by Nairne Holtz
The bar where Romey works is below street level, and Sam halts at the bottom of the stairs when she sees the red neon outline of a naked woman in the window. Only now does the double meaning of the name of the club—The Golden Triangle—sink in. Three guys with moustaches and workboots torpedo past her into the club; one of them turns to grin at her reluctance to enter. She takes a deep breath and marches in after him. She keeps her eyes on the ground and doesn’t realize she has to pay a cover until a jock on steroids grabs her arm and demands five dollars.
Le Triangle d’Or is a 70s throwback. Strings of beads sway against one wall, while another wall is covered with hand-painted murals of swingers playing guitar, smoking dope, and locking their limbs into tantric sex positions. There is a platform at the back with a metallic gold bar from which an attractive, well-muscled Latina hangs sideways, posing like a kid on a jungle gym. As she does nearly naked aerobics to a pop song, Sam stares at the woman’s triceps, not her breasts.
Sam glances at the bartender, but the woman is busy making a batch of cocktails at the other end of the bar. The customers are mostly here alone, chain-smoking. The mirror behind the bar is hazy; Sam can’t remember when she was last in a bar with this much smoke. There is an advantage to the lack of visibility. She doubts any of the men in the room will look at her closely enough to realize she isn’t a guy. She turns away from the bartender in order to check out the chicks. She has never been in a strip club before, and the girls are more varied than she would have thought. While a few women are biker babes with bleached blonde hair and bad silicone jobs, most are not. Sam is surprised by the spectrum of skin colour, age, and body type. There’s a duo of pierced and tattooed girls with shaved heads who are young and junkie-thin in ratty teddies they probably bought at Value Village. When Sam was twenty and between jobs, she shaved her head. Removing her hair made her into someone whom adults were afraid of. Whenever they looked or stepped away from her on the street, she felt two things: safe, and a cool rush of power. Freaking out everyone you know must be part of the reason some girls take their clothes off for money. One of the punkettes cruises Sam whose attention is diverted by the sight of a woman in her forties with short hair dancing on a cube for a rapt man, her wide hips spiralling in his face. While the phrase “soccer mom” comes to Sam’s mind, the older woman is hot. She’s unselfconscious as she rubs her hands over her breasts, as if she is dancing for a lover. She may not love her job, but Sam gets the feeling she doesn’t mind it.
Sam scans the room for Romey but doesn’t see her. Sam doesn’t see any obvious dykes either, so maybe Omar knew what he was talking about when he didn’t even consider hiring her as an escort. Men might rape a woman who competes with them, but they won’t pay for the privilege of watching her remove her clothes.
Sam has to go to the washroom. She tries to tell herself she doesn’t have to pee, that she’s just nervous about seeing Romey. Fuck. Sam does have to go. At the back of the bar, she finds men’s and women’s washrooms. Going into the men’s means less potential hassle, but men’s bathrooms are so skanky. On the other hand, the women’s washroom isn’t likely to be used by many people. The strippers probably have their own bathroom in some other part of the building.
But when Sam opens the door, a cocktail waitress immediately snaps at her in French. Sam can translate: wrong bathroom, buddy. She’s too flustered to remember how to say in French, “I’m in the right place,” so she thrusts her breasts forward as much as she can in her loose T-shirt. When the waitress shoots Sam a dirty look, she knows the woman has figured it out—she’s just making it clear she doesn’t think Sam deserves to be there. Ignoring her, Sam goes into the stall. This bullshit happens to her all the time; once she got tackled by a male security guard. She’s used to it, but it’s still annoying. Back in Toronto, she knew where all the public, single-stall washrooms were.
When she gets out of the bathroom, Sam sees Romey— she’s onstage. The music has changed to raunchy post-punk, and she is wearing a black bra, panties, and red platform sneakers. A black cat mask covers her eyes. She weaves her hands in front of her face as she lip-synchs a song Sam knows only too well: “She Walks on Me” by Hole. After Chloe died, Sam played Hole a lot and not just because the CD was a gift from her sister. The perpetual outrage of both the songs and Courtney Love reminded Sam of Chloe.
Romey struts across the stage, flinging her bra off. Soon she’s not wearing much more than the pout on her lips. Sam can’t take her eyes off the stage. Romey is like certain actresses: watching them brush their hair is interesting. Yet the striptease isn’t sexy. When Romey spanks her ass with a slow-motion slap, a phony smile plastered across her face, it’s as if she’s telling these guys “fuck you” and “pay attention to me.” She’s parodying porno, not being it. Because she’s so good-looking and charismatic, she can get away with the attitude. For her finale, she slithers around on the floor with the same derisive wink and a nod to a song by Tori Amos, who is famous for protesting violence against women. Romey’s performance is a rebuke, but Sam isn’t sure to whom.
After she leaves the stage, the punkettes come on for a Sapphic duo in which they snake their hands over each other. As Sam tries to decide whether they are authentic, she feels a hand on her back. She looks up. Romey is standing beside her with her mask removed, and her eyes are like melting tar. Romey asks, “Did you enjoy my show?”
“Absolutely.” Sam sounds like a pompous idiot. How can she be appreciative without being a pig? While nervously stretching her fingers, she struggles to think of something to say.
The bartender, a woman who was born male, impatiently drums spangled nails on the counter in front of Sam. “Quelque chose a boire? Can I get you something, honey?”
Sam orders a beer and asks Romey what she wants. She tells the bartender to bring her a chocolate martini.
The bartender’s eyebrows are already arched. “Not your usual ginger ale?”
Romey doesn’t answer, just twitches her nose at the bartender, who moves towards a creased twenty dollar bill, which is thrust out, demanding a drink and promising a tip.
“Your last song was a strange choice,” Sam says.
“I enjoy pushing the envelope. One time I showed up in a nun’s habit and the manager sent me home. I told him he was making a big mistake, I would have made him a lot of money, but he wouldn’t listen. If he was French, he would have been like ‘Yeah, right on, fuck the church,’ but, no, he’s Italian, like me.”
Romey is talking very quickly. Is it the adrenaline of getting off stage, or is she, like Sam, feeling nervous? Romey was cool as anything at the party, but then they were both high, so who knows? Sam still can’t think of anything to say. Romey is so close Sam can distinguish the separate fragrances of Romey’s lemony perfume, almond-scented shampoo, and peppery deodorant. Her skin is damp, and Sam wants to lick the sweat from her neck. Romey adjusts her cleavage, exposing the pale moons of her breasts. She tucks a few bills further down her bra, and Sam’s eyes follow the flush of her nipple peeking out of shiny fluffs of material. Sam is aware of two distinct sensations in two different parts of her body: the clunk of her heart in her chest and an ache between her legs. Relax, Sam tells herself, chill. After a moment she asks Romey if she likes stripping.
Romey shrugs. “We call it dancing. Taking your clothes off is only demeaning if you hate doing it but do it anyway— just like any other kind of job.” While the frustration in her voice is real, her words seem rehearsed.
Sam says, “I understand—you’re renting your body, not giving it away.”
The corner of Romey’s mouth dips up. “I see you’ve read the theory.” She continues in a softer tone. “I’m not crazy about lap dancing, but I love being onstage. Used to be you could just table dance, but not these days. Fortunately, I’ve got regular clients that are different from most, young freaks wanting something out of the ordinary and grateful older men who like my jazz numbers and spend a lot of money on me without trying to gra
b me. The men I stay away from are the good-looking ones. Some girls actually date them.”
“But not you?”
“God no. I’m a lesbian.”
“You are?” Sam’s voice cracks.
“Can’t you tell?” Romey reaches over and strokes the top of Sam’s crewcut as if she were an expensive pet.
The bartender reappears with their drinks. Sam pays for them, but neither she nor Romey lift their glasses from the counter. Romey’s hand is still entangled in Sam’s hair. Sam puts an arm around Romey’s waist, pulls her close. “You’re so fucking hot.” Sam has never talked to a girl in such a tacky, obvious way before, or at least not until they were in bed together.
Using her knee to nudge Sam’s legs apart, Romey fits her thigh between Sam’s. Cupping Sam’s ear, Romey whispers, “If you stay in this bar, you’re going to have to give me some cash.”
Sam steps back from her, thinking, you minx. But she reaches for her wallet and pulls out her last twenty, resentful at having to pay for something she always gets for free. Was Romey flirting with her or working her? Sam rolls the bill tight as a joint and plunges it into Romey’s bra with trembling hands. She’s a dyke, and Sam realizes turning straight girls isn’t the hardest game. Doing what they expect is easy, but watching Romey as she grips the bar with her arms and rocks back on her heels, Sam knows nothing about her will be. Romey’s smile fades, and her eyes grow thoughtful, her coquette routine fizzing. She says, “I’ve got to make some money now. Why don’t we see each other on Sunday? Saturday night, I’ve got plans with Omar.”
Sam broods over those plans, even though Romey said she was gay. How often does she see Omar? “I’m working Sunday. How about Wednesday?”
“Okay.”
Romey leans over the bar, providing a great view of her ass, and fishes a pen from somewhere. She scribbles her address and a time on a cocktail napkin, presses it into Sam’s hand.
“I live in St. Henri, not far from you.”
Sam places a hand on Romey’s arm, unwilling to let their conversation end just yet. Sam wants to find out a little bit about Chloe. This time, Romey isn’t going to completely distract her. “I want to ask you something. Do you know if my sister was investigating anything before she died?”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
Should she tell Romey about the postcard? Sam’s instinct is to be a bit coy. “like a conspiracy theory, whether it was true or a hoax.”
“That’s kind of out of left field.”
Sam shrugs.
“Well, she talked a lot about how fucked up governments are. Maybe you should talk to this guy at the anarchist bookstore. Chloe used to volunteer there, and she had this friend, a black guy, who was a conspiracy freak. I saw him there about a year ago so he’s probably still around. I can’t remember his name, although I was the one who went by the store to break the news to him about Chloe.”
“How did you find out my sister died?”
“From Omar. Your father called her work, told them.”
Sam gives Romey’s arm a little squeeze. “Thank you.”
“For what?” Romey tosses her hands in the air, then leans forward to kiss Sam goodnight. Sam backs away, giving a sideways salute with two fingers. Romey turns Sam on way too much. If Romey kisses her, Sam is going to throw her onto the floor.
A middle-aged yuppie approaches Romey to ask for a private dance. With a glance at Sam, Romey nods her assent, then marches off, bills flapping like streamers from her thong. Sam wants to punch the guy’s soft gut. After leaving her beer at the bar, Sam swaggers out of the club. It isn’t Romey’s fault Sam feels so insecure; it’s the homophobic shrapnel lodged in her skin.
Business is slow on Sunday afternoon, so Sam helps Dang prep the vegetables. To peel the garlic, she uses Dang’s technique of banging the cloves against the counter, then rolling the skin between her fingers. She can’t stop thinking about Romey. Sam has never felt this captivated. She always resists getting in too deep, doling out her affection in incremental lumps, stingy cubes of sugar. When she tells the women she sleeps with she doesn’t want a girlfriend, doesn’t want to get close, she isn’t lying. They lie to her when they say that’s fine. She is Player and they are Drama. Sam has always thought being the dumper makes her superior, but now she wonders. like the dumpees, she winds up with nothing. Sam hopes it will be different with Romey.
A waiter scuds into the kitchen and lowers a tray of dishes onto the counter where Sam is working. The double doors to the kitchen swing open again, and one of the Somali busboys rushes in and storms up to the waiter, giving his shoulders a shove. Everyone working in the kitchen looks up. Sam doesn’t know the name of the waiter but has noticed the busboy, Hassan, who has the cheekbones of a model, an aristocratic attractiveness he enhances by ensuring his uniforms of white shirts and black pants are Hugo Boss. While getting a refill of pop one day, Sam caught him peering at himself in the mirror behind the bar.
“Tapette!” Hassan tosses the word at the waiter like a hand grenade. “In my country we put people like you in jail.”
The waiter puts a hand on his hip. “Well, buddy, you’re in Canada now, and we’ve got different laws here.”
“He’s a tapette.” Hassan looks at Sam and Dang for support. “You know what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, he’s gay. Why do you care?” Sam asks. Unspoken sentences swim through her mind: I never knew tapette meant faggot; so am I; fuck you.
The waiter butts in, “If you’re so crazy about pussy why does it bother you that I suck cock?”
Dang waves his chef’s knife in the air. “What’s the problem here?”
Hassan folds his arms across his chest “He tried to offer me to a customer.”
Sam’s curiosity gets the better of her. “What do you mean?”
The waiter smirks. “A customer asked if we had some Black Label beer, and I said, ‘No, but we have black busboys.’”
Sam rolls her eyes at the waiter. He knows better but doesn’t care. Now he’s pretending to massage his crotch while looking at the busboy lasciviously. Hassan gives him the finger before dashing back into the dining area. Returning to her task, Sam sniffs her hands. Dang’s method of peeling garlic leaves a residue; her hands reek of garlic. To take away the smell, she goes to the bar and asks the bartender for some lemon slices to squeeze onto her skin.
Joe hands her a couple of lemon wedges in a square glass, then flicks his head towards the other end of the bar. “Someone here to see you.”
Sam looks over and sees Omar at a table in the back. He’s smoking a cigarette and watching sports on the television screen. Why didn’t he call first? He has her phone number. It’s as if he wants to surprise her, the same way she surprised him, what he called a bitch move. She walks over to him, holding her lemons. “You’re looking for me?”
Omar taps a pillar of ash into an ashtray. “I thought we could have a drink when you finish your shift.”
“I’ll be another twenty minutes,” Sam warns.
As she cleans the Hobart, she wonders why he’s here. Is he going to confess he sent the postcard? Or maybe he’ll tell her what exactly Chloe was up to before she died? Sam knows Omar’s hiding something. She planned to see him again but first wanted to hear what Romey had to say about his relationship with Chloe. It’s like poker—what isn’t chance hinges upon the order in which you make your moves.
When Sam joins Omar, he is talking on his cell. He covers the mouthpiece with his hand and asks her what she wants to drink. Holding up her full glass of Coke, she tells him she’s good for now.
“Nothing else,” Omar barks into his cell. Sam glances over at Joe, sees him hanging up the phone behind the bar. Even though the place is dead, Omar ordered drinks using his cell. How pretentious.
Pale gold afternoon sunlight filters through the leaded glass windows at the front. To keep from being blinded by the light, Sam slightly shifts her chair. When Omar finishes tucking his cell into his pocket,
he asks her how she likes her job.
“More than I thought I would,” Sam says. Working at a place where looking and acting feminine is both impossible and unnecessary is an incredible relief. She didn’t realize how much pressure she felt at her office jobs.
Omar seems completely uninterested in her answer. He lights up a cigarette, blows smoke in her direction. “I had dinner with Romey last night.”
Sam wafts the smoke away with her hand. “She mentioned she was doing something with you.”
“Yeah, I see her regularly because she’s my best friend. And she tells me everything. like she told me you wanted to know if Chloe was investigating a conspiracy.”
Sam examines Omar’s face. “Was she?”
“No.” Omar’s eyes tighten into dark pins. “She just had kooky ideas about things. I might be able to tell you about some serious shit, but Chloe? Nah.” He slowly shakes his head back and forth, then stops. “Someone’s just told you a crazy story. And you don’t want to check up on a crazy story because that means dealing with crazy people.” His knuckles rap the table in front of Sam. “Bad idea.”
She can’t believe it. He came to see her to give her a warning. She didn’t know whether to take the postcard seriously, whether to even believe the political conspiracy exists—now she thinks it’s a possibility.
Omar continues in a more casual tone: “Your sister was a nice girl trying not to be, that’s all.”
Sam sighs. If he’s not going to tell her anything about what Chloe was looking into, maybe he’ll talk about the real issue. “Why would a nice girl kill herself?”
Omar’s cellphone rings. Setting his barely smoked cigarette in the ashtray, he digs his cell out of his pocket and starts speaking in Arabic. From living in multi-culti Toronto, Sam can identify the most common foreign languages, even though she doesn’t understand them. When Joe brings over a beer, Omar doesn’t raise his head. Whoever he’s talking to rates his full attention. Finally, in English, he says, “Okay, Mom, we’ll go to Home Depot. I’ll talk to you later.” He closes the phone, leaves it on the table.
