Poll Dancer

by Laura Heffernan

  After I buckled myself into my seat, I allowed myself one wistful glance into the rearview mirror. The guy still stood behind my car, waiting. I turned the key. As soon as my engine roared to life, he got into his own vehicle. What a gentleman. Waiting to make sure I was okay before taking off.

  I watched him go, telling myself that I needed to let the car heat up before driving away. But I just wanted to keep him in sight as long as possible.

  Finally, I let out a sigh, tossed his business card into my back seat, and shifted into gear.

  ~ I ~

  Half an hour later, I sat ensconced on my best friend’s couch, buried under an afghan and balancing a tray of pastries on the seat between us. She remained perfectly silent as I told her the details of my night, from the mob waiting outside the dance studio until Helen burst into my class holding that stupid piece of paper.

  The cute guy in the parking lot could wait for another day, so I tucked that part of the story away. Since it amounted to nothing but a bit of harmless flirting, there was no point in reliving those sparkling brown eyes. Hazel? The muscular forearms. The…

  Nope. Not going there. Not now, anyway. We had more important things to talk about.

  “Man, that sucks!” Lana said when I told her about the injunction. “What are you going to do?”

  I sighed. “I have no idea. The only other pole studios around are at least an hour south of here. Or worse, all the way down in New York City. Who knows if anyone is hiring? And I don’t want to drive all over the state to give a few classes here and there.”

  “Why work for someone else? You’ve got loyal students who would follow you anywhere, but we’d rather travel to Ballston Spa or Saratoga Springs than trek ninety minutes each way for a one-hour class. Even me, and you know how much I love you.”

  “You think I should open my own studio?”

  “Why not? You could make way more working for yourself. Helen was delighted by your public humiliation. She fired you over something that wasn’t remotely your fault. Do you want to risk working for someone else like that? As your own boss, you can make the studio look the way you want, advertise, get the word out—and keep all the profits.”

  With each word Lana spoke, I grew more excited. “That’s true. Most of my students should stick with me, if I can get up and running soon.”

  “You were never thrilled with that space anyway, right?”

  Helen’s studio had low ceilings and limited space, not much light, and was stifling in the summer. Still the hours were flexible, and she’d given me a good break when I started. We got along well.

  Diplomatically, I said, “It wasn’t ideal.”

  “Picture this,” Lana said. “A studio with an entire room full of poles, so eight or nine people can work out all at once. No sharing. No spending half the class waiting to take your turn. Twenty-foot ceilings. A studio where you’re not fighting for space with Zumba in the mornings and foxtrot classes at night. One with a cleaning lady so you don’t have to spend hours each week vacuuming and wiping down the mirrors.”

  My hopes continued to rise. The more Lana talked, the more perfect her solution sounded. I’d been wondering if I should relocate for a while now: every time it rained, I had to put buckets in the ladies’ room to catch the water dripping from the ceiling. The Push and Pole name belonged to me, even though the business operated out of Dance 4 U. I could take it anywhere.

  Creating my dream studio could be expensive, but I had a little money saved to pay my bills until I started to turn a profit. My parents might help if I asked them to. Things started to come together in my mind. I could do this.

  “You’re absolutely right, Lana,” I said. “But how am I going to pay for all that? Take out second a mortgage on my condo?”

  “Don’t do that. Although I have absolute faith in you, small businesses don’t always do well. There are outside factors in play. If this Curtis guy follows you to your new location, you could be in a position to lose your home, and that’s not going to happen.”

  Just like that, my bubble burst. “Well, it was a nice dream for a few seconds.”

  “Shush. You can still do this. I’ll help you apply for a small business loan.”

  “And if Curtis passes a law banning pole fitness studios?”

  “One newbie state senator doesn’t have that kind of power.”

  “He made it sound like he’s got contacts. Apparently, his dad used to be in the seat. We have no idea what kind of support he might be able to drum up, especially after that stupid video.” I sighed. “You didn’t see the crowd of protestors outside the studio.”

  “It’ll be okay,” she said. “One thing at a time. Start looking for another job. But also see if you can find your own space. We’ll manage everything else as it comes up.”

  It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it was the best we had at the moment.

  Before I did anything else, I emailed several fitness studio owners in other counties to see if anyone wanted to offer pole classes. Then I messaged every pole instructor I knew in the state, a couple in Massachusetts and Vermont, and a few strip clubs, to see if anyone knew a place hiring an instructor.

  Lana’s idea still appealed to me, but I needed to be realistic. You didn’t start a business on a whim with no capital and no investors. I had bills to pay, and it took time to get a business off the ground. A small business loan sounded great, but I’d need income to make the monthly payments. And to eat. Pay my mortgage. Lana was right: risking my home made no sense.

  On the other hand, I did have a healthy list of students in the Saratoga area who would probably follow me to a new studio. Especially since Helen no longer offered pole fitness classes for the foreseeable future.

  Not quite ready to give up yet, I surfed commercial real estate for rent in the nearby counties, looking for the right space. I just needed a plan. With higher ceilings, I could offer aerial yoga or Lyra classes, too. There was plenty of time to get certified once I got up and running. Pole muscles and flexibility translated to plenty of other activities, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Or I could advertise for another instructor, find someone to share the load.

  Lana had the skills, and she’d be a great business partner, but seemed unlikely to give up practicing law for fitness instruction. It didn’t pay quite the same. Too bad, because she always seemed twice as alive doing pole as talking about work.

  Things to worry about tomorrow, I decided. For now, bed. With dreams of laughing hazel eyes and scattered freckles dancing in my head.

  CHAPTER 4

  Star Gazer: Start from a basic climb. Wrap your top leg around the pole, securing it in your knee pit. Hold your ankle securely with one hand, then lean back, looking up toward the ceiling. Simple, yet beautiful.

  - Push and Pole Fitness Tutorials, Vol, 2

  Saturday mornings at Dance 4 U were the highlight of my week. Students flooded the waiting area, chatting excitedly. I usually arrived early enough to open the room and get the heat going, then wandered around talking to some of the regulars who I saw all the time. A couple of times a month, I did bachelorette parties or birthday parties or whatever. Once I did an adoption shower, which was a lot of fun. Even better when both spouses or both parents joined in.

  But no more. I woke up the next morning to the sounds of my upstairs neighbors chattering and banging away in their kitchen, no doubt making some amazing family breakfast. The scents of bacon and eggs caused me to inhale deeply, my mouth watering.

  An unexpected day at home felt like I’d put my clothes on backward or something. The day stretched before me, empty and confusing. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Time crawled.

  After doing all the laundry I’d allowed to build up over time, making my own breakfast, sanitizing every surface Gary had touched when he burst in, and throwing dinner in the slow cooker, I checked my phone: not even ten o’clock yet. Lovely.

  Driving to the auto parts store and replacing my t
ail light took up half an hour, but I was officially at loose ends. I wasn’t great at relaxing. I tried to do a pole workout, but that just made me sad. Finally I plopped down with my tablet and started making a list of places I could probably get job, even if I couldn’t teach pole.

  By one o’clock, I was thinking about reorganizing my sock drawer. Finally, I gave into temptation and opened a new web browser. The name was burned into my memory, so it only took a moment before a page of results filled my screen.

  Like he mentioned last night, Curtis Baker was the son of Tiberius Baker. I recognized the name as belonging to a local politician, but also from the conversation. Every couple of years for as long as I could remember, the “Vote for Baker” signs peppered the area. I’d never voted for him, but apparently he’d won a bunch of times. He was always on the ballot as the incumbent. Too bad. In 2018, I’d really liked his opponent.

  Baker apparently went to a lot of events with his son. The two of them appeared in one photo after another: campaigning together, fund-raising together, feeding the homeless together. One caption explained why: Curtis was Baker’s campaign manager in election years and Chief of Staff all the time. Too bad. He was in a position to know what the residents wanted, and I hated to think they wanted to take women’s rights back about fifty years.

  Something caught my eye as I scrolled, and I halted. Apparently, Baker experienced a heart attack while playing tennis a couple of weeks ago. Although in his early sixties, the senator exercised daily, ate a healthy diet, never smoked or drank. He recovered quickly, but the experience reportedly shook him to the core. He sold all of his possessions, bought a used RV, moved into it with the family’s housekeeper, and…started selling skin care products? That couldn’t be right. From the state senate to operating a multilevel marketing scheme out of a motorhome?

  Right or wrong, Baker’s resignation shocked everyone who knew him (according to the newspaper). It also left a vacancy in the state senate. They were holding a special election in a couple of months. And who was running but the former senator’s oldest son/campaign manager/chief of staff.

  Well, that explained why Curtis was coming after me with his family values crap now. He probably thought it would win him back voters who didn’t approve of his father’s behavior. The district had been going red for decades, so it must be more conservative than I thought. I couldn’t wait to donate to Curtis’s opponent, just like I told him. I may not have a lot of money, but every bit helped. Or I could donate time, of which I suddenly had plenty.

  Opening another tab, I started typing. No results. I checked again. Then again. Nothing. Finally, I texted Lana.

  Hey, what would I do if I wanted to know who was running for office?

  Take your temperature, she replied.

  Very funny, I typed.

  Quickly I explained why I asked. My laundry buzzed, and by the time I finished switching everything over, two more texts awaited me. Looked like good ‘ole Curtis was currently running unopposed. Meaning that bastard would soon be a member of the state legislature. I groaned.

  Realizing that this conversation would be much easier to have verbally, I tapped on Lana’s name to call her.

  “You’re sure no one is running against Curtis?”

  “Pretty sure,” she said. “The filing deadline is Monday, so theoretically someone else could put their name in. But I’m not finding anything that suggests anyone is even planning to run.”

  “What about that guy who ran a few years ago? He was in all the papers. Marlowe Wright? I feel like I see that guy’s name everywhere. People love him.”

  “That’s because he’s the state Attorney General now.”

  Oh. Right. “Do you think he’d want to–?”

  She laughed. “No. Look, I’ve got a friend who works for the local Democratic Committee. I’ll give him a call, but he may not get back to me on a Saturday.”

  “Tell him I want to give them money. That usually helps.” I paused. “Wait. I don’t have any money. Tell him I’ll volunteer for the campaign. Going door-to-door, handing out flyers, making phone calls, whatever.”

  “I have a sneaking suspicion there isn’t anyone to volunteer for,” she said. “But I’ll pass it on.”

  “Thanks, Lana. You’re the best.”

  Another alert popped up on my phone, this one from my public Facebook page. With everything that happened, I hadn’t thought to close it down yet, and someone was asking me about a party.

  With a pang I realized that the injunction not only stopped me from teaching classes, it meant I couldn’t schedule any parties or special events for the foreseeable future. Helen’s studio was unavailable, and my living room just wasn’t big enough. I loved those events, both because they allowed me to meet new people and because they usually resulted in new business.

  New business I could no longer use without a place to teach them.

  Stupid Curtis Baker.

  Just as I started to relieve my frustration by writing an email that I would never send, my phone beeped with another text from Lana.

  My heart sank as I read it. They don’t have anyone.

  That’s it? They’re giving up?

  Daniel didn’t sound happy about it, she replied. Asked if I wanted to run. Or if you did. ;-)

  My laughter filled the room. As if. Why stop there? Why not run for president?

  But then my eyes landed on the copy of the injunction Helen had printed, sitting on the island. I’d brought it home to read, although nothing it said made me feel any better. Even if I’d understood half the language used, just the court caption at the top of the page made my blood boil all over again.

  Curtis Baker was a spoiled jerk, a guy who’d had everything handed to him his whole life. Rich father, expensive education, flashy watch. Clothes worth more than my car. He walked with a swagger, spoke like someone used to getting what they wanted. Now he managed to cancel my business, to take a huge chunk of Helen’s income, and he wanted to go even further. He wanted to stop me from teaching pole anywhere in this community. If he got into the Legislature, it would be that much harder to stop him.

  No.

  My whole life, I’d had things taken away from me. My parents were in the military, so we constantly moved. Each time, I had to leave all my friends behind, learn to fit in somewhere new. All through high school, it had been impossible to let down my guard enough to date because of the fear that we’d get sent somewhere else. Signing the papers to buy my condo had been one of the most exciting moments of my life. It meant finally knowing that I wouldn’t have to move again, unless it was on my terms.

  If I couldn’t teach, I couldn’t pay my mortgage. I wasn’t about to give up my livelihood without a fight. At only twenty-eight years old, I’d started over more than most people did in a lifetime. Now, I wanted to hold onto my roots.

  Before I could reconsider, I snatched up my phone and texted back. Give me Daniel’s number. I’m in.

  CHAPTER 5

  Cocoon: Until you get the hang of this move, you’ll want a spotter or a crash mat. Or both. Essentially, once you’re hanging upside-down by your inside leg, you’re going to pull your outside leg and arch your back to bring foot and head together…

  - Push and Pole Fitness Tutorials, Vol. 4

  My bravado faded slightly by the time work ended and I arrived at Daniel’s office to talk about my rash decision. Who was I to run for office?

  A New York resident, I told myself firmly. A valuable member of the Saratoga community.

  A strong, innovative woman with ideas about how to better the lives of the people in her area. Or at least make it a little more tolerant.

  I had a right to a better future for myself and my neighbors. No, an obligation. Even if I lost spectacularly—which seemed likely—at least I didn’t sit back and let other people make decisions for me.

  Before I could talk myself out of this meeting, I knocked on the closed door. It swung open as my
inner debate raged on.

  My first sight of Daniel McCarthy stopped me in my tracks. For some reason, I’d been prepared to meet with, well, basically Leo from The West Wing: older, reserved, somewhat unfriendly, in an expensive suit. Instead, I found myself face-to-face with the gorgeous freckles and smile that I’d met last night while pushing his car out of the snow.

  He looked more well-rested, and he wore old blue jeans and a dark green polo shirt instead of the suit he’d had on before. But it was definitely him. The guy whose name I’d stupidly never gotten.

  “Hey. Are you here about the car?” He eyed me warily, like he was wondering if he needed to call and request a restraining order. After all, showing up at someone’s place of business to talk about a busted taillight was creepy. Especially because, you know, it was entirely my fault.

  “No, not at all. This is so weird.” He still looked confused, so I put out my hand to shake. “I’m Mel Martin. Lana’s friend.”

  His eyes widened. “Small world, huh?”

  “Tiny. That coffee shop is next to my dance studio. Do you go there a lot?”

  He shook his head. “Never. I was at the protest, keeping an eye on things. It’s good to see you, though. I was sure I’d never hear from you.”

  “You were right,” I admitted. “I mean, I can pay for the taillight myself. I should be paying to fix your car.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You did me a favor. Without you, I’d have needed to pay for a tow.” With a start, he realized that we still stood in the doorway of his office. “I’m sorry. Come in, come in. Let’s talk.”

  The office was small, but Daniel utilized the space well. Shelves and filing cabinets filled the walls. A large desk took up most of the center of the room, with papers stacked on every available surface. All perfectly arranged. I’d bet I could ask him for any paper in those stacks, and he would have it in hand within seconds. Meanwhile, I had