EIGHT
In the smoky corner of an after-hours joint, I clutch my paper cup of Jack and Coke and watch it grow soggy in my hand. Clarissa, a girl I know from Angels, is dancing by herself next to the chair I’ve sank into. She rocks her hips to the heavy bass of the same techno songs we hear at work. The room is cloudy with cigarette and marijuana smoke.
I’ve only been to a handful of these places. They’re underground, illegal spots where anything can happen. Usually the girls who go to after-hours are into harder drugs than what I like. These are the best places to procure them. The alcohol is contraband. The DJs double as dealers. The bouncers keep an eye out for undercover cops, and then the club owner pays them to go away. Clarissa says that the same guy who owns the Limelight owns this place, too.
The after-hours joints change locations every few months to avoid being shut down. Inside, strippers and junkies mingle with club kids, stockbrokers and would-be socialites. Old-school mobsters convene by the bar, wearing crisp suits and shoes so shiny they look wet. The lush aroma of expensive cigars mingles with the sickly smell of cheap ones. People line up to fix in the bathrooms. It’s nightlife for people who work the nightlife.
The club is on the second floor of an old, unfinished warehouse. Not much to see from outside – if you didn’t already know it was here, you’d probably never find it.
Another girl joins Clarissa on the dance floor. I have to look twice to verify that it is, in fact, a girl. Her hair has been defeated by a crew cut. She’s wearing baggy pants with colorful boxer shorts hanging out the back. But her movement is graceful. Reminiscent of a million school age ballet recitals. I watch her and my mouth hangs open in forgetful amazement.
Her pageant goes on uninterrupted for about twenty minutes. Clarissa orbits her, but they are in two separate worlds. When the girl is finished, she sits down at the other end of my table, her face blank, and stares out into nothing.
Underneath her harsh army haircut, the dancing girl has a baby face with huge eyes. And those eyes are pinned. She sees me looking at her, but her expression doesn’t change.
“You’re an incredible dancer,” I say to her.
“Dancing is my whole life,” she responds in a monotone. “It’s all I care about.”
Now that she’s sitting down, her body has departed from its elegant dancing posture. She slouches in the chair and her limbs hang useless, as if she’s a mannequin.
“Where do you… you perform somewhere, right?” I ask, because she’s scruffy as hell but she moves like a pro.
Her jaw slackens and her head rolls forward. Then she jerks it up again. “What? Nah. Just in here,” she says.
She’s high, and I don’t think it’s the kind of high I’m used to seeing at Angels. Heroin, for example, has an awareness to it that is missing in this girl’s tone of voice. There’s an absence to her. It’s eerie.
“You live in the neighborhood?”
“I crash with different friends every night, wherever,” she tells me, in a tone so flat she might as well be reciting a grocery list. “Been doing it since my mom kicked me out last year.”
“How old are you?” I blurt.
“Fourteen.”
Looking at her makes me feel old, although she’s far more used up than I could ever conceive of being. She stares right through me from her trance, which I’ve decided is probably a “K-hole” – that mind-erasing void induced by Ketamine. “K” is, of course, the same tranquilizer they use to knock out horses. It’s a cheap high that seems to have replaced both coke and dope for these younger club kids. I tried it once. The place you go to is nowhere. When you return, you come up slowly, and you don’t know how long you were gone. It’s like fainting under water, only heavier.
Clarissa finishes dancing and plops down next to me, out of breath. “I can’t find Anthony anywhere,” she tells me.
“Count your blessings,” I mutter.
Clarissa’s boyfriend, Anthony, is a DJ at this and a few more after-hours clubs. He’s a tiny little runt, five-foot-three at the most. But Clarissa always acts like she’s a bit afraid of him. Anthony is not a pleasant character and I have no idea what she sees in him. But she’s never asked me what I’m doing with Barry, either.
“I need to find him,” she persists. “I want another drink, and Anthony has all my money.”
“Why does Anthony have your money?”
Clarissa shrugs. “He told me to let him hold it.”
“And you gave it all to him?”
She looks puzzled. “Sure. I always do. The money is safer with him than it is with me.”
“Safer? What do you mean?”
She coughs out a strange little laugh. “You know,” she says. “I’m really bad with money. I buy lots of stupid shit we don’t need. Anthony holds onto it so I won’t spend it on anything dumb.”
“But it’s your money,” I say.
“He’s just better at managing it than I am,” she says. “He gives it back when I ask for it.”
“What, like he gives you an allowance?”
I would probably claw Barry’s eyes out with a potato peeler if he tried that shit with me.
“Yeah, I guess,” she agrees. “Anyway. Come with me to find him and I’ll buy you a drink, too. Yours looks watery.”
K-Hole Girl gets up and wanders toward a different corner of the club. I point at her. “That girl dances like an angel,” I comment.
Clarissa tilts her head in K-Hole Girl’s direction. “I know her. She’s, like, the owner’s niece.”
“She told me she has no place to live.” I stand up and we walk toward the stairwell.
Clarissa gives me a funny look. “She must have wanted to come home with you.”
“She was so high I don’t think she even knew her own name,” I say.
Clarissa has already lost interest. “Sometimes the guys who work here hang out in the keg room,” she tells me, taking my hand and pulling me over to the bar. The bartender is down at the other end, facing away from us and smoking a cigar with one of those suited, five-hundred-dollar-haircut mobster guys. Clarissa ducks under the bar. “Come on,” she says. I follow her. She stops in front of a metal door and pushes it open. “Anthony says this is also where they keep…” Then she stops abruptly.
Anthony is on all fours with his pants around his ankles and his palms pressed into the ground. There’s a skinny, dark haired guy kneeling behind him, shirtless and leaning forward, one hand spread against the small of Anthony’s back. The other guy’s pants are down too, and he’s paused mid-stroke to glare at us. Anthony’s head jolts forward. He looks Clarissa right in the eye and snarls, “Shut it!”
Clarissa makes a wounded noise from deep in back of her throat. But she obeys Anthony and closes the door, more carefully I think than is necessary. She stands with her back to the keg room, staring down at her shoes, collecting herself. I grimace and look away. What do you say to someone in her situation? This is really awkward.
“Come on.” She pulls her shoulders back and grabs my arm. “Let’s go dance.”
“Now?”
The bartender has spied us and is heading this way. He wobbles, catching himself against the side of the bar, before drawling, “You ladies are pretty ‘n’ all, but you can’t be hangin’ out back here.”
“Sorry,” I say. “We were looking for the bathroom.”
He points across the dance floor. Then he sidles up next to me. “What kinda party didja have in mind?” he asks. His whiskey breath is hot next to my face.
“We need to pee,” I reply firmly, backing away. “Badly. Right now.”
“What are you talking about? Why would I be upset?” Clarissa asks. She’s brushing her hair in front of a cracked square of bathroom mirror. She pulls her lips into what I think is meant to be a smile. But she looks like she’s about to burst into tears any second.
“Come on, honey,” I say. “I’d want to break his legs if I were you!”
“It’s no big deal,” she insists. “He doesn’t mind, you know, that I like girls.”
“Clarissa… are you certain that he likes girls?”
She folds her arms. “Anthony’s bi,” she says. “So what? He’s bi, I’m bi… most people on the scene are bi. I have no right to tell him not to be who he is. You’re bi. Aren’t you?”
I purse my lips and nod.
Clarissa leans over and rests her hand against the wall behind me. The gesture is intimate. Her face looms in front of mine. “I can fool around, too, you know,” she says.
“Of course you can, but is that the point?”
She presses her body into me, grabs the back of my head, and pushes her tongue between my lips. Her mouth is dry and it tastes like old, stale booze. Soon she realizes I’m not kissing back. She pulls away again, looking hurt.
I’ve never been attracted to Clarissa. And kissing her has done nothing to change my mind. I clear my throat. “I need a cigarette,” I say. “You want one?”
She shakes her head. “I’ll be right out,” she says. She turns and goes into one of the minuscule stalls. I hear her sigh heavily.
“Fuck,” I whisper under my breath, and walk out of the bathroom.
I open the door to the stairwell that leads out of the club and huddle against the wall under the bleached out light.
The bouncer who patted us down when we first came in gives me a sly look. I smile weakly. He looks like a gorilla with dreads.
“You havin’ a rough night, hon?” he asks.
“Does it show?”
“Nah,” he says. “You still look cute, boo.” He’s got an easy manner that makes him appear removed from this scene. Like he’s standing on the periphery and nothing can touch him. I wish I could be like that.
We make some hackneyed small talk. Eventually the gorilla reaches into his pocket, pulls out a pen, and writes his phone number on my hand. Then he pats me on my shoulder, winks, and nods at the door.
As I re-enter the room, the DJ turns down the music and announces last call. It’s nearly noon.
I spot Clarissa and Anthony standing next to the bar together. He’s taken an arrogant posture, arms akimbo, while she stands in front of him, round-shouldered and subdued. The last thing I need is to get caught up in their shit. I wave to her from the other end of the room. “I’m going home, hon,” I shout. “I’ll see you at work.”
Anthony ignores me. I think he knows I don’t like him. Clarissa blows me a kiss. “I’m working again on Monday,” she shouts back.
Here’s hoping it doesn’t get weird the next time I see her.
The bouncer winks at me when I pass him again. “Call me,” he mouths. I walk onto the street and the door slams behind me.
I blink as the midday sun shocks my system. I knew what time it was, but it’s only now beginning to register. I feel dizzy.
People from inside are beginning to gather on the sidewalk next to us. The girls with feathers and glitter and yesterday’s faded eyeliner look incongruous with the daytime people who hurry by in business suits on their way to power lunches.
I start to walk down the block. The city is in full swing. It’s an alien world I’ve lately forgotten. I try not to stare too much at the people who pass me.
If I take a cab at this hour, we’ll hit traffic, and it’ll cost me thirty or forty bucks to get home. I’m not willing to part with that kind of cash. So I trudge several blocks to the nearest subway station feeling grimy and tired. It’s warmer out than it’s been in a long time. My heavy coat is making me sweat. I have to take it off and carry it.
My head is swimming. I’ve been awake for long enough that everything around me has a slightly unreal cast to it.
I don’t look like a club kid. I’m not wearing glitter, and I don’t exaggerate my makeup the way the other strippers do. I wonder if anyone at the subway station watches me the way I watch people. If they even notice me, do they know what I am? I feel like a ghost.
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October 22nd, 2008 at 11:35 am
great read. thankyou. its good to read it in the gritty harsh reality you intended. i think this rivals and out does Trainspotting, this gis one strong woman.
i also like how we dont get too much of a physical description of the woman narrating.
October 22nd, 2008 at 1:08 pm
So far what I’ve read is raw and dirty and captures the seedy, grimy side of a business that is often glamorized as something that all parties actually enjoy.
You have a wonderful detached style and I think you’ve gone about marketing your story in the right way.
The title of the book alone is worth the price of admission and caught my attention immediately – I loved it! I can’t wait for the next chapter…..your writing far exceeded my expectations! I’m so curious as to how you intend to wrap this up.
I’m so terribly proud of you.
Much love,
– gordon