THREE

There’s a fair amount of customers in the club now. Many of them are being worked already. Scantily clad beauties float around the room, stopping to ask every available body if he’ll buy a lap dance. The music is pumping louder than it was at the start of the shift. Some of the girls sit in the customers’ laps, chatting or whispering in their ears.

In the corner, a girl has landed a lap dance. She gyrates in front of her customer, fully nude, brushing her ass against his crotch. The other customers watch her out of the corners of their eyes. I begin to walk around the room to see who isn’t already taken.

A suit in his mid-thirties sits at the stage with one leg crossed over the other. He’s got a stack of singles on the ledge. He’s probably not ready to do anything, but I lean over. “Hi,” I say brightly. He turns around, recoiling when he sees my ready smile. He starts to shake his head back and forth. “Maybe later,” he says, dismissing me.

“Maybe what later? I didn’t even ask you anything yet, jerk-off!”

He turns his head away. Like I’m nothing. Like I don’t even merit an answer.

Whatever. Fuck him.

I move on to the next guy. I notice that he’s smoking a Camel. I sit right up against the wall between him and a small table.

“Do you have a light?” I ask.

“Sure,” he smiles, producing his Zippo. He lights my cigarette for me.

I size him up. He’s wearing a sweater and slacks. Looks about fifty. Mostly bald. His smile is a good sign. I start to settle into my chair.

“How’s your day going?” I say, blowing smoke in the opposite direction.

“Not bad,” he says.

He seems almost fatherly. I’m about to aim for a lap dance, but then he continues, “Listen, honey. You seem like a nice girl, and I know you’re only doing your job. I don’t want to waste your time. I’m just here to see the show, okay?”

Damn it. I should have sat right in his lap. At least he’s trying to be decent about it.

“Thanks for being honest,” I say to him. He nods, and I get up.

I’m still smoking. I don’t like to approach these guys with a cigarette in my hand unless they’re smoking, too, so I take another empty seat. Every customer who isn’t taken is seated by the stage. I don’t feel confident enough to approach anyone. I use my cigarette to stall for time.

Eventually a guy wearing glasses, a white cotton button down shirt and khakis sits down against the wall opposite me. He’s in his late thirties or early forties. His brown hair is thinning on top. He’s a little bit chubby, with a soft belly under the shirt.

He smiles at the waitress when she brings him his fake beer, and fumbles with his wallet instead of looking her in the eye. He looks nervous. His shoulders are pulled back unnaturally, just a bit too far.

I stub out my cigarette in the ashtray next to me and I watch him. I interpret his every gesture. He looks non-threatening. He’s socially uncomfortable. I decide that he spends most of his time at work, and has no idea how to banter with a woman. I’ll bet he’s into computers. I seem to get along well with those guys.

I think I recognize a mark when it walks in the door. I stand up and head towards him.

I have to time this exactly right. The time to move is once he’s gotten his change from the waitress, and he’s had a chance to adjust to the view of the stage. He won’t like it if I descend upon him like a vulture to carrion the moment he sits down. That’ll make him feel used. But it’s a delicate balance. If I’m staking my claim, I have to do it before another girl gets there first.

Poised, I wait for him to take another deep breath or two. Should I sit next to him in the chair, or just plop right down in his lap? I prefer a hands-off approach until some sort of a deal is made, but my preference here is secondary. What does he need in order to feel desired? How lonely is he?

His lopsided half-smile is frozen on his face. He’s insecure. I decide that he probably won’t try to cop a feel if I sit in his lap.

Although his eyes are fastened to the stage, he doesn’t seem to be focusing on Toni, the long, dark and sinewy girl who is dancing right now. It’s an automatic stare. He could just as easily be watching TV reruns from his bed at three AM.

Fair game. I ooze myself into his lap, and I gently wrap my arms around him. He looks up, pleased and surprised by my attention, but not quite meeting my eyes. “Well, hello!” he says.

I twist my bottom just enough so that he can feel body heat right over his crotch.

“Hi, sweetie, how are you?” I drawl into his ear, making sure that my breath is warm on his neck. I learned this trick from another stripper. A lot of the time, it works.

“Well,” he begins. I tilt my head and force him to catch my eye. “It’s been a long day,” he says. “But, uh, it’s a good one. And it just got better.” He pats my shoulder, uncertain about how much he’s allowed to touch me. “How’s your day?”

“Better now,” I assure him, hoping that my smile doesn’t look too false. He seems all right. He’s friendly enough. We start to make small talk. Where is he from? Oh, how lovely. And what does he do? Wow, you don’t say. I was right about the computers. He’s a programmer. He works in the Conde Nast building.

Then his breath hits me squarely between the eyes. Man! It’s a pungent mix of old onions and our club’s nasty fake beer. Damn it. I’m going to be holding my breath just to talk to him for the duration of our encounter.

I’m sitting on this poor guy’s lap, aware that I would never be anywhere near him if I wasn’t trying to get to what’s in his wallet. He’d never have a chance with me outside of this place. He’s too old. He’s too fat. He’s too bald. And he knows all this.

Worse yet is a concept I won’t entertain, but one that slides into my consciousness anyway. What if I get to be his age, and this is still my life?

“Would you like to buy the lady a drink?” We look up together to see a waitress standing over us, staring expectantly at him with a large, artificial grin.

I’ve been sitting here for about two minutes. That’s the limit. If he refuses the drink, I will have to get up and try someone else. I press my palms together. I try to look imploring. We’re never allowed to refuse a drink from a customer. If the waitress sees my lack of enthusiasm, she’ll tell Tim.

“Would the lady like a drink?” my customer asks. He squints a bit, not realizing that he’s got spittle dangling between his lips. He’s trying to flirt. Gross.

“That would be lovely,” I smile, letting him see my tongue move.

I would rather sell him a dance. I get a larger kickback on the dances than I do on the drinks. More importantly, if he buys a dance we can cut to the chase. Right now, we’re being cordial, and it’s pointless. He’s perfectly aware that he’s not on a date. The sooner he warms up, the faster I can get paid and move on to my next mark.

He digs his wallet out from his pocket, reaching under my ass to do so. Pretending innocence, he cops a quick feel. “Oops,” he says, wide-eyed. I grit my teeth, breathe deeply, and continue smiling. I don’t even flinch. He thinks a twenty-dollar drink entitles him to this. I’m mildly disgusted. At the same time, I’m oddly relieved.

This guy’s no better than anyone else.

I don’t have to feel guilty about taking a penny of his money.

His move just gave me the green light to appeal to the crude desires that these guys all seem to have in common.

The waitress brings my drink in a tiny plastic cup with an umbrella in it. It’s the default drink – a concoction of orange and cranberry juice, with absolutely no alcohol. “Do you have a tip for me?” she croons to my customer, who has told me that his name is Bob. He gives her an extra dollar.

“You guys have quite a racket going on here,” he says, turning to look at me.

“The club does.” I hate it when they imply that management and I are in cahoots. We’re not even on the same side. “I just work here.”

“Oh, I see,” Bob tells me, but I don’t think that he does at all.

“So… have you ever been here before?” I ask, knowing the answer already.

“No. Never,” he says. “I don’t usually come into places like this.”

Uh huh.

“Me, neither,” I quip, and we both relax a little bit more. His arm is draped over my shoulder. It’s getting heavy.

After a long pause, Bob asks me abruptly, “So what goes on in there?” He points to the back of the house.

All the way back where he’s pointing, there’s a single step leading to a vestibule. That hollow contains five little dark, curtained cubicles. Damian the bouncer is sitting in a chair on that step like a human velvet rope to discourage anyone who hasn’t paid the hefty entry fee from wandering into the private rooms.

I answer Bob’s question dozens of times a night. My reply varies depending on whether I think the guy will spring for this very expensive dance. Bob doesn’t impress me as the type. But you never know.

“It’s an all nude lap dance,” I finally begin to whisper. I’m not giving it my all. I can feel it. Maybe I just don’t want to be alone with this guy in the dark.

“And?” he prods. His face his lit up as if he expects to find something in there that he has never heard of.

And I shoot flames right out of my lady-parts. What the hell do you think?

“The dance goes on for half an hour or an hour, whichever you prefer… I’m totally naked and we’re all alone, drinking… touching each other… back there, I can give you a long, sensual massage while I dance on you…” I trail off and allow him to sit back and fill in the blanks spots for a picture I’ve only partially drawn.

The truth is that I always get nervous about pitching these “bottles” to customers. The point is to make them think they’ll get laid back there, without actually promising them anything. And I’m not comfortable with the deception.

“And then…?” Bob pushes. He’s salivating. But I doubt this has much to do with my stunning sales pitch. I think Bob slobbers anyway.

“Then we just make each other happy for the whole time we’re in that little room,” I whisper hotly. I know that I’ll deliver this line again at least fifteen more times tonight, whether this one’s a taker or not.

“How much is it?” Bob finally asks me, running his hand up the inside of my thigh. I take his hand and put it back on my knee.

“Two hundred for a half hour. Three fifty for an hour,” I say. My voice has grown formal again. Something about Bob bothers me. “You can even put it on your credit card. The name of the club is never on the statement.”

Ideally, the mark puts the room on a card, so that his cash is saved for my tip, which I will demand up front once we enter the room.

These tips are where I make my real money. The “tip” is really a standard fee that the girls charge on top of the house price. I always ask for a minimum of a hundred bucks up front on the half hour, and one-fifty on the hour. Then, if I can get away with it, I’ll also hit the customer up for an extra twenty or fifty at the end of the dance.

Although I make commission off the room, the club takes two thirds of the draw. Still, if I’m creative enough about how I ask for it, I can sometimes make more money than the club does. I’ll only tell him about the tip once we get into the room.

Tina has come over to us. She’s breathing down our necks. “Well,” she wants to know, “What have we decided?”

Bob’s still hesitating.

“Give me a minute, Tina,” I tell her tartly. If she starts to pitch it for me, she’s going to undo anything I’ve just done.

“Why don’t we do a lap dance while you’re thinking about it,” I suggest.

“How much is that?” Bob wants to know.

“That’s twenty dollars.”

“Another twenty? I just paid twenty for your drink,” Bob complains.

Now that’s charming. I just love me a tightwad.

“Sit with me for a little while, and we’ll see what happens,” Bob suggests, trying to touch the inside of my thigh again. I clench my legs together tightly so that he can’t.

“Actually, I’m not allowed to do that,” I explain. “House rules.”

“What kind of rules are those?” Bob asks me.

Suddenly a wave of indignation washes over my whole body. I can tell that he’s wasting my time. Fuck this. This one is more trouble than it’s worth.

“Those are the rules that say that my time is money. I’m sorry,” I say, and I climb up off his lap. “Have a good night.” When he doesn’t even react, I conclude that he wouldn’t have spent another dime on me.

I walk across the floor, keeping my eyes peeled for fresh blood. I don’t see any. I light another cigarette and walk towards the dressing room.

“I’m going downstairs,” I tell Jose, the cashier. We’re required to notify the staff whenever we want to leave the floor. The same way all of us had to ask the teacher for permission to go to the bathroom when we were in grade school.

Did I mention that this staircase is an accident waiting to happen? I grip the rails as I descend. My feet are already starting to feel swollen inside these stilettos. Tomorrow’s my day off, and I’m not even going to put shoes on.

Alannah and Anisa are smoking a blunt, and this time when Alannah passes it to me, I take a hit. Tastes like dog shit, but it’ll do.

“It sucks here tonight,” I complain. Both of them nod. I’m preaching to the choir, though. Neither of these girls are exactly high rollers.

Brittany, a young South African blonde, emerges from the toilet stall and goes to wash her hands. “It’s not that bad up there,” she contradicts. “I just went into the champagne room with this young stockbroker. He gave me an amazing tip. I think he has some money left if you want to try him.”

Brittany is not being helpful. What she’s doing is gloating. She smiles her condescension at us and disappears up the stairs. As she moves out of sight, Alannah whispers under her breath, “I’m not sayin’ nothing about that blow job I just gave him,” and the three of us collapse into giggles. Brittany’s in the champagne room a lot. Few of the girls like her.

I’m not really even buzzed from the weed, but I feel a little bit calmer now. So I go back upstairs. As I walk out onto the floor, I notice that Sloane is all curled up in Bob’s lap. Tina is standing over them, and Bob is signing a credit card receipt. He’s going into the VIP room with Sloane.

Of course he is.

Richard must have just spied me, because my name comes over the loudspeaker again. It hasn’t even been an hour since my last set.

I sigh, fingering my dismal bankroll. All singles. The corner of a bill brushes against my scar, making it itch. I hope I go home with something tonight.

It’s four AM. The lights go up in the club as Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York,” cues over the P.A., signaling the end of the night. The bouncers usher the last few customers out the door, and the lot of us file wearily down the stairs into the dressing room.

I didn’t do well, but I’ll go home with pocket money. I did manage to hit my stride late, with two different customers. One bought four dances from me. I was able to get the other one into the champagne room for half an hour. After I subtract Richard’s tip-out and my cab ride home, I should clear just over two hundred dollars.

Sometimes, when I complain about a night like this to Barry, he reminds me that some people only make two hundred dollars in a week.

“Yeah, and they aren’t showing anyone their pussy,” I always retort.

If he thinks I feel entitled to make a lot of money, well, he’s damned right. Whenever I make the same money dancing that I could have also made bartending or waiting tables, I question what the hell I’m doing rubbing my naked body all over these men.

But, confronted with the responsibilities a “real job” would require, I have to admit that I would rather do this.

I value the fact that I’m able to make my own schedule. I like being able to work an extra night if I want to. Or take a month off from working at all, knowing that when I’m ready, I can always return to my job.

And when I do return, whether I’ve been gone a few days or a few weeks, it’s like walking back into a time warp. The club doesn’t change. The routine is still the same. Maybe some of the girls are different, but most of the mainstays are there. The lack of evolution can be depressing, but it can also be comforting at times, because it’s the devil I know.

Sometimes I don’t want anything to change. I feel like my life has moved too quickly to bring me to this point, and I just want it to slow down for a moment so that I can catch up. I would do anything to feel content. I wish I knew who I was. I know that the personalities I show the world are incomplete. I also suspect that the world sees right through them.

The girls are leaving the club now, one by one, clad in their bulky winter clothes. Sloane, Toni and Kaia get into a cab together, all dolled up and headed for the after-hours joint. I’ve heard that these girls hold court at the Sound Factory every night. I don’t know how they have the energy. My knees hurt. I’m tired. And I’m going home.

Barry’s waiting for me outside the club, chatting with the doorman. I didn’t know that Vasquez could speak. I’ve never seen him talk to anyone besides Barry.

“Miss Thing,” Barry greets me, and I hand him my knapsack to carry. “How’d it go?” he wants to know.

“None of your business,” I mutter.

“Ooh, that good,” he says, and I make a sour face at him.

It’s become a regular thing for Barry to meet me after work and ride home in the cab with me. One night he started showing up here, and I never told him to stop. He might as well keep me company anyway. He has no place to be in the morning. He doesn’t work.

We wave to Gordon. He puts his finger to his throat.

“’Ow wass it t-night?” he says through the mechanical voice box, which whirs on consonants and whines on vowels.

I shake my head. “Sorry, pal. I can’t afford you today.”

Gordon smiles and nods, then turns to make a beeline for Brittany as she emerges from the club.

Closer to the corner of the block, we spot Burt. We wave him down and get into his cab. Both of us like Burt, who is a working-class white guy with decent manners. He doesn’t chat with us as much as Gordon does, and he’s definitely not as entertaining, but Gordon won’t drive anywhere for less than twenty-five bucks, and that’s his minimum. I usually give Burt about seventeen. The meter itself never registers more than ten bucks.

Barry rolls down the windows to light a cigarette. Burt never complains when we smoke in the cab.

“So it was a bad one?” Barry asks again.

“Not fucking good,” I reply.

“How much?” he asks me.

I don’t answer him.

“What? A hundred?”

I stare out the window, watching the lights of the city skyline blur together as the car races across the Queensboro Bridge.

“Fifty?” Barry persists, and I finally turn around. I wish he would wait to ask me this until we’re out of the cab.

I hold up two fingers, to show that I made two hundred bucks. Just as I knew he would, Barry looks at me with mild disgust.

“You should not be complaining,” he tells me, and I glare at him.

“We’ll talk about it later,” I snap, while poor Burt tries to pretend he’s not hearing any of this.

“Well, are we going to the diner, or are we going home?” Barry finally asks, lisping around his cigarette. I have the sudden urge to slap him, and I don’t know why.

“Do we have food in the house?” I ask.

“You ate the last of the chopped meat last night,” he says.

“Damn it! That was supposed to last a whole fucking week! Did I eat it, or did you eat it?” I explode.

“You ate it,” Barry assures me.

“I bet you did,” I argue. “Fuck! Christ! Why do I need to support you? Can’t you get a fucking job?”

Barry’s eyes flash, even though we have this argument nearly every day, verbatim.

“I have one, remember?” he offers. “Taking care of you.”

“Fuck you,” I say, automatically.

“Fuck you, too,” he answers.

Both of us fall silent for a few minutes. I sigh. We do have to eat something. Damn it, I really hate spending the money.

“I guess we’re going to the diner,” I announce, as if the prior conversation didn’t just take place. I lean over the seat a little bit. “Burt, take us to the diner, okay?”

Burt nods. His poker face is phenomenal. I don’t know how he does it. Even I find us intolerable.

The round neon bulbs on the Broadway Diner’s ancient sign blink and crackle against the dull and gray Queens sky. I pay Burt, and rush the short distance from the cab to the door. The cold makes Barry start to cough. He’s wheezing and choking. He really sounds like he’s about to die.

He’s bent over in front of the cab, and I feel a momentary twinge of pity for this person I used to love and still can’t do without. Is this what it’s like to be old with someone?

“C’mon, baby,” I say, my voice softening. “I’ll get you some coffee. It’ll warm your blood.”

I take his hand. We walk into the diner’s lobby. The yellow cast of their florescent overhead lights always makes me feel like I’m in a bad eighties movie. I catch a glimpse of my face in a mirror on the wall. My complexion appears as washed out as the lighting. My makeup has faded, displaying every flaw. I look tired and very pale, but more than that, I think I look used up.

Lighting has begun to affect me a lot, because I never see the sun anymore. Sometimes I’m still awake when it begins to peek from behind my neighborhood’s pre-war tenement buildings, its rays shining around corners and into alleys. But I’m fast asleep before it has finished rising.

I miss the sun. I feel that I am being deprived of everything that is healthy and wholesome, and I’m irrationally jealous of the nine-tenths of the world that doesn’t have to work at night.

We sit in our usual booth, next to the windows that face the parking lot and White Castle. The restaurant is nearly empty. Row after row of booths stand at attention. Another couple is huddled into a booth closer to the front of the house, their foreheads pressed together, their mouths smiling conspiratorially. The waitress approaches us and hands us our menus.

“Chamomile tea?” she asks me. We’re here almost every morning. The waitresses know us.

“Yep, and lemme have a grilled cheese and bacon with a side of fries and a side of mayo.”

Although I only weigh about ninety-five pounds, the two staples in my diet lately seem to be nicotine and mayonnaise.

“I’ll have a cup of coffee, and a Rueben with extra sauerkraut and a side of corned beef-hash,” Barry tells the waitress. I make a face.

“Sauerkraut. Ugh. I don’t know how you can eat that stuff,” I marvel as the waitress walks away.

Barry shrugs.

We sit in silence for another few minutes. I can’t take it anymore, so I kick him lightly on his shin.

“Stop.”

I kick him harder, my smile mischievous.

“I said, cut it out,” Barry says, but he’s holding back laughter. “I’ll hit back, I’m warning you.”

I don’t say anything. I kick him again, and jump up as his foot flies out to connect with the other side of the booth.

“You missed,” I tell him triumphantly. He leans out of the booth, grabs me, and pulls me down next to him, hugging me close. He’s relaxed now. We both are. I let him crush me in his arms for a moment. Then I pull away, wrinkling my nose.

“You smell,” I announce.

He shrugs again, and I sit back down on my side of the table. He does. He’s really fucking ripe, as a matter of fact. But he has smelled that way for so long that although the smell is repulsive, it’s also oddly comforting. Barry is almost never clean, so when he is, there’s an essential part of his persona missing.

Our food arrives, and I start shoveling mine into my face as fast as I can. It’s been about thirteen hours since I have eaten. I must look like a wild animal to anyone watching. I don’t care.

Barry’s table manners are no better than mine. Watery coffee dribbles out of the sides of his mouth, down the grizzle on his face, and finally lands on the front of his shirt. He forgets to close his mouth while he’s chewing, treating me to a liberal view of that coffee mixing with a large cud of corned-beef hash. His remaining teeth, brown on the sides from years of drugs and neglect, are barely strong enough to chew the food.

In silence we dine, and I know I am finished when the first wave of utter exhaustion starts to roll over me. Suddenly, the check can’t come fast enough. If I could sprawl down in the seat, fall asleep right here, and be magically transported to my bed I wouldn’t hesitate.

I start to slump, yawning. I hope we can find another cab at this hour, because it’s too far and too cold out for us to walk. That’s more money down the drain.

It seems like my life is comprised of a series of crumpled, sweaty dollar bills in constant motion, moving from palm to palm in the time it takes to fake a sincere handshake. One of these moments has got to be worth something more than this.

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