiling. I considered my choices: flee and take a chance with the dirty hand disease or stay, wash my hands, and deal with Loren. Reflecting on what the inside of the stall looked like, then on my history with Loren, I moved toward the sink, figuring either choice would end in my need for medication. Loren didn’t move. I reached around her and turned on the faucet, trying to focus on saying my ABC’s to ensure the appropriate wash time so I’d only have one medication to take after this little encounter. A, B, C …
“I’ve missed you,” she said.
D, E, F … I felt her breath on my neck … Y, Z. Screw it, I’d take the penicillin too. I turned to leave but she grabbed my hand and pulled me back to her.
“So, how’s Whitney?” I managed to say.
“I don’t know. She moved to Las Vegas.”
Ahh, damn.
Two weeks later, I entered the back door of my house and was greeted by the sight of Loren sitting on my kitchen counter, swinging her feet, and drinking a glass of wine with her “I’m up to something” smile. I figured the “something” wasn’t the changing of her ways, so I practiced my new coping mechanism, active avoidance. This I had started to use at 4:00 a.m. two days earlier while waiting up for Loren, who was just going out for “a” beer with some work friends. The relationship specialist on a rerun of The Oprah Winfrey Show acted like active avoidance was a bad practice, but I found it was becoming a most useful tool when dealing with Loren.
“Let’s go out tonight!”
I actively avoided Loren’s suggestion by pouring my own glass of wine.
“Pretty please?” she said as she reached out with her long leg, hooked my waist, and then pulled me into her. I then actively avoided with a small, sophisticated sip of my wine. She wrapped her other leg around me and pulled me against her. I actively avoided by downing the glass of wine. She kissed my neck and ran her fingers through the back of my hair. So maybe the therapist had a point. Avoidance is bad. I slid my arms around her waist and laid m
y head on her chest. “Pretty please?” she repeated.
I considered my options. One, have dinner at home, finish the bottle of wine, and then enjoy an evening of a little adult copulation or two, go out. With the second option, there was a good possibility I’d end up spending an unnecessary amount of money on alcohol, gambling, or other sins and wouldn’t come home until the wee hours of the morning, getting only a few hours of sleep before work, leaving no time for copulating, which wouldn’t really matter because Loren would just pass out anyway. My choice was obvious. Go out. Because despite my desire to stay home, Loren would go out with or without me, and I’d end up spending an unnecessary amount of money on bail or she’d end up having adult copulation activities with someone else.
“Okay,” I said resignedly.
She pushed me back and bounced off the countertop. “Cool. I was talking to Erin today. She and her girlfriend broke up and she’s kind of depressed so I figured we could take her out on the town, get drunk, and cheer her up.”
Well, if the offer didn’t just get more and more appealing every second. Now I’d get to spend the evening and my money consoling Loren’s depressed ex-girlfriend; her rather cute, newly single, depressed ex-girlfriend Erin. And now back to active avoidance.
Two hours later we met Erin at the bar. The night started with me handing Loren a twenty so she could get a round of drinks and a mood-boosting shot for Erin. This continued throughout the evening.
Three hours and eighty bucks later, Erin said, “I think I’m ready to get out of here. I just want to go home.”
My mood lifted a little as the hopeful thought of a predawn arrival home and a less than three-digit spending limit for the night became a possibility.
“Aw, come on. It’s early,” Loren argued.
“Loren, don’t harass her. If she wants to go home, let the poor girl go home,” I quickly interrupted.
“I appreciate everything, but I think I’m going to head out,” Erin replied.
I downed my beer, threw out some money for the tip, and jumped to my feet. “We’d better walk you out, just for safety’s sake.” And for the sake of my wallet and sleeping needs.
Loren continued to argue in favor of staying, but Erin stood to leave. Reluctantly, Loren followed suit and downed her drink. YES! We exited the bar and I headed to the parking lot with a smile on my face. I clicked the unlock button, dropped my now happy ass into the driver’s seat, and glanced at my watch. Yes, still early enough for some adult copulation. I waited for the passenger door to open. Nothing. I waited another second, figuring Loren was giving Erin some last-minute consoling. And with that thought, I jumped back out of the car and scanned the parking lot. I rescanned the parking lot for a rocking car. To-do list tomorrow: See if those child leashes come in adult sizes.
I walked back to the sidewalk and saw Loren dragging Erin by the arm toward a big red flashing neon sign. Nude. Flash. Women. Flash. Strip Club. Flash. Oh damn. I hung my head and walked toward the light, wishing it was bright and white.
I reached the door Loren and Erin had disappeared into and stared at the handle. Before we had left for our little “cheer up the ex” adventure this evening, I’d opened the fridge and moved the thawed chicken I’d planned to cook for dinner out of the way, wiped up its bloody juice with the dishtowel, and reached in to grab a few grapes out of the new bundle I bought the day before. Not remembering if I’d washed them or not, I gave them a quick wipe-off with the dish towel that was still in my hand just as I caught a promo for the evening news: “Tune in tonight at 9:00 to find out what common activity millions of people do every day that can have deadly consequences.” I’d glanced at the clock, 8:45. At the time I wondered why, if they had discovered such a lethal trend of common human practice, they would wait fifteen minutes to tell everyone.
Now, staring at the door handle, I wished I had stayed for the segment because I felt relatively sure opening strip club doors with your bare hands had been the deadly topic of the newscast. I untucked my shirt and used it as a barrier to the toxic sex funk looming on the handle. No way was I going to have “She was taken from us so early. If only she hadn’t touched that dirty, funked-up strip club door handle, she might still be with us today” as a part of my eulogy. Grandma would kill me.
Inside the lobby, Loren was waiting with a big smile. Erin looked as helpless and apprehensive as I felt. I realized suddenly I’d never been in a strip club nor had I really ever had the desire to be in one. Okay, after watching Demi in Striptease I might have had a moment of curiosity, but it was quickly shattered after watching the Saved by the Bell chick in Showgirls.
Loren walked over and gave me a kiss. “Can we please go in?”
I figured this question was more for formality versus approval since while in mid lip-lock she’d slid her hand in my back pocket for my credit card.
“Whatever,” I replied. Note to self: Carry Lysol when going out with Loren.
Loren and my credit card walked over to the little pay vestibule, which housed a fortyish, blond woman. I assumed in the pole dancer world this was the equivalent to Greeter at Wal-Mart. When you couldn’t find a barcode, or in this case the string of your thong, you got moved to the front door.
I followed Loren across the voyeur foyer so I could sign the receipt for our porn experience and also to say good-bye to my fleeting hope of spending under three digits for the evening. Midway across I stopped dead in my tracks and apparently someone else’s tracks because there was some kind of tacky substance causing my shoes to stick to the floor. Was the very non-Wal-Mart-like greeter naked? And exactly what size were her boobs?
I watched Loren hand over my card to the woman, convinced she was the muse for the “Hostess with the Mostest” title. To-do list tomorrow: Order a new credit card. The lady smiled and winked at Loren. Okay, so she wasn’t completely naked as she was wearing body glitter and blue eye shadow, which I had to admit disturbed me on a whole new level. Not only was I involved in a money transaction with a naked person outside of a dream, and not only was said naked lady now resting one of her watermelon sized boobs on top of my credit card, but she was wearing glitter.
This triggered a latent childhood trauma experience that involved glitter and the boys on the bus who, for an entire school year, called me “Stupid-Sparkle-Face,” “Sparkly,” “Turkey Glitter Stupid Head,” and “Glitter Booger Eater.” The booger-eater part actually came from a whole other incident that was totally taken out of context. The glitter trauma came after creating the standard Thanksgiving art project where you trace your hand and then add stick legs and a beak for a nice turkey rendition. I had, for some reason, decided to accessorize my turkey’s feathers with silver glitter. I think the reason for my choice versus everyone else’s common crayon accessorizing was that I liked the smell of glue, a lot. This addiction was also the excuse for the mistaken booger-eating incident. Anyway, my hand turkey had turned out to look more like Michael Jackson’s glove than a traditional symbol of Thanksgiving. I was required to take the flaming gay fowl picture home, and I had unknowingly fallen asleep during the hour-long bus ride home. Unfortunately, I’d used my glamour gobbler as a face rest. When I awoke, the glitter had made a neat sparkly design on my forehead, eye, and cheek, making me look like the drag queen version of Gene Simmons’ Kiss character. I hate glitter.
Once my receipt was printed, the naked glitter woman dislodged my card from under her boob and handed it to Loren along with a penis-shaped pen. Loren glanced briefly back and either seeing my hesitation or out of habit, forged my signature. I noted she did it rather quickly and expertly.
She held my card out to me. “Here you go, baby. Thank you.”
I remembered the ginormous boob and then quickly calculated my available balance.
“Keep it,” I said.
Loren grabbed Erin’s arm and led her through the double doors. I hesitated in an attempt to delay the assault of nasty, dirty, beer-bellied men sitting in sweaty, stale, smoky air on sticky
carpeted floors with bad sex music and big-haired, big-boobed women with “ten-foot beauty.” That’s what my grandpa would say about his used cars. “It has ten-foot beauty,” which simply meant at a distance of ten feet or more you couldn’t see the dents, dings, paint flecks, and Bondo work. I really had no desire to enter the dungeon of “dirty legs,” another term my grandfather used about a certain class of women, but that one is self-explanatory. I thought briefly about waiting in the lobby with Big Boob Glitter Barbie but I couldn’t trust Loren in the middle of a Southern Baptist prayer circle, let alone a room full of alcohol, sex, and half-naked women. So I took a deep breath and held it as I opened the door with my shirttail.
I stepped in and after thirty seconds I was forced to take my first intake of breath. Okay, so no horrible smells but rather a lingering hint of citrus. Scanning the room I saw a few men sporting nice suits, a few in a group for what I assumed was a bachelor party, and a few others scattered throughout the bar who were nicely and completely dressed with their tongues, hands, and privates all properly contained within their respective areas. No bad porn songs were playing over the speakers either. I saw two women walk out onto the stage wearing identical white robes and carrying spray bottles. Oh nice, we’re going to have some degrading and completely unrealistic rendition of two sexy bored housewives turned erotic dancers.
We moved to an area with a comfortable cluster of chairs. I laid a napkin where I planned to place my butt, figuring another layer between the chair and my unmentionables wouldn’t hurt.
I turned reluctantly back to the cleaning duo who were actually using their cleaning supplies to thoroughly wipe down the two chrome poles located center stage. A little bored, I began to believe I might have, out of ignorance, prejudged and unjustly stereotyped strip clubs, their patrons, and the women that work in them. The place was pretty nice, boring, but nice. And it was clean, especially the chrome poles, since the routine of wiping the fingerprints off them was lasting way too long.
