by Rusk, Day
I bring all this up, as a way of pointing out that it was this encouragement that led me into the life of a writer. My younger brother went into banking and my sister into nursing, leaving me the only member of my family to pursue the arts or as my brother pointed out to me, the only member of my family who was willing to accept or pursue a life of poverty.
“Who the hell is going to read anything you write?” he once asked me. “Mom and Dad can only buy so many books and not enough to put you on the New York Times Bestseller List.”
I believe, “Bite me,” was my response.
Yes, I know what you’re thinking, not all that creative a response for someone who fancies themselves a writer. At the same time, who wants to waste any of their good material on their little brother? Actually my sister came to my rescue pointing out to my little brother that as long as he was successful in the financial community I’d know where I could go for a loan whenever I needed it. Strangely, this didn’t seem to please him, although it did give me a solid game plan.
Up until the end of high school I had written a lot of short stories, none of which were published anywhere of any renown. I took a stab at a novel, but came up short; who knew it took that much effort to actually write professionally?
Like most aspiring writers, I decided to study journalism. What better way to become a writer than to be making a living writing while trying to achieve that dream. Journalism, of course, is supposed to be about the facts and getting them right. That kind of training is not conducive to the art of writing fiction, as I found out, and many of my college classmates, who had the same idea as me. At the same time I found an outlet that seemed to agree with me. I graduated and started working for a small regional newspaper, doing everything that was required of me; it wasn’t glamorous, and the pay certainly confirmed my little brother’s predictions about my seeking out poverty for a living, but I liked it. I didn’t know how far I was going to take it, but I felt I’d found my niche in life. Maybe writing fiction wasn’t for me; maybe my talents lay in non-fiction; exploring the world and relating it back to my readers.
And, yes, I can say readers because believe it or not I found them, or should I say they found me? Back to the concept of thinking we’re special. Why me and not someone else in my journalism class? Or one of the many journalism graduates around the world? I sold a book and it became a substantial enough hit that I was able to pursue writing books full time. Was it because I was more special than everyone else, or just dumb luck? It was the latter, even though if Mom were still alive she’d say the former.
I had a good friend in college who had scored what every guy thinks is the jackpot in a girlfriend—a stripper. I’ve never been one for adult entertainment and the so-called ‘Men’s Clubs.’ Yes I’m being diplomatic, but I’ve never liked the term ‘Peelers’ when talking about strippers.
I’d been in clubs before. All young men at some point or the other find themselves drawn to the establishments. I mean you can have a beer and watch women get naked on purpose. The draw is pretty simple to figure out. I went a few times with some buddies, only to discover that these places were quite boring. You drank overpriced alcohol, and watched the standard three-song rotation of dancers. The first song, she just dances in a sexy outfit; the second song, she might take off her top; the final song, she goes completely naked—over and over and over again. The funny part is that having been a film buff for quite some time, my impression of strippers was that they performed on stage. What I discovered was that half the time the girl on stage looked like she was going through the motions, absolutely bored with the whole routine herself. We referred to these girls as walkers, as that seemed to be the extent of their dancing—they were mailing it in, waiting to get off stage and try to make some money with the private dancing. The only individuals who seemed to be having a really good time were the guys who were drawn to perverts row, the seating around the edge of the stage on which the stripper danced. I never paid a visit to the row, preferring instead to keep my distance.
The strip club world is all fantasy. That is one of the reasons why I found it so boring. I didn’t believe for one second that any of the dancers who sat down at our table and paid special attention to me were in fact really that interested in my life. This was usually proven true when they finally got around to asking me for a private dance; the second I turned them down, and they realized I wasn’t willing to drop my hard-earned money on them, their interest in me didn’t dwindle, but simply died. Guys don’t realize that the minute you walk through those strip club doors you are entering a world of fantasy where nothing is real. To the dancers you are a giant dollar sign—their means of making a living. And to me that is fair. That’s the unspoken contract that exists between men and dancers within that world. Unfortunately not all guys got it, and some of them fell in love with the dancers, spending a fortune on them. When some of the dancers realized this, those who had lost their humanity and only saw men as dollar bills, they were able to take the fantasy out of the club, stringing these guys along for vacations and other ill-gotten gains. I know one dancer who took a guy, an executive from a bank, for leather furniture, a big screen TV, and an allowance worth thousands of dollars for at least four months, before he realized she wasn’t going to sleep with him. She’d pulled the ultimate con, because she didn’t have to engage in sex to get these items. She also liked to test her admirers, who were hopeful of one day getting into bed with her, by calling them up in the middle of the night and saying she wanted a coffee. Surprisingly, many of them would get out of bed, go to a coffee shop, buy her a coffee and deliver it to her apartment, where she would promptly take the coffee and close the door on them. They were hoping for a late night booty call, based on their considerate actions, but were just played and used, this particular dancer defining her power and reveling in it. Nonetheless, they kept coming back for more abuse, at least for a while.
My friend wasn’t like these guys. He was actually dating Candice before she decided to become a dancer to help pay for her college courses. She was actually a nice girl who danced for a reason and kept it clean, which probably accounted for the fact that amongst the girls at the club she worked at, she was probably the worst earner. She did make enough to look after her needs, and that was all she cared about – that was adequate. It was when I got together with them that she would regale me with stories of what went on behind the scenes of the average strip club. The stories were fascinating; it was like Dorothy pulling back the curtain in The Wizard of Oz and realizing the Wizard was just a man. Her stories stripped the strip club of its illusion and presented it as a dreadful place where dreams went to die, and where many women/dancers lost their basic humanity after dealing day-to-day with men who had an unhealthy view of women and their place in our world. No matter how you stacked it up or tried to spin it, strip clubs and the relationships formed in them, are dysfunctional and serve no purpose in society at large. I found all of this fascinating.
Looking to pay off my student loans as well, and supplementing my meager journalist pay, Candice got me a job at the strip club, first as a doorman and then as a bartender. It was here that my first book was developed. I realized that no movie or TV show had ever accurately represented the environment of the strip club, so I set out to do exactly that, showing it in all its ugliness. An honest - and because it was honest - harrowing depiction of a world that served no purpose in society; a world that I witnessed really did destroy souls. And that’s what The Sinful Delusion, my first book, written in the style of the New Journalists like Tom Wolfe and Hunter S. Thompson, was about.
I was as surprised as anyone when I found a publisher who was willing to publish the manuscript; I was equally surprised when the book performed really well; I was pleased when it performed well enough that I was able to call up my little brother and tell him he could take that life of poverty crack of his on a long walk off a short pier. I think his response to me was, “Bite me.” For someone as creative as him, that
was his best.
The only problem with writing a book such as The Sinful Delusion was the fact that many readers automatically assumed I wrote about it because I was a strip club patron—a long-time fan of the art of exotic dancing, which, of course, I wasn’t. While I took pride in the book’s success, it did bother me that some would think that, so when my publisher asked me what I wanted to write next, I gave it some thought and figured I’d focus on a subject matter that was as far from strip clubs and stripping as I could get; a subject matter that if I handled it right, would earn me some respect and demonstrate my scope as a non-fiction writer. What is that subject? Funny you should ask.
Growing up in my household, religion was not a big topic. When we were little, my Mother would dress my brother, sister and I up and take us to Church for Easter or Christmas Mass, or something like that. Dad never came, and none of us ever thought to ask him why. As we got older it seemed the only time we were in Church was when someone died or someone was getting married. That’s not to say my family didn’t believe in a higher power, a supreme being or anything like that, but that we didn’t feel it was necessary to frame that belief in one particular religion or need a Church to cement it within our hearts.
Is there a God?
Good question. And, you know what; I can’t say definitively one way or another. I believe there is, as I believe there is a grand design regarding life and someone or something must be behind that grand design. Let me use an example that isn’t personal to me, but I believe illustrates my point.
Wilmer McLean.
You probably have never heard of him. In 1861, he and his family owned a farm near Manassas Junction along the banks of the Bull Run River. It was in his front yard that the first battle of the American Civil War was fought—a war that claimed the lives of 620,000 Americans. It was in 1865 in the remote hamlet of Appomattox, a town in which Wilmer had moved his family to escape the horrors of the war, having bought the Appomattox Court House, that Confederate General Robert E. Lee surrendered his Army of Virginia to Union General Ulysses S. Grant, thus ending the conflict. You could say the war started in Wilmer McLean’s front yard and ended in his front parlor. All of this could be coincidence, but throughout history there have been many such events that can’t help but make you think that somebody is up there pulling the strings and having a little fun with us. The symmetry of it all is amazing.
No, I wasn’t writing a book about the American Civil War, but bring this up, as the topic I did choose surprisingly reflected some of the issues that soon affected my life and turned me down the road to hatred. The book dealt with faith and beliefs and the arguments of both of those from opposing sides. It encompassed the relationship between two of the 19th and 20th Centuries most famous men, but more on that later. It’s a subject I researched exhaustively and one I could go on and on and on about indefinitely, but it only plays a small part in the narrative of my downfall. Let’s instead get to her and how she changed my life.
CHAPTER Four
WHOEVER Placed solitaire on laptops was a genius. I’d been showing up at the cafe Koffee Krisp every day for two weeks; not because I loved coffee that much, although I did, but because of her. I don’t know what it was about her that captivated me; I didn’t need to know. All I knew was that I wanted to meet her, talk to her; what I also knew was that I was also a social coward. I wasn’t smooth; I wasn’t even close to smooth. I knew guys who could just sidle up to her and start a conversation and all would go well for them. I hated those guys. I had, as they say, no game. All I had was time on my hands, a laptop and an ability to consume an inordinate amount of coffee.
So every day, instead of staying home, organizing my research, and properly starting my new book, I traveled to Koffee Krisp, ordered my brew, sat down, opened my laptop and looked like I was consumed by whatever was on the screen, while all the while, sneaking furtive glances in her direction, and taking in her essence. That, in itself was a chore, as once I had her in my sights, I desperately wanted to hold her in my gaze, drinking in her beauty, but if I looked too long, she might notice and be a little disturbed or creeped out. I had to take quick looks, which just weren’t long enough to satisfy my desire to just watch her move around in our little caffeinated world.
Yes, while I tried to perfect being the best coffee shop Peeping Tom I could be—would Dad be proud?—I also had to look busy. There’s no point in pulling out the laptop unless I was going to look busy and engrossed with it. I mean it was the ultimate cliché, pulling out a laptop in a coffee shop and writing, but being a living cliché was what I was willing to become just to be near her. At least a cliché until I worked up the nerve to speak with her, if that ever happened. Despite the task ahead of me, and a deadline, I did very little writing. I used their Wi-Fi to check my email and surf the Internet; when I looked like I was typing or actually writing, I was generally composing my grocery list or a ‘To Do’ list, not actually writing anything of any substance. I’m sure from a distance, however, I looked good and thoughtful as I did so. I was pathetic, but that wasn’t what I was going for, and so long as no one could see the computer screen, that was my little secret.
Despite my desire to observe her, from time to time I did get caught up with my laptop and forget everything else. So, I didn’t see her approach the table beside me and start wiping it down, shortly after the young couple, who had been trying to have a quiet disagreement with one another, left. When I next looked up she was standing there, practically beside me, cleaning the table and looking in my direction, a big smile on her face. I was tongue-tied.
“You look deep in thought,” she said, still smiling.
“Huh?”
Yes, that was the best I was able to come up with. What a Player, right?
“You were looking rather intently at your screen. Something interesting?”
I did my best to recover and channel my smooth. If there was a betting line in Vegas, it was safe money I was going down in flames.
“Just writing,” I offered.
“Really? Book or screenplay?”
She knew the cliché. “Neither. Just my thoughts of the day. That sort of thing.”
Did that sound cool? I don’t know.
“Thoughts? You’re a philosopher.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Well, what’s your thought of the day?”
Talk about being put on the spot. I’d actually been playing solitaire and concentrating a little too intently on the game; I was tired of losing.
“The penny,” I finally managed.
She looked puzzled. I don’t blame her.
“They’re phasing out the penny as currency. Money,” I said.
Jesus, where the hell was I going with this?
“And?” she asked.
Think, THINK, you bastard.
“They say it costs more than a penny to actually make a penny. So they have to phase it out.”
Again, she just looked at me. I don’t think I was wowing her. Actually, the word ‘boring’ came readily to mind.
“Well, what about a penny for your thoughts?” I finally added.
Her puzzled expression suddenly turned into a small smile.
“What is it now? A nickel for your thoughts? I mean, you talk about inflation. The cost of someone’s thoughts has risen five hundred percent, just like that. Now I’ve offered people a penny for their thoughts, and when they told them to me, I have to admit, I felt a little ripped off. I’d wanted a refund. Now, if I have to pay a nickel, my expectations are that much higher. I’m looking for value for my money.”
Surprisingly, her small smile turned into a bigger more engaging smile. It lit up her face.
“This is what you worry about?” she asked.
“Sure. What if someone offers me a penny for my thoughts? That’s not so bad, but a nickel for my thoughts, that’s a lot of pressure. They’re going to expect me to come up with something significant, thoughtful, and meaningful. What if the only th
ing going through my mind at the time is, ‘How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?’”
CRAP. I was trying to engage this beautiful woman with observations about the penny and rambling incoherently about woodchucks. If that was channeling smooth, I was definitely going to die alone. Surprisingly, she laughed.
“You understand my dilemma.”
“Not really,” she said, playfully, “although, based on what you just told me, I would be looking for a refund on my nickel.”
She smiled broadly and moved away, heading back to the counter.
Me?
I was smitten.
The lines of communication were open, and while that would be enough for many men, it was going to take a little bit more before I could actually work up the nerve to ask her out, which I guess makes me more than a little pathetic, or does it? When you think about it, meeting that one person with whom you’re hoping you’ll spend the rest of your life, shouldn’t be so easy. Those guys who can talk easily to a million women, they’re just playing a numbers game, and if they get lucky they find that one woman. They’re not actually putting any thought into it. In actual fact, for the most part, they’re really just looking for a one night stand; a sexual partner and, I guess, in doing so it sometimes turns into something more. Finding true love, well, it shouldn’t be easy; it should be damned hard. When you think you’ve finally met that woman – THE woman – it should knock you back on your feet like a boxer who failed to block an incoming blow to the head. It should be intimidating and frightening. Why? Because it’s a once in a lifetime occurrence - at least hopefully it is. This woman should take your breath away. You should be living in fear of saying or doing something that would get in the way of the two of you developing a relationship. As much as you yearn for the relationship to develop, you should have a healthy fear of it slipping through your grasp.
