Stripper Lessons

by John O'Brien

  Customers, albeit early ones, are beginning to filter in past the red-vested prurient Latin valet and the weighty iron door that is normally the easiest part of getting into this place. Late evening will find a solicitous queue of hapless, weary couples outside this door, waiting for a table that will never come. But at this early hour anything goes, and people wishing to say that they have been here get their chance. A few tables are sacrificed for an hour or so, warmup for the staff, and the eager diners try hard to look unaffected, to breeze by the italic price column on the menu. The Lemon Pepper Pasta does well at this hour.

  The eye of Stevie’s boyfriend is caught by a fetching young girl who quickly looks down at her menu and places her hand on the outstretched arm of her companion. Wearing her finest yet still glaringly inadequate dress, she has a certain naivete that appeals to Stevie’s boyfriend, who likes to think of such girls as blank canvasses (though this man is not a painter). He has slept with enough of these girls to know: this girl would never forget him. See how she pretends to be unaware of his gaze? He giggles inwardly at this. Now she scratches her nose as if it itches, and he thinks how he would like to smell her breath. Those first moments, when you’re getting to know her body up close, all the little freckles, hair follicles, the smell of her armpits and the breath that comes out of her nostrils when you kiss too long. Nothing is bad then. She can do no wrong. Now she raises an eyebrow, and it makes her look precocious. But still, he would enjoy her at first, licking, maybe, tasting. Behind her ears. Swallow her spit. Panties. Flowery pictures on the panties, maybe drawings of those little cartoon girls with enormous hats like in the pictures painted on his daughter’s bed.

  Stevie decides to pick at her filet mignon (thirty-five dollars) and grab something on the way to work. Late is late. This’ll really push his buttons, and she wishes she had ordered an appetizer so that she could not eat that as well. Of course if she wants to get him still madder she can tell him about the pool last Saturday. He’d flip out if he knew she spied on his kids, even if it was just once. Easy to find them: “Gotta go, gotta drive the kids to the pool.” She beat them there with time to spare because he still had to get home from his morning workout. She parked down the street behind a Taco Bell and walked to the bleachers at the side of the fenced-in public pool. Sure enough he pulled up in front, kids out, forgot your towel, back, out again, pulled away, and he couldn’t possibly have seen her, and she spotted the kids (just like their pictures), and from the other side of the chain-link fence watched them swim for almost two hours. Big deal. Even if they noticed her they would have no way of knowing who she was, what significance she had in their lives (zero). She remembers feeling transported in place and time to public pools of her own childhood. Chlorine, benign and ubiquitous, hung tough against the meaningless pre- and after-swim showers. Everybody smelled like the pool all summer. Beach towels laid out on hot, wet concrete. A little older and the lifeguards were so dreamy. How would they look to her now, those same guys? But back then, so dreamy, high above her and her friends, they sat. White stuff on their noses. Look up, hard to see them looming in the sun’s glare. Get in trouble and have to sit at their feet. Get to sit at their feet.

  Late Friday night, almost nine, back at his desk and the place feels deserted. Part of him wants to panic about being late for Indiscretions, and he tries to focus on that part as a way to decompress from the day’s fruitless and frantic search. As much time as he spends at that club, you’d think he’d get sick of it, but the truth is he hates to miss it, any of it, like the way the White House must have guys monitoring all the news broadcasts all the time: it’s not so much that they want to see everything as it is that they don’t want to miss anything. He’ll get there—it’s Friday and they’ll be packed till closing—he’ll get there. The fluorescent bank overhead is only half on, every other tube, and it still seems way too bright. The thick plate-glass sheets of the windows have become dark mirrors as the interior light turns tail and runs from the eleventh-story darkness outside. He considers dropping another note to Pam, keeping her apprised should she get in early Monday morning. This, though certainly a prudent move, seems suddenly too much an invasion, and he fails to reach for a pen, and Solo crawls that much deeper into his heart. It feeds there, like a virus, and whimpers along with the sizzling protest of the fluorescent tubes as he hits the switch and makes his way down to the garage.

  Traffic is benign, perky even. People driving on Friday evenings are generally happy about their destinations. He passes only one small accident, intersectional but without injury, guy in a suit being field tested on the curb. Carroll has never driven drunk, never even been drunk for that matter, but he knows it must be wrong. Still, it’s strange to see a guy in a suit being busted for anything.

  Indiscretions is predictably packed, and his late arrival forces him to park way in the back, at the end of a dark alley behind the adjoining gas station. He’s only parked here once before, and though nothing happened to his car that time he still walks back through the lot to check on it twice after almost entering the club, captivated by virtue of its NO IN AND OUT PRIVILEGES sign if by nothing else. Inside is crowded as well. But men are flowing out as quickly as new ones come in, and it isn’t long before Carroll is able to slip into a seat at the stage and set about scanning for Stevie.

  He’s been so preoccupied with Solo that he hasn’t really thought about what he hopes to accomplish here tonight. Not that there’s ever any question of not coming, but somehow he felt that finding Solo would be a source of enlightenment, a victory that she would see in his eyes. He was—still is—seduced by this opportunity, however improbable, to connect the two disparate elements in his life, like a wall socket and a desk lamp: connect them and suddenly they both have new meaning. It’s not too late. Solo’s still out there, and if he can get his hands on it, if he can have this search to show Stevie then maybe she’ll be interested and make him glad that he bothered. She could know this about him, and his life wouldn’t be a waste; rather, she’d reinfect him with her interest. Validate his day and make him that much more interesting. Perpetual motion. She and that file snagged him at about the same time. She would be an impossible dream if it weren’t for the real dream he had about her. Solo should be in his hands by now, and the harder it is to find the more he wants to find it. Like it’s a safer bet, reliable in its elusiveness.

  The cocktail waitress, looking vaguely familiar, is busy enough catching up at the bar that he won’t be reached for a while. He automatically puts a dollar on the rail, and only then does he notice Sylvia dancing (looks to be about the second of three) in front of him (she really does look like somebody’s wife). Glancing over, he sees the four curtained booths are all occupied. Melissa, Tina, some new redhead, and Jasmine are entertaining the usual dreadfuls. As Tina bends way over to show a guy her ass, Carroll notices the guy’s clothes. If that suit is any indication this guy must spend a fortune on clothes . . . and pressing. He’s seen clients dressed like that at the firm. Like it wouldn’t be enough to merely buy the suit, you’d also need somebody to put it on you each morning. No Stevie there and this is best, better than dealing with the stress of again watching her alone with one of these guys. It did say on “The Shy Man’s Guide to Meeting Women” that “clothes make not only the man, but the number of stories he’s got to tell the boys at work the next day!” Carroll, though not all that interested in telling stories to the boys, does have to admit that he’s never seen a girl like Stevie among the women who give wifely advice through the plywood doors of the dressing stalls in the men’s department at K’mon-n-Mart. He should look into this tomorrow—what the heck, it couldn’t hurt. He should find out where to buy expensive clothes and then go buy some.

  He’s getting thirsty, could use a sparkling apple cider. Still no Stevie, meaning she’s probably gabbing in the dressing area. He can’t really see the whole room, crowded as it is, so she might be anywhere. Sabrina, talking to a guy on the opposite side of the stage, l
ooks up and catches his wandering eye. It hits them both like a shot, and for no reason they both look away too quickly. No. Stevie’s definitely in the dressing area; she’s not out here. Nothing to do but wait. He’s beginning to feel empty. Maybe it would be okay if she did a table dance; at least he’d know where she is. He’s really ready for a cider.

  And then the waitress comes. Then Candy is on the stage. Dollars feed the rail. Ciders come and go. With a pang of denial he tells himself that it’s simply a mistake in the rotation and that Stevie will be on stage right after Sylvia, now on her second set since his arrival. But he knows better. He knows, really knows in his gut that she’s not here tonight. So what? She gets a night off just like anybody else . . . but tonight ? Why is she not here just when he needs her most? Solo seems so very insignificant in the face of her absence. Still, he’d give anything to have found it. He feels empty here, convinced that she’s not around. Maybe a good reason to return to work and keep looking, though he knows he couldn’t leave here tonight, not until closing. Sparkling apple cider. He misses his television. No one home. Is she forever gone? Is she dead? Sparkling apple cider. She could come in late. She could come in tomorrow. She could have tomorrow off, too. Is it possible to never touch the things you really need to hold? What an enormous leap of faith it must have been for primitive men to value fire despite its intangibility. Is he missing this lesson? Did it get dropped from his personal evolution package, like the guys with hair on their backs and one big eyebrow, or the girls who can move their coccyx like a tail wagging under their skin? He misses his TV. Sit and wait. Come back tomorrow. Sit and wait.

  The DJ/doorman stumbles through a few moments. A buzz, naked women, cider, men in suits, he hears “Stevie.” He hears “for Stevie, gentlemen.” He hears “. . . together for the lovely Stevie. . . .” And when she takes the stage he remembers hearing “. . . first set of the night . . .” and “. . . better late than never. . . .” To see her, to feel the flood of relief, he regains a little humor, and he at last remembers hearing “. . . direct to you from the bedside of her ailing grandmother . . . says she needs prescription money, gentlemen.” For this a chuckle, a footnote to the laughter that died shortly after the joke was delivered (that must have been about when he heard it). Funny, he thought, how they’re laughing like that.

  This is the first time he’s been seated at the stage during one of her sets. Well he might be at the stage, but it’s still pretty damn crowded tonight, and it’s doubtful that he’ll be able to get much attention from her. Still, she hovers about as if he were the center, flitting left and right with a delicacy befitting the angel that she is. He looks about. Already dollars line the rail. He realizes that he’s been so wrapped up in anxiety that he forgot to put his up, and red-faced, he hurriedly does so. Stevie dips, swinging a nod of her ass to him as well as to the man next to him and moving down the line. Carroll notices that the man puts up two more dollars. He has much experience here at Indiscretions, and normally he doesn’t let big tippers intimidate him. On the other hand he is in hot pursuit of something. Old rules of conduct must be reevaluated on a daily basis, like him sneaking into Corporate Fatso’s office. Decisively he pulls back his single, replacing it with a fin, and thus garnering the respect of at least one guy across the stage, whom Carroll catches reevaluating his own single after spotting the five. Stevie may not catch it until her second song, for she is pacing herself around the stage tonight (been watching Jasmine) and will likely end up near the curtain just as each song fades out. But catch it she will, and if she wants to keep within club policy she’ll have to come back to him after her dance and whisper thankyou into his ear. He’s actually seen guys get a little peck on the cheek during these thank-yous. But that wasn’t Stevie, and it’s a bit early in the game to be expecting stuff like that, and he’d better make sure he paces himself as carefully as she. Good, she, familiar on this new-to-her stage. So good. They’re in this new territory together.

  As Stevie disappears behind the curtain for her costume change, Carroll sizes up the guy who noticed his fivedollar bill on the rail. He’s nervously looking around the room (probably never been here before), and Carroll is amused to see that he’s added another single to the one he already had out. Well, he’ll learn. He’ll learn. What’s he wearing? Looks like he spent a little money on those clothes, Carroll guesses, maybe not a lot, but a little more than Carroll spends. Sort of—what is that, green? light green?—sort of a light green shirt with black curlicues all over it. Can’t see the pants, but it’s an okay shirt. It’s not a bad shirt . . . better than the striped thing that Carroll’s got on, sent by his aunt from Houston last Christmas and complete with ersatz epaulets.

  Sputtering microphone overtakes building music: “Here she is, gentlemen, for the second of three . . . Stevie, lovelylady by the name of Stevie.”

  Hmmm. She’s changed into some sort of sequin costume. No place for curlicues on that thing. Carroll decides it must be new, or from some other job before. . . . Hold the phone! He never thought about it, but she must have worked someplace before here. Strange that he hadn’t considered that before now, and he’s suddenly overtaken with curiosity. A bit of regret too, that he talked only of himself during his table dance, never thought to ask about her. Maybe he is just like other men, the way they’re portrayed by women on daytime talk shows he’s seen on holidays and sick days. Always talking about themselves, these women complain of men. Men only want to talk about themselves. He saw a girl say this on “The Love Connection” once and thought her date, pictured in the little corner box, was gonna die with embarrassment. “How was dinner?” Chuck had asked her. “Great,” she answered, “if you’ve got nothing better to do than hear his life story” (or something like that). Though he felt bad for the guy at the time, Carroll made a mental note to never talk about himself to a woman. Guess he forgot. He’s like all the rest and feels like a fool. He’ll try to do better tonight when she comes over to thank him after her dance. Stevie spots the five as she dips to show him her right breast but doesn’t react. Very cool. Sequins fall on either side of the breast. She jiggles, and the left one comes forth as well, sequins now nestled between the two. Carroll looks at the guy next to him; he can’t help it, she’s sort of in the middle. The guy now has a five out, too.

  By her third song (he was right: she’s been watching Jasmine) the sequin costume is reduced to a belt of sorts. By the whispers and nudges around the room Carroll can sense that her cleanly shaven crotch has already developed something of a reputation, and he is gladdened by the reverential treatment it seems to be receiving from the men. No stupid remarks. And he’ll be damned if she didn’t give him an extra second, a private second real close to his face. Probably saw the money, not so much his but the way he started the trend, the proliferation of padded tips along the rail. Probably thinks of him as something of an ally now, and he is of course in a way, inasmuch as they’re both concerned with . . . well, Goodness. He watches carefully as she makes her way, man to man, around the stage. There’s no way that she spends any extra time with the others, no way. By the time she finishes the set he is certain that she spent at least two or three seconds more in front of him than in front of any of the other men. Even the ones with bigger tips out are probably wondering if they know each other, Carroll and Stevie, wondering if maybe they aren’t friends or something. But friends, think about friends. Friends would be nice, or something.

  The DJ/doorman starts rambling about whoever is dancing next. But Carroll’s not listening; he’s getting wound up, tight, twisted, and jumpy with thoughts of their imminent encounter. First she’ll come around the stage, holding a light robe loosely around herself and collecting the tips. She’ll smile and inaudibly thank the men who have left out a single or two for her. Then—and this is what will be new for Carroll, and it’s what has him dry of mouth and wet of palm—she’ll retreat to the dressing area, don a slightly more substantial costume appropriate for the floor, and come around to persona
lly thank the three or four men who have left tips of larger denomination. He looks about. Tina is sneaking up on some guy who is always sitting at the bar. This guy likes to lean back on his stool, and she is planning to grab him as if to pull him over all the way. Not a new trick exactly, they both love doing this, and Carroll can’t wait for the inevitable fall that will break Tina, the guy, or both of this habit. She’s winking at the barmaid. There she goes. The guy yelps and waves his arms in a desperate attempt to regain his balance, like this is a new one on him. What a dope. Tina catches him, the back of his neck against her chest, and this must be the rub, this must be good for a few friendly dollars at some point in the evening. Here comes Stevie inside the rail with just a smile for him as she takes his five. Good. She would have thanked him now if she wasn’t planning to return later. Her robe falls open as she squats for a bill, and he realizes that she has no tan lines, nor is she tan, nor is she pale. A lot of the other dancers have tan lines on bottom but none on top. Easy clues, but to what?

  After finishing up with her collecting, she disappears behind the curtain again. He is by now well aware of her tendency to take refuge back there, and she’ll no doubt take her time changing. No matter. Sooner or later she’ll have to talk to him. He’s sure of it. He can wait. He can sit here and wait, watch—who is that . . . the new redhead— he can sit here and watch the new redhead and wait.

  Like most of the girls who start here, this girl is not without experience. This is clearly evident as soon as she takes the stage. Red hair flying, she becomes practically airborne as she lunges from the curtain to the chain-suspended steel ring that hangs from the ceiling. Eschewed by most of the dancers, this apparatus, when used properly, creates something of a stunning seraphic effect for the men seated at the stage. Redhead swings wide, over her flock. Breasts jut forth in response to centrifugal force, and she makes these rotations as if she owned the air. A knee is bent, other leg straight. Lest her audience grow too comfortable with the vision, she winds down too soon, wrapping to a small fast spin at center stage reminiscent of a skater. This redhead (remember to listen for the name) wears a costume of tight black panties and a chest full of tiny white, pearl-like beads. Sounds silly, but it works. Indeed, those beads know when and where to part, and the men at the stage are, Carroll can see, quick and true fans. Carroll guesses that Redhead is used to such a response; he can see it in her smile, the way she drinks up their adoration, takes to it like a vampire to blood. Old movies on late-night television. Peter Cushing. Christopher Lee. A hundred other guys who never even achieved that modicum of success. So many lost souls before and around him. This girl must have a name, certainly she is an attention grabber. Carroll, of course, is lending only a mild interest—his mind is strictly on Stevie—a sporting interest. It concerns him to see how easily the other men are taken in, and he has to admit that if it weren’t for Stevie this redhead would look pretty damn good to him as well. She walks out on her first song before its over, leaving her lovers breathless, confused, and wanting nothing but her return. Carroll raises an eyebrow at this, what he considers an infraction, a breech of agreement, and he wonders how it’ll go over with the powers that be. And he wonders when Stevie will come around. And he wonders what the redhead’s name is (listen for the DJ/doorman). Wonders what she’ll do for the second of three (watch).