Angels

An excerpt from Servicing the Pole

Dressed in my gown, I rush up the stairs, but carefully, so I won’t trip. I walk out onto the floor and nod at Tim, the manager. He’s sitting at the bar with his clipboard, marking off the late fees and the no-shows. It’s seven-fifty-eight – I made it. I smile at him like I swallowed the fucking canary and didn’t bother saving any for the cat. He scowls at me.

“One of these days,” he mutters under his breath in his thick Queens brogue. I wonder if he gets to keep a cut of the money when he fines us.

Despite the upscale neighborhood, Angels is a real hole in the wall. It’s one of the smallest clubs I’ve ever seen. From the street, you almost miss it. There’s a rinky-dink yellow neon sign glittering above a sketchy looking staircase. All the sign says is BAR. Vasquez stands on the top step, freezing or sweating depending on the time of year, and he waves guys in off the street. He never seems to take a night off.

Down those steps, the front door is metal with a small, one-way window. The bouncers can see out, but no one can see in. That window makes me think of dice parlors, numbers games, or any other backroom operation where the mark says a secret word into a slot before the door opens.

If only they screened our customers so completely. The only thing these marks have to produce to get inside is a ten-spot.

When the door opens, the mark is greeted by a cloud of smoke and two, sometimes three, huge bouncers. He probably starts blinking as his eyes strain to adjust to the low light. On his left, there’s a cramped cubicle that he likely won’t notice. It’s the size of an outhouse, and it’s where they keep the DJ. Just a few steps farther in sits a side stage, about as wide as the DJ booth. The wall behind the stage is a mirror. Any wall that isn’t mirrored is painted black. The mirror is dirty, and so is the short brass pole in its center, which is bolted to a low ceiling.

During prime time on a good shift, a girl will be on that side stage, moving her hips a little but not really dancing. There isn’t enough room for her to dance. She won’t make tips, either. The mark’s just walked in, so he hasn’t warmed up yet. Maybe he pauses to look at her, but before he has the chance, the barmaid hits him up. “Sir? SIR! There’s a two drink minimum.” He turns to his right, and almost smacks into a barstool. The space between the stage and the bar is scarcely wider than he is.

The bar itself is about ten feet long, with a barmaid crammed in on each end. Tim always holds court in the last chair at the end of the bar, with his clipboard and his permanent frown.

The dressing room doors are on the left. Across from these, there’s a cashier’s stand. It looks exactly like a pulpit. After that, the aisle gives way into the rest of the club, which is a dark, cramped and grimy room containing more of the same. No matter which way you sit, stand or turn in this room, you’re bound to wind up in somebody else’s space.

Officially, the club’s maximum occupancy is sixty-five. Management must take it for granted that none of the girls can count. I’m sure that the fire marshal’s getting his cut, too. On some nights, I’ve seen three times as many people crammed into Angels. When it gets crowded like that, it feels like the inside of a pressure cooker. Or a slaughterhouse. Did the owners plan it this way? The restrictive area doesn’t feel a whole lot like an accident.

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