Nudity For Fun and Profit Chapter Twelve: Costume Lady

How does anybody walk in these shoes, let alone dance?

I hug the pole while I gyrate onstage. My movement feels restricted. Forced. I’m breaking in a new pair of six inch stilettos. I’ll bet I look like a clown on stilts for the first time. My big worry is that I’ll break or sprain something. And my knees are killing me.

Last week I made thirteen hundred dollars in the club. I paid my rent and handed most of what was left over to MasterCard. Then I went to the Village and spent my last soggy hundred dollar bill buying these shoes. They make my legs look fantastic. But I didn’t have time to practice at home. I’m not used to wearing them yet.

The old man sitting at the end of the stage is tipping me, but sparsely, and he’s the only one. The remaining customers nearby appear to be occupied with other girls. Out of the corner of my eye, I scan the club for activity.

The mystery door next to our dressing room opens, and Tina, our house mom, stumbles from behind it.

Tina is clad in black rags from head to toe. Large, vacant blue eyes peek out from behind a layer of raccoon makeup. Dozens of bracelets rattle on her arms as she trudges into the club with her head down. Her hair looks like day-old road kill. This is the woman who’s in charge of everyone’s champagne room commissions, believe it or not.

There’s no way she’s sober.

I make a mental note to double-check Tina’s math if I ever make it into the VIP. So far, I haven’t been back there once. I’ve got to figure out a way to change that, though, since that cluster of rooms seems to be where most of the money is.

My last song finally ends and I gather my costume. I pull some folded money out of the garter I’m wearing around my thigh and wrap it around a roll that’s still pretty thin so far. Then I contemplate the three steps at the other end of the stage.

Shouldn’t they have built something for us to hold onto next to these steps? There’s no rail, and the pole itself won’t suffice. What usually happens is that the girl on her way up holds out a hand to help the girl climbing down.

Unfortunately, the girl coming up next is Anna.

I’ve worked a few shifts with Anna now, and I think she’s probably the most unpleasant person I’ve ever met. Her attitude doesn’t make sense to me. I mean, she’s got everything! She’s stunning. She’s in the VIP room all night long, raking in cash hand over fist. I probably earn a third of what she does on my best night. I’m surprised I’ve even made it onto her radar. So why would I be a target for her?

Whatever the reason, Anna seems to have cultivated a special dislike for me. So I go out of my way to avoid her. And right at this moment, I don’t trust her not to dump me on my ass while I’m getting offstage.

“Maybe you would like to stay up for next set?” Anna asks me, smirking.

“No, that’s quite all right,” I say to her, placing myself sidesaddle on the wooden rim of the stage. “I think the customers will be heartbroken if they don’t get to see you dance.” I hoist my legs over and onto the floor. Then I stand up carefully.

Tim glances over at us from his barstool, frowning. I give him a quick thumbs up sign. He shakes his head and looks away.

I hear Anna snort derisively as she climbs the steps and begins her set.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I whisper to myself as my ankle turns unnaturally, mid-stride.

Why, oh, why, didn’t I see fit to bring a second pair of shoes to the club tonight, just in case? All I’ve got with me are these stilettos and my office flats. Flats are, Tim explained to me, against house rules at Angels, and stilettos are the preferred shoe. Of course he prefers them. He’s never had to wear heels.

I’ve got to sit down for five minutes where the customers won’t see me. I wave at Jose to let him know that I’m going down to the basement. At the landing, I seriously consider taking off my shoes and climbing down the stairs barefoot. The only thing that stops me is the knowledge that if I do take them off, nothing will compel me to put them back on tonight.

So I place both hands on the railing and slowly do one step at a time – sideways. No one else is in the stairwell to see it, thank God. When I get to the bottom, I straighten up and take a step without holding on to anything. It’s no good. I lurch forward and almost trip over the bunch of knapsacks and duffel bags that are lying on the dressing room floor. My hand shoots out and finds the wall just in time.

There’s nowhere to sit down. An enormous blonde woman in sweatpants appears to have commandeered our dressing room. Her thighs spill dangerously over the chair she’s sitting in. There are plastic bags everywhere – in her lap, at her feet, and piled on the remaining chairs.

The woman sees me and rearranges her expression. I think she’s trying for something friendly. Her eyelids, heavily crusted with dark blue eye shadow, crinkle.

“Oh, hello dear. I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Sherry.” She beams. “I’m sure some of your friends have mentioned me. I’m the costume designer for Angels.”

I stare at her. No one’s ever said anything about a costume designer. “Nice to meet you. I’m Nadia,” I manage.

If this woman is trying to be polite, she’ll clear a chair for me.

“All the girls here buy their costumes from me,” Sherry continues. “I sell costumes at every club in town.”

She also has jowls.

“Of course, clothing is just my sideline,” she explains, although I haven’t asked. “I’m a member of the Screen Actors Guild. But you know how it is. I gotta eat.”

Ah, no. You really don’t.

“Could I… borrow that chair from you?” I ask, pointing to the one next to her.

She ignores my question. Her head moves with her eyes. She doesn’t bother to conceal it as she’s looking me up and down. “It looks like I got here just in time, dear. That color is all wrong for you.”

I blink at her.

Impeccable sales skills there, lady.

The dressing room door opens abruptly and then slams shut like an air shaft, treating us to the distorted strains of whatever music is playing upstairs. Multiple pairs of heels clack as some of the other girls run down the stairs in their stilettos. Now why can’t I do that?

I keep my hand firmly on the wall until I reach a chair. Then I move Sherry’s bags onto the floor, and I plop down, sighing. Sherry gives me a sour look, but hey, she had her chance.

“Ladies!” she trills. Her face lights up again for the benefit of the girls who have just walked in. “New dresses just arrived. My girls at The Velvet Rope tell me they’re making a mint. They’re buying four costumes at a time!”

Sara once told me that most of the girls who work at Angels would never be able to get hired at The Velvet Rope. She described the other club as a celebrity hangout where the furniture sparkles and all the dancers look like models. It sounds like Sherry is trying to move her merchandise by intimidating people and by making them feel inferior. I was always taught that the tactics she’s using are the last vestige of the seller with a lousy product.

I’m not positive, but I think that punk rock girl just stuck out her tongue at Sherry before turning toward the mirror to fix her lipstick. Ha. Good for her.

Sherry licks her lips. “You know how it is in a top shelf club, ladies. It’s fortunate that I have any stock left. I was over there tonight before I came here… Sloane, this gown will definitely fit you.”

Sloane, a pale girl with blue eyes and Shirley Temple curls, purses her lips. “Let me see it.” She holds out her hand, then pulls a long piece of red velour out of the plastic and feels the material between her fingers. “How much?”

“For you? Eighty.”

Sloane frowns and starts climbing out of the outfit she’s wearing. “This fabric is kind of thin for eighty bucks.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Sherry clucks. “Say no more! I thought you were one of my money makers, but I guess your ship must be sinking tonight, poor dear. Don’t forget, though. You can put a deposit down if you want me to hold it for you.”

“I’m going to break a grand tonight in another half hour,” Sloane says airily. “I just don’t know if I want the dress.”

“Well, it looks fabulous on you,” Sherry says. “I love the contrast with your skin.”

In fact, the outfit looks terrible. Sloane doesn’t have much of a chest. The cut on top flattens her out even more, and the gown also bunches up on her in the back.

“Alannah,” Sherry gestures at a sickly looking blonde girl who has just lit up a joint.

The girl shakes her head. “No way, ma,” she croaks before exhaling. She sounds like a cancer patient. “You know I ain’t got that kind of money.”

“Well, dear, perhaps you shouldn’t spend everything you make on drugs,” Sherry suggests. “Just think about it… If there was ever a girl in this house who could use a new dress, I’m looking at her. Now, Kaia, you need to take a gander at this one.” She holds another one of those plastic bags out towards a dark haired girl with olive skin. “I think I hear it calling your name.”

“Is it as loud as you are?” murmurs the punk rock girl.

I chuckle.

Sherry shoots me another mean look before turning in the direction of the mirror. “Of course, some people need more help than a costume can ever provide.”

“Some people need Weight Watchers,” retorts the girl as she disappears back up the stairs. Then, from out of sight, “Would you mind looking where the fuck you’re going?” A duet of hostile whispering floats down from the top of the staircase before the door bangs shut again.

Another pair of heels makes its way down the steps. Whoever is on her way down is somehow managing to sound graceful.

“Anna! Hello, darling!” Sherry exclaims. Her eyes light up for real this time.

I understand the principle that like attracts like. But when Anna bends down to exchange air kisses with Sherry, I feel queasy anyway.

“How is Velvet Rope?” Anna asks.

“It’s not nearly the same over there without you,” Sherry toadies. “Bob keeps asking me when you’re coming back.”

My ears prick. That’s interesting. If Anna is one of the blessed few who can get a job in a top shelf club, then what’s she doing over here slumming with us?

“Tell him I will come back when he will telephone me to apologize.” Anna sniffs. Then she glances over at me. “Oh. Alicia. They have benched you?”

“Don’t call me that,” I answer without missing a beat. She’s really starting to get on my nerves.

“Why not? It is your name.” She tosses her hair off her shoulders and starts to rifle through Sherry’s things. “I like color red.” She lifts a dress out of the pile.

“It suits you, dear,” Sherry tells her. “They all suit you. I don’t think there’s a color that you can’t wear, actually.”

I stand up. My ankle still smarts, but if I’m going to have to listen to this kind of nonsense, I might as well hear it upstairs from the customers.

The conversation continues as I’m slowly climbing up the stairs.

“… and then we pushed her up onto stage.” Anna snickers. “You should have seen look on her face.”

Peals of laughter roll off the dressing room walls.

“She doesn’t look like she’ll last very long here, dear,” Sherry advises.

As if she’s any sort of authority on what I’ll do. That beast of a woman doesn’t know the first thing about me.

And those two deserve each other.

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