by B. N. Toler
“You coming?” Esther pats my shoulder with her plump, sweaty hand. “Knock em dead.” She nods with encouragement as she begins to bellow out phlegm-filled coughs. She must smoke like three packs a day. I’m expecting her to hack up a lung any day now.
As I make my way to the stairs that lead up to the stage, Alina picks up her bra and scurries towards me. She carefully makes her way down the stairs in her three inch heels and winks at me with her fake lashes. “It’s all yours.” She beams her magnificent smile.
I smile back as I climb up the stairs to the stage. My song, “Mony Mony” by Billy Idol starts playing. “Here she is. The one. The only, Blakely!” Our D.J. Mike announces. Okay, my stripper name, not the hottest ever, I know. I threw it out to Rick, the owner, as a joke, but to my dismay he let me keep it. I guess I could’ve gone with something like Destiny, but I dare to be different.
I prance my way on stage to the rhythm of the song, reminding myself to smile as I go. For the most part, I am severely uncoordinated and have no rhythm. My brother Whit once described me as the whitest person ever. When I started stripping, I tried to imitate women from movies like Flash Dance and Striptease, but I’m afraid I did them a grave injustice. Fortunately for me, men who come to strip clubs, for the most part, seriously only care about two things and it’s not your brains or charming personality. I’m not extremely well endowed, but I’m adequate. I really don’t work out, which I can get away with because I’m only twenty-four, so my body looks pretty good. I used to be very shy when it came to my body, but now I’m okay in my own skin. It’s a mind over matter type thing.
I focus hard on my balance because I’ve tripped twice since I’ve been here, and it was no less than mortifying. The second time, I sprain my ankle and had to be carried off of the stage. Of course being topless at that moment, only added to my embarrassment.
When the song ends, I collect my money and quickly leave the stage, relishing the fact I only have one more dance to go before I’m off.
As I make my way back to the dressing room, Rick steps in front of me. This is a fun little thing he does to get close up so he can stare at my mostly exposed breasts—I wear pasties. Beads of sweat cling to his enormous forehead, and his comb-over is plastered to his scalp. I would tell you what a pervert he is, but as you know he owns a strip club, so it’s kinda implied. When he first started doing this, I would hold my chest in my arms to cover myself. Now I let it all hang out because I know I can handle him. Besides, being in the boss’s good graces keeps me in the best shifts, so I do what I have to do.
I touch Rick briefly, and drain energy from him.
His body lurches slightly and he slouches as his shoulders drop.
I smile to myself, enjoying the rush of his energy as it surges through me, and quickly maneuver around his tall, thin body to make my way to the dressing room. Rick has never touched me or said anything inappropriate, but I know what he thinks, and he is certainly no gentleman.
“Ricky baby! Are you alright?” Esther asks as she approaches him. Rick’s mother helps run the club. Rumor has it she danced once herself, but it’s hard to imagine given that she’s about sixty pounds overweight and stands just under five feet tall.
“I’m okay,” Rick responds like a small child.
I return to the dressing room and find Alina putting on her next costume which is basically another color bra and panties. “How did you do?” She smiles.
“Eh, eighty bucks.” I shrug.
“Slim pickins tonight.” She shakes her head, frustrated.
“Tell me about it. After I pay Rick for my stage time I’ll be lucky to leave with a hundred bucks tonight.” I plop down in my chair and gaze in the mirror. “I still can’t believe I’m doing this,” I sigh.
“Hey, you have a job.” She reminds me. Alina, the diehard optimist. She sits down beside me and our eyes meet in the reflection of the mirror.
“What’s wrong?” I touch her arm gently, noting her expression of defeat.
“Same ole.” She sighs.
“How is she?” I guessed that Ella is no doubt weighing heavy on her mind.
“We go for an MRI tomorrow.”
“I’m sure it will be fine.” I smile reassuringly.
“I hope so.”
“I’d love to meet her, Alina.” I stand and face her. If I could just meet her, I could heal her.
“Yeah, that would be nice. Maybe sometime next week, huh?” She smiles looking up at me.
“Yeah, just let me know. I’ll wear clothes.”
When I finally leave the club, I meander slowly down the sidewalk, allowing my mind to go numb. I have a healing appointment in the morning and really need to get home, but I can’t seem to force myself to move any faster.
Healing for money is one of the few perks to our gift. My aunt paid our bills by healing. She called herself a holistic healer. The world is thick with frauds claiming they possess the gift to heal, but she was the real deal. Our gift doesn’t require any special song and dance, but people these days expect some kind of show, so she obliged. She would light candles, play music, and even bring a rain stick. Lucy always joked it was, Healing and a Show.
We are in the business of stealing energy. We take from the strong and give to the weak. Healer Robin Hoods. Energy radiates through every human being and we healers can hear it. Its vibrations and pitches indicate a person’s level of energy. When the vibrations and pitch are consistent, they are a good source of energy to pull from. In regards to healing someone, if a person’s pitch is consistent with the vibrations, even if they are low, he or she can be saved. But sometimes the pitch alone will take on what sounds like screeching which tells us we cannot interfere. Lucy said it’s death warning us not to interfere.
Lucy taught us how to listen and showed us how to pull energy from one person and push it into another. It’s much like sucking air through a straw. The energy vibrates within us while we hold it. To share it with another, we must touch them and release it, similar to exhaling, but through our bodies. Like most things unique and special in life, there is a catch. We can’t save everyone.
I pull the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, relishing how comfortable my jeans and tennis shoes feel after I’ve danced in three inch heels all night. Most people would run through this neighborhood at two-thirty in the morning, but I can take care of myself.
I turn to see if Keiffer, one of the young bouncers at the club, is following me home as he has before, but I don’t see him. I never told him I knew he followed me sometimes, because I think it is truly chivalrous of him to do it and not expect any credit for it. Chivalry is not something you see much these days, especially where I work.
As I enter the Quickie Mart, the young Asian man who works the cash register most nights nods to me, but continues his conversation on his cell phone.
I nod back with a smile and head towards the back of the store to grab a Coke, my one true addiction. I drink one every morning. After I grab my beverage from the cooler in the back, I snatch a bag of Doritos, and notice a very pale, thin lady flipping through a copy of Vogue near the paper section. Reading a magazine at two-thirty in the morning at a gas station in the hood is odd enough, but her black suit is what makes her seem most out of place. Her suit is cut well, accentuating her small frame. Her blonde hair is pulled back tight in a ponytail. She reminds me of the characters in the movie the Matrix.
I make my way towards the front of the store, watching her in my peripheral vision, when a young, black man stumbles through the entrance, wearing a puffy black coat and beanie. He staggers like he’s drunk, but no one else seems to notice.
The young Asian man, still yacking away on his cell phone in his native tongue, doesn’t notice the man when he approaches the counter.
I can’t say why exactly, but I watch the man as he stands at the counter, my eyes glued to him. Every hair on my body stands up on end. Alarms ring in my head, screaming danger, but I remain frozen.
The mocha
-skinned man who may be thirty, digs inside of his over-sized puffy coat and pulls out a handgun.
My amygdala kicks into high gear and slows time to a snail’s pace. In my mind I yell, “Look out!”, but I’m pretty sure it sounds of nothing, but grunts.
The cashier is completely blind-sided when the man shoots him in the leg. He drops his cell phone and yells out “fuck” in his native tongue; at least I think that’s what he says. I don’t know what language he speaks, nor do I know anything other than a little French that I learned in high school, but I think the word fuck might be a standard word shouted in all languages when one gets shot. It would certainly be my first choice word.
I don’t even realize I’ve dropped my items until I hear them hit the floor. The gunman snaps the gun in my direction and our eyes lock. Running should be my first reaction, but in the brief moment our eyes meet, I recognize something. The panic of the moment shifts briefly as I stare at him, and question him with my eyes, “Do I know you?”
His eyes dart to the side awkwardly, then back to me. His jaw tenses and he raises his arm to level the gun in his hand to my face.
I squint as if this will help me remember where I’ve seen him before and just as I feel like I’m on the verge of figuring it out a shot sounds off. The gunman falls to the ground like a ton of bricks.
My amygdala must be on a smoke break because that felt like it happened in the blink of an eye.
The cashier holds a shotgun with trembling hands, his face white as snow, sweat glistening on his forehead. The shotgun must have been hidden under the counter.
I quickly kick the hand gun away from the gunman and it skids across the brown tiled floor. The gunman’s eyes are closed and he appears to be unconscious.
The cashier’s chest heaves up and down, but he remains still as stone, frozen in shock.
“Call 911!” I yell.
My voice seems to unthaw him because he drops the gun and limps behind the counter, mumbling words I don’t understand.
The odd woman with pale skin watches me, still holding the same magazine, but makes no movement to help.
I quickly assess the room, trying to determine who is hurt worse. Obviously the gunman is hurt worse, but I decide the cashier who saved my ass a minute ago will get my attention first. I run behind the counter, remove the cashier’s belt, and wrap it around his thigh tightly. His leg is drenched in blood, but using the belt as a tourniquet seems to slow down the bleeding. “Hold this tight!” I yell at him while he speaks in broken English on the phone with the dispatcher. He nods, pulls at the belt and leans against the counter.
I run back to the man on the floor. A puddle of blood has pooled around him and his energy is slipping away. There is no one in the store I can pull energy from other than Miss Vogue who still hasn’t moved a muscle to help me. “Can you help me?” I shout to her.
She still doesn’t move. Instead, her lips twitch into a smirk. Why is she smiling?
I turn the man on his side so I can pull his jacket off to see how badly he is hurt. “Help me, please!” I shout to the lady holding the magazine. I try to connect to her, but there is nothing there.
The Asian man yells on the phone, his voice becoming less animated. He will be no help to me.
I glance back to the woman and cast the line of my proverbial energy fishing line, praying to connect to her, but I get nothing.
The gunman pulls my face down to his, whispers in my ear and releases me.
Suddenly, a sharp pain, like a knife stabbing me in my head, hits me, but disappears in seconds. I blink until my vision returns and look down at the man. I stare at him, confused by his words, “It’s time to go home.”
He gazes up at me through half closed lids, and nods once, as if confirming that I heard him correctly.
I want to ask him what he means, when his eyes flutter shut again, and I realize he’s about to die. I slap him hard across the face, hoping to awaken him, leaving a bloodied hand print on his cheek. But nothing happens. I stare at my blood covered hands. I’ve never seen this much blood before. I’m surprised I’m not disgusted by it. In fact, I’m actually intrigued. The gunman’s energy suddenly plummets and I’m snapped out of my train of thought, and kicked back into the here and now. To save the gunman, I will have to do what I was told never to do. I will have to use my own energy. I place my hands on his face and push all of my energy into him. This will only be enough to keep him alive until he reaches the hospital, where hopefully the doctors can save him.
His pulse increases as the strange woman that wouldn’t help me walks out of the door. Dizziness swarms my head as I push my energy into the gunman. Police sirens blare in the background. A moment later, everything goes black.
***
“Foolish.” Lucy sits beside my bed shaking her head as she knits. Her short, grey hair is held back with a headband. Her clear wrinkle-free face focuses on her hands.
I glance around, taking in the surroundings, and I know I’m dreaming because I’m in the room I had when I was twelve and we lived in Philadelphia. The purple bedspread I had for years growing up covers the bed, and my ‘N Sync poster hangs on the back of the door.
“Yeah, I know,” I reply half asleep. “What was I supposed to do? Let him die?”
“Well, he was going to kill you until the cashier stopped him.”
“I had to save him. You know that.”
“Right,” she snorts, as if she’s disgusted with my reply.
I watch her for a moment. Something is off about her. She is not the comforting version of my aunt that my subconscious usually provides for me. “So what now, Aldo?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you saved him for a reason. What now?”
“I saved him because I had to.” I shrug.
“You knew he was going to die. Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid.” She shoots me a warning look.
“Something about him seemed familiar. Like maybe I knew him.”
“That’s not possible.”
“He saw it in my eyes that I recognized him. I can’t place where I know him from, but I do.” I roll on my stomach and watch her.
“You think you recognize everyone,” she says annoyed.
I stare at her. My subconscious is way off tonight. That doesn’t sound like something Lucy would say to me. “He told me it’s time to go home.” I repeat what the man whispered in my ear.
“I think he’s right.”
“Maybe he wasn’t talking about me.”
“Maybe he was.”
“How would he know anything about me?” I retort.
“Death makes us see things we may never see under normal circumstances.” That definitely sounds like something she would say.
“I think he was talking about going to heaven, Lucy, not me.”
“I think that’s what you want to think, not what he really meant.”
“I think we should drop this conversation.” I roll back over on my back and stare up at the ceiling. The last thing I need is Lucy or my subconscious posed as Lucy, lecturing me right now. I can’t help but wonder if she’s right, though. Were the gunman’s words meant for me?
“I can’t believe you used your energy.”
“I had to save him.”
“Did you now?” She patronizes me. “Why don’t you wear a big fucking sign so that they will find you?”
I stare at her, shocked for a moment. My subconscious is definitely not playing an accurate version of my aunt. Lucy never cursed. Not even so much as a crap or even one of those cute little words people replace real curse words with like fudge or sugar.
“Lucy, let’s not fight, please?”
“Hmmm.” She still doesn’t look up from her knitting.
I stand up, stretch, and walk to the information wall. I create this in my subconscious to sort out information. Sometimes it’s a bulletin board. There is a picture of the man I tried to save and the strange woman from the store. Her face was so cold. I can sti
ll see her smirk as she watched the man dying in front of her. I know what she is now, even though I didn’t touch her.
I focus hard and try to separate the gunman’s information from the rest, but I find nothing. I dig through my mind and hope I can at least find a name, but I still get nothing. “I can’t figure out his name. It’s like he blocked me from it,” I whisper to myself.
“What is her name?” Lucy asks, still staring at her knitting.
I focus, but there’s nothing. “I didn’t get that either.”
“So why is she on the wall?” Lucy asks.
“I don’t know. I didn’t get to touch her.” I turn to see if her expression has changed. Her head shifts slightly, but she doesn’t look up.
“She had no energy,” she states rather than asks.
“She was pretty far away from me. Maybe I couldn’t connect to her because I couldn’t reach her.” I know the woman had no energy, but I would rather not discuss it with Lucy, especially tonight when she is acting so strange.
“They found you.” Lucy sighs and throws her knitting into a brown carpet bag beside her chair. It’s a knot. She hasn’t knitted a thing, just twisted the yarn into a tiny tangled ball.
“You think so?” I hope Lucy doesn’t detect the excitement in my voice.
“You are a fool.” Lucy raises her voice slightly.
“Lucy, please, not now.”
“You’ve been doing jobs for people you meet on the street. Not by trusted referral.” She walks towards me.
“Lucy, how can I get referrals if I don’t know anybody? I’m undercover here.” I turn away from her, trying to calm myself.
“Why are you working in that place? If you are healing anyway, when you shouldn’t be, why work there?”
“You know why, Lucy.”
“I can’t stand the thought of you stripping, Aldo. It makes me ill.”
“It won’t be forever.” I place my hand on her shoulder, trying to reassure her.
“You are wasting your time”
“I have to find him.”
