Pretty Mess

by Erika Jayne

  I got dressed in the dressing room and came out wearing my typical black sweatshirt, jeans, boots, and backpack. The night was over and my hair was in a ponytail, but I still had on my bright red lipstick.

  I met Justine in the parking lot and she said, “Oh, there they are.” Up pulled this van and the door opened. The back of the van had wall-to-wall carpet and captain’s chairs and shit. It looked like Bon Jovi was in there. They were like, “Yo, come on, man. Get on in.”

  I was skeptical. “Are these your friends?” I asked Justine.

  She said, “Yeah, they’re cool. They have a gig in the city. They’re going to drop us off on the way.”

  I was thinking that I’d rather be eating a fruit cup with Lobotomy John than dealing with this scene. There was just something sketchy about this whole plan.

  They were playing music and the vibe was just bizarre. Then the driver said, “We’ve got to stop by my house. I’m just going to run in and get something.”

  We stopped at a house in a typical suburban New Jersey neighborhood, where the houses are all two stories tall, with aluminum siding and dead lawns, and crammed next to each other like passengers on a commuter train. Someone’s girlfriend was out on the street with her friend. The driver slid back the door so his bandmates could get out, and she saw Justine and me sitting there. She screamed, “Oh my God. I knew it. I knew it! I knew you were hanging out with strippers.”

  A fight broke out with the girlfriend and the driver right there in the middle of the street at 3 a.m. I was surprised the neighbors didn’t call the cops, or at least shout out the window for them to shut up.

  “Justine, all of this so we could save twenty-five dollars?” I asked her.

  The whole band got into a fight with this girlfriend and her friend. She shouted, “I knew you were in there with a couple of whores.” She pronounced it in that New Jersey accent that sounds like “whoo-wahs.” They brushed her aside and drove off with us in the back. They were very sweet, but I didn’t need all of this.

  I wanted to tell that girl, “Bitch, I am not a whore. I am just trying to get back to the city. I don’t even want to be doing this job. I hate this entire existence. I don’t know these fucking people. I just want a ride home.” But I didn’t do any of that. I just sat in the back of this carpeted van, hugging my knees and waiting for the fight to be over so I could get home and pass the fuck out.

  Another night I was working at one of the clubs and Anthony, the manager, called me up to the office. He was sexy, only had one eye, and rocked the hell out of an eye patch. Once the door was closed, he said to me, “Erika, what are you doing?”

  I thought I was doing a good job dancing at the club. I said to him, “What do you mean, what am I doing?”

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I’m just trying to make some money to pay my rent. Why?”

  “Where’s your father?” he asked.

  I told him that I didn’t know my father and we didn’t have a relationship.

  “You don’t belong here,” Anthony told me finally.

  At the time, I was offended and confused. But really, Anthony was my gangster angel. He knew I had more to offer than just dancing in his club. He knew I had something else to give, and I wasn’t cut out for this lifestyle.

  I was pretty awful at this gig. I was insulted if the guys didn’t give me money. I thought, Come on, dude. I’m smiling. It’s not a lot of money. Give it up. I never wanted to be there, so I never really put my back into it, so to speak.

  I got fired from a couple of places because I was such an asshole. At the Palace, you had to call to confirm that you were going to work your assigned shifts. I thought that was stupid, so I wouldn’t confirm. My word was my word, so if I said I was going to be there on Friday, I would be there on Friday. After warning me a few times, and me getting sassy with them, they stopped booking me entirely. Can you imagine getting fired from a fucking go-go bar in New Jersey? Do you know how lazy and ill-tempered you have to be to get fired from a gig like that?

  One night at Go-Go-Rama—one of the clubs that would hire as many dancers as they could squish onto the stage—I looked over at Justine and said to her onstage, screaming over some obnoxious music, “This is a dumb concept. We have on stupid bikinis, writhing around, trying to get cash for the rent. This is dumb.” And it was hard because there were so many girls it was impossible to make any money. Don’t get me wrong, my floor work is second to none. If you don’t believe me, watch my “Painkillr” video on YouTube. A lot of the moves I use as Erika Jayne I perfected in New Jersey. Still, as a concept, I thought it was dumb.

  Go-go dancing wasn’t the only moneymaker then, but it was a dependable source of income in a pinch. You knew you were going to make some money at the end of the night, and that was something.

  I wish I had some big, dramatic story about how this stage of my life ended. How one night I was finally fired by some wannabe Mafia boss who was sick of my rebellious ass. Or I was just so tired of the Port Authority, the customers flipping their dentures, Lobotomy John shilling for fruit cups, and all the other bullshit we had to go through, that I walked out in a blaze of glory and never looked back. But honestly, it wasn’t that dramatic. I got a job cocktail waitressing at a little bar in the West Village. It was a lot easier to get to, and I made about the same amount of money while retaining much more dignity. This was also about the same time I started dating the man who would become my first husband and my son’s father, so I didn’t really want to be shaking it at Shakers anymore.

  The reason I don’t like looking back on this period has nothing to do with taking my clothes off or nudity or anything like that. I still take my clothes off today, and I have no problem with it. It’s not a moral judgment. I just wasn’t prepared for the scene, and I was totally outmatched. I remember thinking this was how people got stuck. There was always an aura of sadness that I didn’t like. There was a resignation, and I wasn’t going to let it infect me.

  I never had much occasion to think about that time in my life until Tom and I started flying into Teterboro. Right across the street was Shakers, every time. Each trip to New York, I knew there was going to be that little bit of dread. We would drive by it, and I would have to decide whether or not I was going to tell Tom my story.

  Finally, one day as we were driving past, I decided it was time to come clean. I knew Tom loved me. This wouldn’t make him think any less of the woman I had become in the decade since I finally walked out of that club. As we drove by, I said, “Hey, Tom. See that place over there?”

  Immediately, he knew what was up. “Is that one of the clubs where you worked?” he asked.

  “Yup,” I replied somewhat bashfully.

  “Well, we have to go. Come on, let’s check it out.” We told the driver to turn around, and we headed for the club.

  Now this was a Tuesday afternoon or something like that. Not really prime time for a New Jersey go-go bar. When we walked through those front doors, I felt like I was walking into the past. Everything was the same: the square bar, the lighting overhead, the blue-collar guys drinking beer out of the same green and brown bottles. There was even the same smell, which is what really brought me back.

  Tom and I sat down and got drinks. We watched the one lonely day-shift girl halfheartedly work the stage. She wore all white, and it glowed under the black light. The lighting also made her blond hair glow bright yellow. She looked just like I must have when I was there. She was doing her job, but I’m sure wishing she was somewhere else. Tom asked me about how the clubs work and what I remembered about my time there. I told him the whole story. We didn’t stay that long and honestly, I was happy to leave.

  We got back into the car and headed off toward Manhattan. Tom reached over, grabbed my hand, and looked me right in the eyes. “Look, Erika,” he said. “On the bright side, it only took you ten years to get across the street.” We both burst out laughing.

  He was right, and I think I’m a
better person for it. I’ve never been one to knock where someone else comes from or what they had to do to get where they are today. It’s easy for people to pass judgment. I never like slut shaming or any other kind of shaming. I always want to tell people that when you’re putting a dollar in a woman’s bra, you have no idea whom you’re tipping. You don’t know what is going to happen to anyone or where they’ll end up. I certainly never look down on a woman hustling to make a buck. I’ve been that woman, and all of that hustling makes every buck even more precious.

  I learned the value of a dollar at Shakers. Sitting in the Gulfstream across the street a decade later, I still knew it. That is the real lesson of money. You earn your self-worth working for those stupid dollars. I always dreamed so big that I could imagine one day having my own airplane, even though I didn’t understand there was a private airport across the street from the very spot I was scrounging for tips. That old part of me is always going to be there. Shakers is always going to be greeting me every time I land at Teterboro. It’s an old ghost, reaching out from the murky past. “Remember me?” it asks.

  I always acknowledge, “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  5

  A PLAYDATE WITH EVERY BOY

  When I was in kindergarten, I had a playdate with every boy in my class. My mother used to keep my pink Huffy Thunder Rose bike in the trunk of her car, because I was always off to some boy’s house after school. We would ride bikes, catch turtles, climb trees, and play in the mud. I was a bit of a tomboy, so it made sense to hang out with the boys in my class rather than the girls. But also, let’s just say I have always enjoyed the company of the opposite sex.

  My mom says that I was flirty even as a toddler. I was really social, very open, and showered people with affection. I was always putting on the ritz, picking out short shorts and crop tops that would fashionably express my carefree attitude.

  In second grade, I kissed my first boy. It was just a peck on the lips. The class was watching a movie, and one of the boys in the class and I snuck a kiss while sitting under the desks. I never thought of myself as pretty as a child. There was always someone prettier, blonder, or taller in my class. I didn’t think that my looks set me apart. What I did have was a comfort level with myself, which people found infectious.

  My first serious boyfriend was Jonathan, in high school. He was in the Tech Department at Northside High School and I was in the Musical Theater Department. Jonathan was not only hot but also incredibly bright and always made honor roll. He had deep blue eyes and was a junior, whereas I was only a freshman. I think I caught his eye on one of those Northside spring break trips to Europe and we got together at the end of that year. He was fun and a little wild, but a really great guy and treated me well. Both my grandmother and mother loved him.

  I lost my virginity to him when I was fourteen. We were in his bedroom at his parents’ house and the Eagles’ “Hotel California” was playing on the stereo. Was that a little foreshadowing of my West Coast life to come? He wasn’t a virgin, but he wanted to be a gentleman and not push me. I was ready and I had to convince him of that. Jonathan is still a great guy, and we are in touch to this day.

  While Jonathan was handsome, I don’t really have a physical type. I’m too enamored with male energy to really care if a guy is short or tall, blond or brunette, hairy or smooth. I’ve always loved men. I love the way they smell, I love the way they taste, I love the way they feel. So, physically, my relationships have been all over the map. I had some really gorgeous boyfriends and some really nerdy boyfriends.

  What I am most attracted to are intelligent, aggressive, successful men. Beautiful men are great, and God bless them, but that’s not who I would choose as a partner. Another similarity among the men I choose is that both of my husbands are Italian. I always like to joke that I marry Italians, date Jewish guys, and as for the rest—I’m going to keep that to myself.

  There’s only one time I had a same-sex encounter. To be fair, it was more of a three-way situation. An ex-boyfriend I kept in touch with had married an acquaintance of mine. He was about six feet tall, muscular, educated, and professional. She was a light-skinned Caribbean beauty with golden highlights in her dark hair. They were a handsome couple. He called me and asked me to go out to dinner with them on Valentine’s Day.

  We had a great time, kind of like we were on a little date. They seemed like they were testing the waters with me and driving the conversation toward sex. He had already hinted they were into this kind of thing, so I wasn’t totally shocked. I knew this might be on the agenda, and I was okay with it. We went back to their place after dinner and had quite the memorable Valentine’s Day.

  It was a very positive experience, I had a great time with the two of them, and it satisfied my curiosity.

  Among all of my friends, I have the most boring sex stories. But in my defense, I hang around with a bunch of libertines. I’ve almost always been more of a relationship type. I got married and had a child at twenty. Then I married again at twenty-seven. Even between marriages I almost always had a boyfriend, so I wasn’t really playing the field. I enjoy having a partner. I enjoy companionship, having a best friend—all of that wrapped up into one.

  I met my first husband, Tom (but we’ll call him Tommy to avoid any confusion with my current husband), during one of the rare single periods of my life. I moved to New York when I was eighteen. I was going to auditions, working, and going out to clubs in Manhattan. My high school girlfriend Justine and I went out like it was our job. There was one month where we didn’t see the sunlight at all. We’d wake up late, audition, and then go out to the club. As the sun was coming up, we would go pass out at her place.

  Like a good New Yorker, I was always dressed in black: black jeans, black top, black leather jacket. It was the late eighties and early nineties, so we were at Palladium, Larry Tee’s Love Machine, Red Zone, Twilo, MK, The World, Sound Factory, and all the legendary superclubs. It was the era of the club kids and one of the best times of my life. I was doing all of the hedonistic partying that most kids get out of their systems in college.

  One of our favorites was the China Club, which had a legendary Monday night party. Back then, it was in the basement of the Beacon Hotel on 73rd Street on the Upper West Side. It became known as a cool hangout for musicians who might spontaneously stop by and play. We’re talking people like Stevie Nicks, David Bowie, and Stevie Wonder. Madonna even had Thanksgiving dinner there one year.

  Monday night was their biggest night, and you wouldn’t even get through the door if you weren’t cool enough. This was the era of the door policy in New York, way before bottle service took over. Now, anyone can pay their way to get into a nightclub. Back then, if you didn’t look right, you wouldn’t get past the bouncer.

  The great thing about the China Club was the crowd was always the perfect mix. It was black and white, gay and straight, rich and poor; it was just the coolest of the cool. You’d have the downtown stockbrokers mixing with the sexy uptown Dominicans who always had the best blow, which they called “fish scale.”

  We saw Mike Tyson, Rick James, Michael Jordan, Guns N’ Roses, and Eddie Murphy all hanging out at the China Club. Justine texted me recently and reminded me of the time we were at the China Club and she could have gone home with a certain rapper turned underwear model, but didn’t. She’s still mad at herself for not pursuing it. I am, too!

  I wasn’t going after any celebs, though. I was after the DJ. He was a tall, muscular Sicilian with the kind of streetwise swagger that only native New Yorkers can muster. He was an absolute piece. I pointed him out to Justine and said, “He’s so sexy to me.”

  “Well, you know him,” Justine said.

  “Um, I don’t think so,” I said.

  “No, you know him,” she said. “I swear.”

  To this day, I think that Justine was absolutely nuts. At the time, he had recently broken up with the famous Penthouse Pet named Sandi Korn. (She later dated Donald Trump, and he convinced her to change
her name to Sandra Taylor.) I noticed him way before he noticed me. He had no reason to. I was some skinny, loudmouthed kid from the South. He had just gotten out of a relationship with a girl whose poster was on the wall of every horny teenager jerking off in America.

  I don’t remember exactly how, but after seeing him around the club for a while, I eventually ended up with his phone number on a little slip of paper. We had something in common, because I was performing and making music, and he was playing music at the club. That was the start of the conversation right there.

  I was nineteen and he was twenty-six. Tommy was raised right, and he really knew how to treat a woman. His father died when he was young. His mother was in the garment industry, so he helped her with the family business. DJing was just a side gig he started as a teenager in clubs around town, but he kept doing it mostly because he enjoyed it. Like all of my boyfriends, he was very smart. He even skipped a grade because he was so bright.

  While dating, we were doing all of those classic New York activities: going to the theater and museums, walking in Central Park, and having dinner in the nicest places. Of course, we were also going out to the clubs a lot. I kept visiting the China Club every Monday so I could hang out with him.

  One night he was DJing and some record executives were in the crowd, as well as a few of Tommy’s old DJ friends. He came out and said hi to all of us, then he said, “You know what? I’m going to get in the booth and play all old disco shit, just because.” He had all of his old records on him from the seventies. He just started playing all the classics that he grew up loving. Everyone in the club fucking lost their minds, and we danced even harder and longer that night than we usually did.

  After about six months of dating, I moved in with Tommy. I wanted to take the relationship to the next level, but I was also ready to move out of the loft space over Renee’s kitchen.