The Dirt Chronicles

by Kristyn Dunnion

  But Digit isn’t. Why should Ferret be?

  “What if it’s too late?” My voice sounds small. Not mine at all.

  “It’s not. But we need to get cracking. Darcy says the club has security cameras. Maybe we can get the tapes, get the place busted.”

  “Busted by who? Cops took her, cops sell the girls, and cops own the fucking club!”

  “They can’t all be in on it,” says Cricket.

  “Oh yeah? Those blue brothers only protect each other.”

  “Oh.” He looks down at his fair trade sneakers.

  I can feel the King’s big hands closing around my throat, stopping my air, the way they did on the sidewalk right in front of Ferret. The way everything closed in on me while he hissed into my ear, “I’m gonna rip you apart. You don’t even know pain yet. I’m your worst nightmare, you hear me?”

  “Oreo. You listening?”

  I shake my head. It’s so hard to pay attention to the sounds coming out of other people’s mouths these days.

  “I was saying, make sure you don’t do anything dumb tonight. Case the joint, but don’t be obvious. If you can send Ferret a message, that’s a total bonus, but don’t go all He-Man.”

  I blink a few times.

  “No crying, Oreo. It took twenty minutes just to cover your black eye. I didn’t steal enough shadow, so don’t mess them up. If you see the King, get the hell out. Promise?” He swipes at my face with some powder from the pile of stuff on the table. He waves a lip gloss at me. “For later.”

  “Shit.” I finish my drink. I stand up. I don’t know what I’d do if I saw the King face-to-face right now. I might surprise everyone and bawl.

  “We still got to do your hair.”

  I slump on the floor at Cricket’s feet. He combs my hair out of the long braid I always wear.

  “Ferret needs us. So get in there, get some dancer cred. This is an official undercover operation, Oreo. You make your brotha-from-anotha-motha proud! Chin down, honey. Work it like you own it, like you rentin’ all night long.”

  Cricket snaps his painted fingers and moves like liquid across the tiled floor. He makes it look so easy.

  Act Two: Strip Club

  Hours later, I’m at Fillies in the dark reddish glow. Lights flash on the bar and the stage. Mirrors reflect my angry face from all angles. I gasp. With all the makeup, with my waist-length hair hanging loose, I look like my dead mother. Dance hits pound through the space, through my chest. I’d do anything to slip the DJ a decent playlist. The manager is a creep show wearing a stinky Hawaiian shirt and bad toupée, right out of a cartoon. He points me to the dressing room—a decrepit hole with a couple of toilets, rusted sinks, bad lighting. It smells like dirty crotch and a side order of bourbon.

  “Carly, give her the tour,” he says. He waits for me to take off my jacket. He frowns at the bear clan tattoo that covers one shoulder. I stick my chest out further. He grunts, gives a slight nod, and leaves.

  The other girls ignore me. They’re different degrees of naked, white and skinny, black and skinny, lots of brown girls, too. They wear thongs, leather, and lace. They do their makeup, drink, and gossip.

  “Come on, hon,” says an older blonde woman. Carly. “Let’s get you settled.”

  Her voice reminds me of Auntie Tam: gravel and whiskey. She smiles a wide, white set of teeth with a frosted pink frame. When she strolls down the dingy hall in her fringed cowboy boots, I watch the sway of her womanly hips. She points out the important stuff—the stage, the regulars, the private booths where you make the real coin. She tells me to sit and watch the experienced dancers. I ask her what’s upstairs, and her face shuts tight, a garage door closing. She leaves. One after the other, girls attack the stage like it’s a pommel horse in gym class. They pull fancy tricks, slide into splits; they hump the pole and bounce their dimpled bums in customers’ faces.

  I’m not playing that game, I decide. I wouldn’t even know how.

  Around midnight I lurch on stage for my very first solo. I wobble in the stolen shoes. A third drink loosens my limbs, but Cricket’s pill gives me the courage to get up in front of everyone. Bottles and glasses clink through the din of voices. My music doesn’t start; the strung-out DJ misses another cue. My legs shake. I flick my long hair and inhale deeply. Catcalls from the audience knot my stomach.

  I’m dancing for Ferret, I tell myself.

  Finally, my song starts. The droney doom metal matches my oxy groove. I close my eyes and let the music tell me how to move. Slowly, I snake my arm above my head. I roll my neck and my long hair tickles my bare shoulders. My body undulates. I roll my shoulder and peer over it toward the crowd, lashes lowered. It’s impossible to see anything past the row of bright lights. There are shadows at the edge of the stage, but that’s all. I picture Ferret out there in the club, watching. Each step brings me closer to my memories: Ferret smiling and twirling at the Factory dance party, Ferret’s soft skin, Ferret writhing beneath me. I’m on stage and at the same time, I’m far away from this terrible place. I’m back at the Factory, before the raid, curled in our nest.

  The song ends. I’m lying on the stage touching myself. I roll over and notice the money on the stage. The floor feels cool on my skin. Part of me wants to sink into it, just melt through it and disappear. The other part wants to count money and buy another drink.

  A white man leans forward with a fifty dollar bill in his outstretched hand. Half a week at the rooming house. I crouch, both hands filled. I am an animal on the road, a car bearing down upon me, sad eyes for headlights, soft hands for a grill. The next dancer, an athletic blonde, is already cleaning the pole with anti-bacterial wipes. I grab the bill and the rest of the money. I stomp down the rickety stairs to the change room.

  “Song’s too long, Pocahontas,” says the manager.

  I imagine stabbing his fat gut as I towel off. Instead I check my makeup in the mirror above the sink.

  “And don’t get weird on stage. This ain’t no art bar.”

  I ignore him and apply more lip gloss, something I haven’t worn since I was a closeted fourteen-year-old, back on the Rez.

  It’s after one a.m. I’m alone in a dark corner. No sign of the King, no sign of Ferret. The dancers won’t talk. There’s nothing but rat shit and empties in the basement—and a locked furnace room. Another backstage locked door might lead upstairs. One big bouncer reamed me out when he found me fiddling with it. If I had my tools, I’d pop both open in a heartbeat. Meanwhile, I’m terrible at this other job: flirting with men, crawling on their laps to get them hard. All I want is to beat the crap out of them.

  “Hey, kiddo.” It’s Carly, sidling up with two drinks. “How you doing?”

  “My feet hurt and I want to go home.”

  She smiles and hands me a glass.

  “No thanks,” I say. “I’m trying to not get wasted.”

  “Relax, it’s water. That bozo over there thinks he bought us gin tonics.” Carly raises a glass and blows a kiss to the bald lump of a man who pumps his arm feverishly in return. “I get tap water and split the difference with the waitress.”

  “Smart. Thanks.” We sip while a girl twirls around the pole to Bon Jovi. Wanted dead or alive.

  “Bozo would like a lap dance with you after,” she says.

  “I’d rather give him a vasectomy.”

  Carly laughs, a scratchy cackle. “Don’t mean to pry. Lord knows we all have our reasons, but this doesn’t seem like your kind of place.”

  I look at her: fake tan, streaked hair, boob job, glow-in-the-dark booty shorts. I see manicured hands with a couple of age spots. Foundation caked in tiny crow’s feet at the edge of mascara-framed eyes. She’s been around the block. I decide to tell her the truth. “I’m not really a dancer.”

  “No shit.”

  “I’m looking for my girlfriend. I think she’s upstairs.”

  Carly moves in closer. “This a joke?”

  “No.” I stare her down. I wonder if she’ll rat me out to th
e fat jerk manager. “She’s shorter than me, white, got blue dreads. She’s pretty. Punk pretty.”

  Carly shakes her head. “I don’t know half of what goes on up there, but none of it’s good.”

  “The locked door backstage goes upstairs, right?”

  “That’s one way.” She scans the bar carefully. “This is serious, kiddo.”

  “No shit.”

  She nods her chin. “There’s a camera’s right there. Not sure if there’s actual tape running. Be hard to get up there without that big goon noticing. He’s not friendly. But he’s not the worst.”

  The stage light follows a girl doing flips. She lands in a bridge with her legs spread wide, front and centre.

  “Do you know the King?” I say it straight up, no emotion.

  Her eyes narrow. “A girl would be smart to stay the hell away from him.”

  “My girlfriend never had a choice.”

  She doesn’t take her eyes off mine. She could be protecting him, or warning me, I can’t tell. Carly leans against the bar ledge. She looks away. I wonder if this conversation is over.

  “I don’t want to get you in any trouble. Sorry.”

  She looks at me again. “Sure about this? No good will come of it.”

  I nod.

  “A real James Dean, aren’t you?” She gives me a sad smile. Carly finishes her water. “I’d try tomorrow. Earl—the King—doesn’t usually come in on weekends.” She points a manicured finger to the main bar. “Wait staff are busier, and security spends more time circulating. They’ll be distracted. I’ll do some pussy shots by the DJ booth at the end of my first routine, draw the light. Not sure how you’ll get through without a key. You better hustle. Manager finds out, you’re done for. And I don’t mean fired.”

  “Thanks, Carly.”

  “You be careful. I mean it.” There’s a frown line on her brow that isn’t good for business. She squeezes my forearm. “Hell, I’m gonna worry about you, now. I’m gonna need a real drink after all.”

  It’s four a.m. when the cab Carly called stops in front of the rooming house. The driver jots something down as I get out. He peels away, leaving me in the street wearing lingerie and a jacket Carly lent me. My regular clothes and boots disappeared from the locker room. Carly says one of the dancers stole them, like a hazing ritual. My key gets stuck in the lock. I yank on the doorknob. Someone gallops down the stairs. The door rips open, almost from its hinges.

  “Ohmygodyou’refinallyhome.”

  I follow Cricket upstairs in the dark. The hall light is burned out, so we feel our way along the disgusting walls. Cricket is wired. “You know, there are a lot of freaks living here. They’ve been bugging me for smokes. One guy tried to give me mouldy salami.” He shudders. “He stuck slices under the door!”

  Inside our ugly room I unbuckle the hated shoes and drop them: One, two.

  “Plus I was getting worried about you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I was. I was worried you’d meet some hot guy and decide to go straight and make babies instead of come back and pay for this luxury room with your stripper tips.” He smiles charmingly.

  “No worries there.” I think of the blobby, faceless men from the club: jocks, gangsters, pervs. They’re not even real people. Just lonely creeps.

  Cricket counts my money while I rub my swollen feet.

  “Wow. You’re rich.”

  “This girly stuff is hard work. I don’t even know how to lap dance, by the way. I actually fell off a chair trying.”

  “Really?”

  “I couldn’t take his money, it was that bad. I ended up shaking hands with the dude.” I comb my hair with my fingers and quickly braid it back the way I normally wear it.

  Cricket snorts. “We can practice, Butch-tard. Did you make any friends?”

  “As if,” I say, yawning. “Those broads are not stripping for the sisterhood. One was nice.” Carly’s face and her sugar-rough voice come back to me. She’s hot, in a not-my-type kind of way.

  Cricket folds a few bills into his own pocket. “Choreographer’s fee,” he says sweetly. “Still got to pay for the stash I dropped.” He puts the rest in a pile at my feet. “You’re going make lots of money if you get this right.”

  “I’m going to find Ferret if I get it right.”

  “Did you see the King?”

  I shake my head. I tell him what little I got from Carly.

  “Well, that’s a start. Maybe tomorrow we’ll get upstairs.”

  The thought of going back to that place makes me nauseous. “I didn’t learn anything. We don’t even know if Ferret’s there. My feet are killing me, I got molested all night by gross dudes, and probably got a fucking STD from the furniture.”

  “Not if you wore a condom,” jokes Cricket.

  “Jackass.”

  Another night without Ferret. She could be anywhere. The enormity sinks into my bones. How could Ferret be held in the same evil place I’d been all night, with the sleazy manager and those mean girls? Wouldn’t I sense her? I gag and choke down the bile. I punch the wall as hard as I can. The drywall buckles into a hole slightly larger than my fist. My hand throbs. Someone bangs back from the other side.

  “Easy, girl.”

  I lie on the dirty floor and press my ragged knuckles into my eye sockets. The familiar rage burns my veins, eating me inside out.

  Cricket says, “Shh. I promise we’ll find her. Tomorrow.”

  But what happens to her tonight?

  Act Three: Break and Enter

  Light fills our curtainless room. Dust floats in the sunshine, whirling about, going nowhere. It makes me think about my life in a depressing way, like I’m following the broken footsteps of so many women in my family. It’s like we just keep falling into the same shitty circumstances, like nothing will ever change for us.

  A brown spider spins a web inches from my face. Hello, Grandmother. Her legs keep working on the fine thread, and that makes me feel better.

  “Morning, sunshine,” says Cricket. We’re lying side by side on a pile of dirty clothes.

  I groan. “Already?” I had been dreaming of long-ago happy times in Phoebe’s kitchen up north: Phoebe and Aunt Sue, Auntie Tam, me, and my mom were making fry bread, whitefish, wild rice. In the dream, they were trying to tell me something. But what? The words are gone.

  Cricket says, “Maybe some punk rock will help.”

  “Ow.” I’m sore from sleeping on the floor, everything hurts from wearing those killer heels all night, from dancing—if you can call it that. I’m dry-mouthed and achy from the painkillers, the vodka. I roll over carefully. “We don’t have music.”

  “Oh, yes we do!” Cricket shakes a CD. “You fixed that box, whatever you did. Last night, while you were at the club, I went back to the squat. I got so excited about the money I forgot to tell you. Cop tape is all over the place, shit’s trashed. A pipe broke, there’s water everywhere. But I found some clothes and music. Isn’t that awesome? No drugs, though.” He presses play and the anarcho-punk Dirt CD fills the ugly space. Cricket shouts the chorus to “Deaf, dumb, and male!”

  I shut it off. “Did anyone see you?” I can’t believe his stupid grinning face.

  “Naw. The cop out front was reading porn. Never even noticed.”

  “You brought back music?”

  “You love this CD!”

  “Why didn’t you get my fucking tool kit? My picks, my cutters? Fuck, Cricket. That’s the shit we need if we want to rescue Ferret. I can’t pass as a stripper—I’m not fooling anyone.” I want to punch his lights out.

  Cricket ejects the CD. “I found your pants. I brought them for you.” His voice is pinched and clipped, like an uptight little jerk, like he might cry womanly tears all over me. He tosses a bag beside me.

  Fucking baby.

  “At least you got that right. I can’t be walking around Gerrard Street in this.” I pull at the stupid lingerie I’m still wearing.

  “You can have my other sneakers,” he
says, setting them on the floor near me. “Or just a buy a new pair with all your money.”

  “We’ll need that money to get out of town or get settled, asshole.” He has two pairs of designer shoes from our wreck of a home, and nothing that we actually need. Food. Tools. Supplies.

  “You don’t have to be such a bitch.” He’s crying, as predicted. “I’m going dumpstering,” he blubbers, and slams the door behind him.

  I lie there fuming. Stupid spoiled Cricket can bloody well go home if he wants. It’s not like I have a rich family to bail me out, or a beautiful house to run to. My mom and Aunt Sue are dead. Bam. Both killed on New Year’s Eve. A two-car collision, two dead women; one drunk asshole walks away from the wreck. Tam took it even harder than me. Our family cabin couldn’t hold us with all that grief. Last I heard, she was living rough in Winnipeg, trying to forget. She ran west and I came south, leaving Sue’s girlfriend Phoebe to deal with it all.

  I breathe deeply. I’m more alone than I like to admit. Suddenly, the thought that Cricket might leave is scary. And that I might somehow deserve it, for how I’m treating him.

  Inside the bag are my pants, an old black pair, covered in patches, comfortable and familiar. Mine. Another thing stares back at me. Ferret’s favourite hoodie. It’s covered in band patches, pins, and buttons; it’s customized with metal accessories and spikes along the edge of the hood. She worked so hard to make it perfect, her most prized possession. I clutch it and inhale her scent from the fabric: a hint of patchouli, something like oranges and vanilla mixed together, and there—there! Her earthy, tangy skin smell underneath it all: Ferret.

  I let loose for the first time since the party. Hot tears roll down my face. Snot drips. I weep, holding the hoodie to my face. Smelling her is a shovel hit on the head. I hear her low voice, see her beautiful face with its sharp cheekbones, those big brown eyes, full lips—gone. I bawl until there’s nothing left. Then I pull the sleeves over my hands, the hood on my head, and zip it all the way up. I pretend she’s right with me, spooning.