Wherever the Dandelion Falls

by Lily R. Mason

  "So," I said, reaching for an antibacterial wipe on instinct, "Ever worked a pole?" I didn't mean to tease her, but it was pretty obvious she hadn't.

  Faye looked sheepish as she shook her head.

  "Now's a good time to learn," I said with a coy smile as I wiped down a pole. "You've got an expert ready to give you a private lesson."

  Faye gave me a nervous laugh. "Oh, gosh, no. I couldn't."

  "It's fun," I said, tapping the pole. "These poles are sturdy and well-loved. And clean," I added, tossing the towel towards the stairs.

  "I don't know how," Faye admitted shyly.

  "Can you walk?"

  Faye rolled her eyes and nodded.

  "Can you hold onto a pole?"

  Faye nodded.

  "Then you can pole dance."

  Faye giggled nervously again and tucked her hair behind her ears.

  "Just take the pole in your hand. Walk around it, get to know it. See if there are any dings or smudges on it. Study it like you have to write a story about it or cook it for dinner."

  Faye took the pole in her hand, flexing her fingers once before gripping it firmly, hand sliding as she walked around it in a slow circle. She slid her eyes up the gleaming metal, seeming to own it with that mere glance.

  "Now lean away and arch your back."

  As the cadence on the music built, Faye bent her knees and leaned back at a stiff angle, tilting off her own balance, arm rigid as she gripped the pole.

  "Easy, easy... It won't let you go."

  Faye jolted up, letting go of the pole and tucking her hair behind her ears again. "I can't do this," she muttered.

  "Yes, you can," I said.

  Faye's eyes skirted the room. "I just imagine all the guys behind the glass and... I know my boyfriend would be upset if he knew I was dancing on a pole when other people could see." Faye fidgeted with the hem of her shirt, pulling it down and straightening her collar.

  I shrugged to lighten the mood. "So imagine he's the only one watching."

  Faye's eyes widened. "I would never dance for him like this."

  I quirked my head. "Why not?"

  Faye shrugged, seeming to burrow inside herself as she looked for an answer that wouldn't offend me.

  "What if you just dance for yourself?"

  "It's hard with all the mirrors. That's why I had to drop out of ballet when I was little."

  I couldn't help myself as I let out a soft aww at the thought of Faye as a little girl, dressed in a pink tutu, just as stiff and timid as she was now.

  She glanced at her watch and I realized it was probably almost time for my shift.

  "I have to get ready for my shift soon," I said. "Do you have questions?"

  "A thousand," Faye murmured.

  For the first time since I met her, I felt I was seeing the full extent of Faye's curiosity. She was still shy and easily embarrassed, but she wasn't letting that stop her from wondering about things.

  "Great. I'll just put my makeup on while we talk."

  Faye nodded and followed me back down the steps into the dressing room. But as I settled in front of the mirror, she didn't ask anything. So I started talking. "We see every type of customer you could imagine," I said. "CEOs, barely legal frat boys, old men..."

  Faye bit her lip, hesitant. "Do you ever see any girls?"

  "Not as many as I wish," I said. "But those booths are pretty gross, so I get why they don't want to come in."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Let's just say a fresh coat of paint wouldn't take care of it," I said with a wink.

  "Oh... Right," Faye said, looking at the floor as I tapped foundation onto a sponge and began running it over my cheekbones and jaw.

  "Once in a while we get women in the Private Pleasures Booth, but usually with boyfriends or husbands."

  Faye nodded and I reached for my eyeliner as Callie walked into the dressing room.

  "Hey, Vi," Callie chirped, setting down her bag. "How's it going?"

  "Good." I smiled at her through the mirror, holding the skin of my eye taught as I greeted her. "How are you feeling?"

  "So much better!" Callie sighed, unwrapping her scarf. "That zinc stuff you gave me really works."

  "I told you," I said, happy my friend was feeling better.

  "New girlfriend?" Callie asked, smiling at Faye.

  Faye squirmed next to me.

  "A friend," I said. "She's doing an exposé on stripping."

  "Nice!" Callie said as she pulled off her coat, hanging it on the rack before pulling her shirt off and slinging it over as well, soon followed by her bra.

  At that moment Faye seemed to remember she was in a strip club. She zipped herself up and said softly to me, "I should get going. Thanks for the tour."

  "Did you get everything you wanted?"

  Faye hummed and stood, straightening her purse strap on her shoulder. "Thanks again."

  I paused from putting on my makeup to turn and look at Faye directly, rather than through the mirror. "I'd love to read your article once you publish it," I said.

  Faye gave me a nervous nod as Callie removed her pants and draped them over the rest of her clothes.

  "Sure. I'll email you."

  I rummaged through my makeup bag to find one of my business cards. The glossy, purple card had a strand of pearls along the bottom and a black and white photo of my torso in an expensive corset. "There's my email address," I said, pointing to my Jezebel email address.

  "And here," I offered, taking the card back. "Here's my phone number."

  I scratched my number into the card and handed it back to her.

  Faye studied the card and thanked me before rushing out.

  I turned back to the mirror and began applying eyeliner to my other eye. From the other side of the dressing room, Callie muttered, "How much effort are you planning to put into that before you give up?"

  I clucked my tongue. "She's just writing an article. I gave her a tour."

  "Uh-huh," Callie said skeptically. "And our customers come here to listen to the music."

  I ignored Callie's comment and tilted my head, making sure I had lined my eyes evenly.

  I touched up one eye before applying a bright pink blush to my cheeks, adorning one with a fake beauty mark. I squeezed a thin line of glue onto my false lashes and held them on one at a time, admiring the tiny rhinestones that were nestled between the lashes.

  I loved this part of my job. As I put on my makeup, I went from being Riley to being Violet. Violet was free, powerful, and wild. Riley was those things too, but behind the makeup and the wig and the lashes, I could project anything I wanted to be.

  Faye texted me a few days later. Hey, it's Faye. I have a few questions. Do you have time to meet?

  Sure! I texted back. I'm free all day tomorrow.

  We met in the same coffee shop we'd originally met in, and I ordered her drink for her and waited by the window. When she arrived, she looked as nervous as when she'd arrived at Jez.

  "Aw, you got my coffee for me," she said, smiling as she set down her purse.

  I made a dismissive gesture. The cost of her coffee was literally something I'd earned in ten seconds with Turner. I could spare much more than ten seconds to make a pretty girl smile.

  She sat down and scooted her chair forward, a nervous smile plastered on her face. She took a sip and let out an appreciative hum.

  "So what did you want to know?" I said, gesturing with my hands that I was an open book.

  "Actually," she said, mumbling as she leaned closer and studied the table. "It's not for the article. I was hoping you could help me with something else."

  At that I grew suspicious.

  "It's just-" Her body language grew more agitated and I could tell she was embarrassed by what she was about to say. "I was hoping you could help me with some... sex stuff."

  I almost laughed, but I had just taken a sip of my cocoa and had the self-control to prevent anything from coming out my nose.

  I swallow
ed. "Sex stuff?"

  Faye gave a relieved but still sheepish nod. "Isaiah and I... We've been together so long, and it's just not exciting. I figured you know a lot about sex, so maybe — I don't know — you'd have some ideas?"

  I raised my eyebrows to convey how surprised and uncertain I was about the direction of our conversation.

  "I'm a stripper, not a sex therapist.”

  "I know," Faye hushed. "I don't want to make it a big deal with him. I don't think he'd want to go to a... sex therapist anyway." She tucked her hair behind her ear and smoothed something invisible on the table. "I think it's just me."

  Hearing her blame herself for whatever boring sex they were having made me sad. I lowered my voice and leaned in, trying to be gentler with her.

  "I don't actually know that much about sex," I said, as though I was telling an exciting secret. "I only know how to sell it."

  Faye furrowed her brow. "That could still probably help me."

  "You need help selling sex to your boyfriend?" I asked, raising my eyebrows. It was hard to believe that any straight man would need to be talked into having sex with Faye. She was beautiful and smart and the lines of her body were toned and graceful.

  "Kind of," Faye said, embarrassed. "Maybe if I were more convincing it would be better."

  I bit my lip and tried not to look uncertain. I had no idea what was going on between her and Isaiah, but I had an idea of where to start. "Does he make it enticing for you?"

  Faye looked up at me with a confused expression on her face. "What do you mean?"

  "Does he take time to, you know, get you in the mood?"

  Faye's eyes flickered to the side. "I mean, he holds me and kisses me and tells me I'm beautiful. I guess I just feel, like... this guilt all the time. We're not having that much sex, so when we do, I feel guilty about it, like I should be doing it more often. He's so sweet to me." She trailed off, then gave a guilty smile as she said. "He took me on a surprise weekend trip to wine country for my birthday the other week and got me a massage and a manicure and everything. For his birthday last year I got him a box of frozen steaks and a card." She paused with a sad smile on her face, remembering the adoration Isaiah had heaped on her.

  "So you have sex with him because he does nice things for you?"

  “No — no," Faye said, uncertain. "I mean, after he does something nice, yes, we have sex. And I love him... I just — I don't know, something's missing."

  I nodded for a minute, then asked the obvious question. "Are you attracted to him?"

  Faye gave an unconvincing nod and a shrug. "Everyone thinks he's attractive."

  I gave her an amused smile. "That wasn't the question."

  Faye seemed embarrassed. "I mean... yeah, I guess. We've been together awhile. People get used to each other."

  I thought about my first boyfriend and how the sex had still been electric after five years.

  "But the rest of the relationship is good?" I asked.

  Faye nodded, more sure of herself. "I think so. We don't fight or anything."

  "Are you living together?"

  Faye's eyes widened as she looked down at her coffee. "No. I don't want to think about that yet."

  I nodded. "It's cool. You have time."

  Faye nodded, seeming to need the reassurance. "I have time."

  I smiled, trying to give her the reassurance she was seeking.

  "Actually I don't have time," she whispered. "He was hinting at it the other day. I just don't know what to say."

  Now I felt as awkward as Faye looked. Why did she think I'd have some kind of wisdom or perspective on relationships that she didn't? I'd been single for a long time, aside from a brief fling with a coworker, and taking my clothes off for money didn't make me any older or wiser than Faye was.

  But now there was a silence I felt obligated to fill. So I gave her the same advice I would have given a new girl on her first day in the Private Pleasures Booth.

  "As long as you don't do anything you don't want to do, you're fine," I said. Then I tailored my generic advice to her. "Have sex when you want to, don't when you don't. If you're not ready to move in with him, say so."

  Faye bit her lip, brow furrowing as though my simple answer hadn't been what she was looking for. "Yeah, I guess."

  Noting that we both still had most of our coffee to drink and it would be impolite to dash out just because I felt awkward, I started grasping for straws.

  "So tell me about journalism school. How'd you decide to do that?"

  Faye let out a self-conscious giggle that sounded like a wince. "Oh, I was writing this thing in college and Isaiah saw it and told me I'd be good at journalism... I didn't have a plan for after college, so I followed him out here."

  "What were you writing that Isaiah saw?"

  Faye let out another self-deprecating laugh. "It was silly..."

  "Tell me."

  She rolled her eyes at herself and took another sip of coffee. "It was this project for an English class I was taking. I went around interviewing the little-knowns at our school."

  "Little-knowns?"

  "The cafeteria lady who'd been working there for twenty years, the stadium custodial manager... I even figured out who played the school mascot and got an interview."

  Suddenly Faye was much more interesting to me. It was hard to imagine her seeking out interviews with the people she was talking about, but apparently she had.

  "How'd you decide to do that?" I asked, leaning forward to convey how interested I was.

  Faye gave another uncertain shrug. "There are so many people that become the fabric of a community but never get documented. When they die, they just fade away with their stories. Those are some of the best stories."

  I remembered a man in my hometown who used to walk down the road where my elementary school was. He walked the same route every morning and every evening, when the weather permitted, wearing the same pair of running shorts he'd had since the eighties. He wore a hat that had a wide brim and a neck flap. Since he always walked on one side of the road that was slightly curved, he leaned to the side to compensate for the angle. When I had first learned to talk, I would say, "There's the crooked man!" to my mom every morning on the way to nursery school. As I got older, my enthusiasm faded, but I still thought crooked man to myself every time I saw him. Listening to Faye talk, I realized he was part of the fabric of my hometown. I grew curious about his story. Did he have a family? Why did he always walk at the same time? Were the soles of his shoes worn in a slant because of the curve in the road? These were questions I realized I might never get the answer to.

  "Huh..." I studied her for a minute, appreciating the depth she possessed. Only someone interesting would want to get to know everyday legends like she was talking about.

  "Have you ever considered doing a San Francisco edition?" I asked.

  Faye shook her head, taking another sip of her coffee. "I wouldn't know where to start."

  I sat up straighter, determined to encourage her curiosity because it was fueling my own.

  "I know precisely who we should start with."

  Faye quirked her eyebrow. "We?"

  I gave a shrug to indicate I didn't mean to encroach on her project. "I'd love to tag along on some interviews, if you're open to it. I'm good at asking tricky questions without offending people. Like how strippers feel about their work or how someone got into prostitution."

  Faye's eyes flickered away with embarrassment, and I thought maybe I'd been too harsh in my critique of her journalism skills. But then she gave a hesitant smile and said, "Okay."

  "Yeah?" I asked, surprised and hopeful.

  She nodded and wrapped her hands around her cup.

  "Good," I said, patting the table. "Let's start with the San Fran Bush Man."

  Faye gave me a funny frown. "The guy in the Wharf who hides behind a shrub and scares tourists?"

  I gave her an eager nod. "He's been doing it for thirty years."

  "But everyone knows him," sh
e said. "He's not a little-known."

  "True," I admitted. "But you gotta hook readers in with something they're familiar with. Once they start reading, you can write about more interesting things."

  Faye gave me a shy smile. "Okay."

  Chapter 8: Hum

  Faye's phone was vibrating against my coffee table. It had been doing so for about a minute. At first I thought it had been a call, but when I tilted my head to see the screen over the glare from the window, I saw it was an alarm. I wondered why Faye had an alarm set for three in the afternoon.

  Regardless, she was fast asleep, curled in a ball on my couch, and she wasn't hearing her phone.

  I slid my foot forward so it was under her calf. "Faye," I whispered, jiggling my foot. "Your phone's going off."

  She stirred but didn't wake.

  I poked at her a little harder with my foot. "Faye!" I hissed. "Your alarm!"

  At that she wriggled and frowned, displeased at being woken up. Then she opened her eyes and seemed startled. Her hand darted forward and grabbed the phone off the coffee table, sliding the alarm off as she got her bearings. Then she lifted her head, surveying the living room with a grumpy, disoriented expression.

  "When did I fall asleep?"

  "About halfway through Midnight Cowboy," I said, tilting my head toward the DVD case on the table.

  In the emergency room a week before, we talked about my film class as an undergrad. When we started hanging out the next day, she'd asked me to screen my favorite movies for her. So we'd started with American classics.

  "Shit... I'm sorry," she mumbled, smoothing her hair on one side of her head. "That's what I get for staying up to help you close."

  I smiled, adoring her grumpy little face in what I hoped looked like the friend way. "I told you, I can work just fine with one hand."

  "You wouldn't have gotten home until five if I hadn't helped you."

  "True," I said. My smile grew at the memory of her wiping down tables and stacking chairs as I attempted to close the bar single-handedly. All week she'd been taking care of me, helping me with everything but bathing and dressing. "Thank you," I murmured.

  She shrugged it off and sat all the way up and sighed. "I gotta go to class." She scrolled through a few things on her phone and then shivered. "Aren't you cold? It's freezing in here."