“Central Park,” Sharon says brightly as she gets into the car.

“Oh, hell, honey, don’t tell me you’re one of those Pollyanna Silver Lining types.”

Sharon tosses her coat into the backseat of the car and puts on her seatbelt. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch her expression. One eyebrow is raised, and she’s smirking.

“Not even close,” she says, peeling off her gloves.

Her track marks aren’t the worst I’ve ever seen. In fact they’re pretty faint. She looks at me as if she expects me to be shocked.

]]> Same night, different club. Or is it same club, different night? All these places are alike. I’m listening to bad music muffled by a worse P.A. and trying to convert time into money. I’ve lost count of how many auditions I went on after leaving Angels. It’s just finally come down to needing a source of income. So here I am.

There’s not much action yet. It’s the same old story – I’ve tried every guy in the room. They’re each going dollar for dollar at the stage. This place doesn’t see nearly as much traffic as Angels does. Still, I’ve worked at Lucille’s for about a week now and it’s tolerable. On average, I’m going home with about three hundred a night. Which isn’t great for a nude club, but it’ll keep me from starving.

I light a second cigarette off the butt I’m smoking. I eye the stage. It’s a nice one, I have to admit that. You’d never think so from the street level, where a doorman stands under an awning and ushers men into a dark elevator. But the crowd’s so thin. I’ll bet that elevator is a deal-breaker for plenty of marks, who are horrified thinking about what urban legend might be waiting for them here on the fourth floor. I know I would be.

Once they’re in, though, the front room opens up into a low-lit ballroom. The shiny, massive stage contains three long poles. There’s fake shrubbery behind some of the tables. The whole place looks almost elegant.

On my first day at work, I was warned about the cameras that monitor the private rooms, forcing everyone’s game on to the same level – no extras, no exceptions. Sam the bouncer is huge and friendly. I feel safer here than I did in any other club.

My eyes light on the girl who is crawling the length of the grand wooden stage. She manages to stop me in my tracks without even catching my eye, because I think maybe I know her.

The hair is different – this girl’s got hers done like Marilyn Monroe. I’m not close enough to see much more. She pulls her dress down, revealing a pair of large, fake breasts that I am positive my old friend didn’t have. But anything can change in a couple of years. And in my experience, it usually does.

The girl onstage notices my reaction to her. She waves to me. I squint and try to figure out whether that girl I knew in what seems like another lifetime would have found her way into a place like this. I’m not sure how I feel about it if she has.

I’m also not sure why I care. My life before strip clubs may as well not exist. If that’s the person I think it is, a conversation will be awkward. How can I explain my presence here? Do I have any right to ask about hers?

I continue to stare despite myself. Maybe I’m just lonely. There are Christmas displays in every store window now. The holiday season seems geared towards reminding people like me that we are the less fortunate.

Barry has stayed gone this time. I haven’t seen the sun in over a month. Sean’s away at school, and I think he’s still pretty upset with me. My social circle was limited to begin with. Now it’s nonexistent. I work, I go home, I get high, and I pass out. Rinse and repeat. When I don’t work, I curl up in front of the TV and watch movies on HBO. Often they’re the same movies, over and over again.

I didn’t notice when the Marilyn Monroe girl got dressed and left the stage. But now she plunks down in the chair next to me, smiling.

“I saw you watching me dance,” she says.

“Oh, yeah, I was. I’m sorry,” I say as I get a good look at her close up for the first time. I was mistaken. I’ve never seen her before. “I thought you were somebody else.”

“I am somebody else,” she quips. “So are you.”

I laugh with her, relieved that she isn’t who I thought she was. “Fair enough.”

“How long have you worked here?” she asks.

“About a week,” I reply.

“Like it?”

“Heh. Um. S’okay.”

“It gets better,” she assures me. “I’ve made eight hundred in one night a few times.”

“Ever break a G?” I ask.

“Not in this club,” she admits.

I shrug. “It’s not as bad as the new place on the West Side Highway.”

A fairly attractive, forty-ish mark wearing a suit and shiny black shoes wanders up to us and then he just stands there, beaming. We both smile politely. But she’s the one he’s looking at.

“You’re gorgeous,” he pants. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Kelly,” she says, extending her hand. She’s wearing long, white opera gloves that go nicely with her blue, satin gown. “And who are you, doll?”

The mark takes her hand. “Kelly, will you dance for me?”

“Certainly,” she says. She winks at me and gets out of her seat, wrapping an arm around the mark’s shoulder and holding her body close to his. In her stilettos, she dwarfs him as they walk off together toward the dance room. She’s got to be six feet tall in those things.

I hear my stage name over the P.A. I try to look happy – or at least, not look miserable – as I climb onstage.

These poles are three times the size of the ones at Angels, and I’m almost intimidated by their sheer length. I climb to the ceiling and then flip backwards to hang upside down.

I strain to stay in position. Blood rushes to my head. No one is watching me.

At the end of the night, the Monroe girl glides into the dressing room and parks herself behind me as I pull my street clothes out of my locker.

“What’re you doing now?” she wants to know.

“I dunno… a diner, then bed?” I say, surprised.

“Wanna hang out?”

“Where?”

“My place. Come meet my boyfriend, Willy. He used to DJ here, and he’s really cool. I don’t meet a lot of girls that I like very much. You have a certain…” She cocks her head to one side, studying me. “I want to say panache, and I don’t know what that sounds like to you.”

“Well, I don’t have to work tomorrow,” I say. I don’t know why, but I like this girl.

“Then you’ll come visit us,” she says, linking arms with me.

She’s a charming broad. It’s impossible for me to say no. Besides, what else have I got going on? An empty house and an empty bed.

“I’m Sharon,” she adds. She thrusts her body into a tight pair of jeans, and throws on a fake fur coat right over the opera gloves.

“I heard you say your name was Kelly,” I remark. “Sharon’s your real name?”

“They’re both my real names, honey,” she responds. “Kelly’s my last name. Sharon Kelly.” She bows low. “At your service.”

We walk out of the dressing room together and towards the elevator.

“I’ll pay for the cab. I made money tonight,” Sharon offers.

“That’s okay. I have my car.”

The elevator is packed. I hope I’m only imagining that I can hear it strain and creak on its pulley. It takes forever before it delivers us to the ground floor and relative safety.

“Good night, Buddy,” Sharon says to the doorman.

I nod to him also. He smiles at us. I’ve never really looked at him. Now I notice he’s missing a few teeth. He’s probably lost as many as Barry has. Must be in style this year. I cringe.

“My car’s this way,” I say. We step over sheets of ice on the uneven sidewalk, and the wind nearly pushes us over.

“I hope it snows for Christmas,” Sharon says.

“Why fuckin’ not? It’s snowed almost every day since Thanksgiving,” I grumble.

“You don’t like snow? I love it. I think it’s pretty.”

“I think it’s annoying,” I say, opening the car door and gasping a little at how cold the handle is. “This is my least favorite time of year. It’s not like you can make a snow angel in Manhattan.”

“Central Park,” Sharon says brightly as she gets into the car.

“Oh, hell, honey, don’t tell me you’re one of those Pollyanna Silver Lining types.”

Sharon tosses her coat into the backseat of the car and puts on her seatbelt. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch her expression. One eyebrow is raised, and she’s smirking.

“Not even close,” she says, peeling off her gloves.

Her track marks aren’t the worst I’ve ever seen. In fact they’re pretty faint. She looks at me as if she expects me to be shocked.

I nod, and start the car. Another junkie. Big deal. “Okay. So where do you live?”

“Spanish Harlem,” Sharon replies. “Drive all the way up Park Avenue. I’ll show you where to turn.”

I flip a knob, and the Damned comes blasting out through my speakers. I turn it down to a more acceptable level. “This okay with you?”

“Oh, cool, I love all kinds of music,” she breathes.

Crosstown traffic is easy at this hour. I adore driving through Manhattan at four-thirty A.M., before anyone’s awake, when it still feels like nighttime. There’s a certain peace to it. Especially once we get to Park Avenue, where I turn the radio off so I can listen to the neighbourhood’s slumbering silence.

“We just have to make a quick stop once we get across the street from my house,” Sharon says. “I didn’t procure my evening’s entertainment before work.”

I give her a sidelong look. “Are they out this late? Or early, I guess.”

“Yeah, actually, this is the best time,” she says. “It’s harder during the day. You wait in the car, huh? They know me. Better they don’t see your face. You probably look like five-oh to them.”

“I look like a cop?” That’s actually pretty funny.

“Well, you know. Not to me, but to these guys maybe. You’re cute and skinny and white.”

“How do you get away with it then?”

“Before they knew me, I used to send Willy. He’s Mexican.”

“Yeah? Your boyfriend’s from Mexico?”

“No. He’s from New Jersey.”

Park Avenue narrows dramatically and divides as we get farther uptown. The car bounces over potholes and other giant blemishes in the pavement. Within a few blocks, the whole neighborhood has changed.

“Okay, make a right,” Sharon says, sitting up. “Yeah. Here’s my place. Park in front of it.”

I parallel park next to a grimy sidewalk in front of an old, dark brick building that looks as if it should be condemned.

“I’ll just be a minute or two, okay?” Sharon slams the car door behind her without waiting for an answer. I watch her run across the street towards the projects, and then she disappears around the corner.

I crouch down in the car in front of the steering wheel. I want her to hurry. I’m feeling like maybe I’m a little bit out of my element.

When she reappears, she looks jubilant. “China white tonight,” she exclaims in a singsong voice. “Come on inside. Oh, Willy’s gonna be so happy.”

Her apartment is a tiny room – scarcely larger than a walk-in closet, and sparsely furnished. I doubt it’s been painted since the place was built. There’s a loft in one corner, and in the other, a mini-fridge with a hot-plate on top of it.

“I’m sorry about the mess,” Sharon chirps to me, and then, “Hi, baby! Guess what I got!”

She kisses the tall, lean olive-skinned guy with the sideburns and gentle eyes, and opens her palm to reveal five glassines. He smiles at her. He has a warm smile, which widens when he takes my hand to shake it. He can’t be older than twenty-five. I like him immediately.

“I’m Willy,” he says shyly. “Welcome to our home. I’m so sorry, if I knew Sharon was bringing anyone home I would have cleaned up.”

“Don’t worry,” I say, although the place does indeed look awful. There are crumpled tissues and empty cereal boxes on the floor lying next to jeans, shirts and bunched up towels. There’s a colorless rug buried somewhere underneath all that – here and there I can see squares of it.

“I wish I had something to offer you, a drink maybe. We didn’t go shopping yet this week,” Willy continues.

“Can I use your bathroom?” I ask.

Sharon hands me a key and a roll of toilet paper. “Round the corner, last door on the right hand side,” she says. “Don’t worry if you see any of the neighbors. They’re harmless.”

Their hallway is as depressing as the rest of the building. And the bathroom smells like old piss. As if no one’s ever cleaned up behind years of drunken men missing the toilet bowl. I make an effort to breathe only through my mouth, and I hover over the seat while I pee. When I wash my hands, there’s no place to dry them except for my jeans.

I return to Sharon’s room, where I’m surprised to see Buddy, the doorman from Lucille’s, sitting in the corner.

“You didn’t tell me you had company,” Buddy mumbles to Sharon, nodding at me.

“She’s cool, I promise. She won’t say anything,” Sharon answers. “Willy got fired when they found out I was dating him,” she explains to me. “They don’t know Buddy hangs out with us. Do you want a bump?”

I nod, and she hands me a glassine with a few crumbs left in it. I pour the contents on my hand and snort them. It’s not enough. I don’t feel anything. I’m the only person I know who does dope but won’t shoot up. Maybe that’s why for me, heroin is no different from any other party drug.

Buddy looks like he’s much older than we are. I don’t understand why he’s even in the picture until he rolls up his sleeve and starts tying off.

A few minutes later, his sweaty face has turned purple from the exertion of searching for a vein in his arm that will take the shot. He’s hunched over the needle, muttering to himself as he grows more and more desperate. Finally he asks Willy to shoot it into his neck. I turn away. I can’t watch this.

“Hey, you have an audition tomorrow, remember?” Willy says to Sharon. “You have to get some sleep.”

“I’m not tired,” Sharon says airily. “What time did I need to be there? Maybe I’ll just stay up.”

Both of them ignore Buddy, who is nodding in the corner.

“Last time you did that, you complained that you had puffy eyes and they didn’t call you back,” Willy reminds her. “Sharon almost wound up on a soap last month,” he tells me.

“It’ll be fine,” Sharon snaps.

“Hey, if you’ve got stuff to do, I need to get home and sleep anyway,” I interject. “And I’m sure my cats are hungry.”

“We’re hanging out again though,” Sharon says. It sounds like more of an order than an invitation.

“Of course,” I say, putting my coat on.

“Are you working on Friday? They have a Christmas party that night.”

“I think so, yeah.”

“Great,” she says. “Don’t make any other plans. We’ll go to after-hours. Okay, Willy?”

“Sharon, we don’t have money for after-hours,” Willy says.

“Shut up. You know I can make money whenever we need it. Quit being such a buzzkill.”

He shrugs. “Sure, okay. I’ll see you soon,” he says to me.

Sharon comes over and gives me a big hug. “You should let me do your eye makeup for the party,” she says.

“Thanks for coming over,” Willy says. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Come back soon!” Sharon says.

They’re both still smiling when the door closes. I’m not even halfway down the hall before I hear the muffled arguing begin.

“I said, don’t tell me what to do!” That’s her voice.

“Okay, then do whatever the hell you want – I don’t care!”

I suppose Buddy’s used to their quarrels. There’s not a peep out of him.

I shake my head, and continue walking to my car, glad that for a change, it isn’t me doing the yelling.

“Oh, yeah, right. Let’s tell the whole world how easy it is to fuck me over. Let’s write across the sky in giant letters that I’m a victim.”

“You think if bad things happen to you, it automatically means you’re a victim?”

“Honestly? Yeah. That’s what I think.”

]]> “You don’t sound good at all,” Sean says immediately when I pick up the phone.

“You’re observant,” I answer.

I’ve been up all night doing coke and drinking. I think I slept for an hour, but I’m not really sure. My head aches. My body feels dried up and wrung out. I could probably sleep for the rest of the week. Goddamned phone. I should have turned off the ringer.

“Do you still want me to come over?”

“I didn’t even know you were in town.”

Usually I want to see Sean. But not today. Today I don’t want to see anyone.

“I told you last time I saw you that I’d be here today. Remember? We said we’d finish the song.”

“I hate that song.”

“Oh.” Sean sounds hurt. “We could work on something else then, I guess.”

“We’re wasting our time.”

I shouldn’t be taking this out on him. He’s the only person I know who’s nice to me. I want to hang up and start fresh from a different place. But I can’t stop. All my hurt has surfaced and is now yanking the strings for me. “No do-overs!” taunts a childish voice in my head. My logical self is sitting this one out.

“I’ve never felt that way,” he says. “Working with you is great.”

“Yeah? Then why haven’t we finished it yet?” Now I’m simply being mean.

“You know I just had mid-terms. I’m practically flunking out of school. I’m on a scholarship! Which I’ll lose if I don’t straighten out this semester.”

“Well, it’s good to see where your priorities lie, college boy,” I retort.

Stop it, just stop it! I don’t want to do this, and I can’t do anything else right now. Just go away and come back when I feel like a human being.

“Hey, fuck you.” Sean has just passed over from hurt into angry. “When did you start becoming such a bitch?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say sarcastically. “Maybe the last time Barry hit me? Did you know he hit me?” I hear Sean catch his breath. The rest of my diatribe comes spewing out. “Of course you didn’t, because I never told you. Did you know that Barry and Alannah used me up and then both left me high and dry? Did you know I quit Angels because the bouncers wouldn’t protect me from a posse of ugly, dirty street rats? On that note… did you know I once got raped in a strip club before I knew how to keep these fuckers at bay? Management did nothing. That’s right, you heard me, nothing. They knew… Yeah, you don’t know the first thing about my life. You only know what I tell you. I’ve kept it simple for you. I wanted you to think I was different.”

He’s silent for long enough that I wonder whether he’s still on the line. Then he says, “You are different. At least, you’ve always been different. You’re smart. You’re nice. You’re incredibly fucking talented. Your voice would move people if more people could hear it.”

“Fat chance, honey,” I say. “The only thing about me that’s ever gonna move anyone is my ass grinding in his lap.”

“That’s a harsh way to look at yourself.”

No shit, Sean.

“I got it straight from the horse’s mouth. Fuck it. I’m done.”

“Done? What are you done with?” Now he sounds like he feels almost as lousy as I do.

“DONE! Just done. Time to accept my lot in life and get on with it.” I hear him exhale on the other end. “Look, Sean…” I try to make my voice gentler. This is a challenge alongside the permanent cocaine rasp it seems to have taken on. “I’m sorry for letting you believe I was better than I am. Truth is, I’m as damaged as any other stripper you’ve ever seen. Maybe more.”

“That’s not true,” he objects. “The shit you just told me is horrible. And I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you dare go feeling sorry for me!”

It’s a stupid thing to say, especially in light of the amount of time I spend feeling sorry for myself.

“I don’t know what you want me to say. Except all those things you just told me? Those are the songs we should be writing.”

“Oh, yeah, right.” I’ve gone flat again. “Let’s tell the whole world how easy it is to fuck me over. Let’s write across the sky in giant letters that I’m a victim.”

“You think if bad things happen to you, it automatically means you’re a victim?”

“Honestly? Yeah. That’s what I think.”

“You know, I never told you a lot about my life, either. Maybe you’d think I’m a victim, too.”

His statement catapults me back into reality. I feel a pang of remorse for how selfish I’m being. I try to make amends. “Sean, I could’ve put up with any of what I just told you as long as I believed I had an out, and that out was music. But I don’t anymore. So I have nothing left to look forward to.”

“You know what? I went to Catholic school. The nuns gave us coloring books that said ‘Jesus loves you’. I used to believe that. I guess the people I love best are supposed to be with Jesus now, too. ‘Cause most of ‘em are dead. So I got sold on a bunch of garbage about God that I no longer believe. Am I supposed to pack it in, too?”

“I met some A&R reps the other day, and they said I was a terrible singer. ‘Caterwauling’ was the word I think they used. That’s about the same as God coming down from his fluffy cloud and announcing that I shalt not bother playing music. So, I see your Jesus, and I raise you four pudgy A&R reps,” I say.

“What kind of music did these guys rep?” Sean asks.

“Who cares? I think they would know better than you and I would about whether I should keep on singing.”

“All right.” He sounds tired and discouraged. “I’m not gonna argue with you anymore. Call me some time if you want to. I’ll be home for winter break. Ball’s in your court now, okay? I’ll talk to ya.”

“Hey, wait! Sean!” I realize that I’d like to see him anyway, even if I don’t feel like working on our tune.

It’s too late. He’s hung up the phone.

He doesn’t respond.

“Barry, I’m talking to you.”

“I HEAR YOU!” he explodes, throwing the book across the room. It ricochets off the wall and lands in the middle of the floor with its spine split.

]]> “Maybe it’s time you hung it up,” Barry suggests, without looking up from the well-worn Robert Jordan novel that I’ve seen him read at least three times.

“Oh, yeah, that’ll happen,” I sneer. I fling my coat onto a chair, and heave my body onto the couch next to him. I’m completely exhausted. “Do we have any more weed?” I ask.

Barry hands me a roach that was a badly rolled joint in a previous incarnation, and I light it, wincing at the hideous taste.

“I can’t make money at any of these new clubs,” I sigh.

“Angels was your groove,” he replies.

“Fuck that place!” I say sharply. “Angels is a whorehouse.”

Now he does look up. “They’re all whorehouses, baby. When are you gonna realize that?”

“So you keep saying.” I take a deep breath. “Barry, you and I need to talk.”

He rolls his eyes, shuts the book and straightens in his seat. He assumes an exaggerated posture and stares at me expectantly. “What?”

“The thing is,” I begin. “Nothing’s come in now for almost a month. I was losing money while Alannah was here. Now I’m burning through my savings.”

“I told you she was gonna take you for a ride,” he says. He crosses his legs and uncrosses them. They’re gangly – too long for his body.

“Right… Okay, so this isn’t actually about Alannah,” I say. “Barry, I really need you to get a job.”

“You know, there are other gigs out there besides stripping.”

“This isn’t about whether I can make money or not. I’ve been taking care of you for years. You’re a grown man. It’s not fair.”

He blows cigarette smoke out the side of his mouth. “You thought about bartending?”

I tap my fingers on the coffee table and suck my teeth. After a minute or two of this pregnant silence, Barry picks up his paperback and opens it again.

“You don’t…” I trail off and then begin once more in wonder. “This is never gonna change, is it?”

He doesn’t respond.

“Barry, I’m talking to you.”

“I HEAR YOU!” he explodes, throwing the book across the room. It ricochets off the wall and lands in the middle of the floor with its spine split.

I bite my lip. “Okay, Barry, you have to go.”

“Fuck you,” he dismisses me.

“Do I need to call the cops again?”

He moves from the couch and stands over me. It’s a jailhouse threat. I take the bait, pulling myself up to my full height. We glower at each other.

“Do you know what a pain in the ass it is to deal with you?” he seethes. “You’re the reason I can’t get a job. Maybe if you’d quit nagging me so much, I could handle the stress of looking for work!”

“Bullshit!”

He’s too close. I push him off-balance, and start to walk away towards the telephone. He sees where I’m headed and shoves me in the other direction. I fly backwards. My head hits the corner of the coffee table.

“MotherFUCKER!” I squawk. When the pain hits, it starts as a slow throb, and then spreads until my eyeballs ache.

“Oh, Christ,” Barry says, all the anger instantly draining itself from his face. “Baby, you okay?” He gets down on his knees in front of me and goes to touch the back of my head. “I’ll get you some ice.”

I slap his hand away and close my eyes. “Please just go,” I whisper. I sink all the way down onto the living room floor, pressing my face to the cold wood.

He complies. I can hear him rustling around the room, ostensibly collecting his things. A few minutes later, the door to the apartment bangs shut.

I wait until I’m positive he’s not coming back before I’ll allow the tears to start.

“Yeah, I like it,” she answers.

What else is she going to say in front of the boss? I feel silly for asking the question. An A&R rep – of course she likes her job. I clamber back up the pole and do a trick. The three guys clap politely, and throw more money up on the stage.

I should be living in their world, not this one. I wish there was some way that I could let them know I don’t belong here.

]]> By the time I reach the seventh audition I’ve been to in almost as many days, I’ve lost count of how much cash I’ve spent trying to find a new job. Some clubs won’t hire me because I don’t look like the girls they’ve already got. Other places are just too damned dead for me to justify paying house fees to the owners. I’m thinking this Merry-Go-Round place may be one of them. It’s empty.

The manager asks me to stay for the rest of the shift after he sees me dance. He says he’ll waive tip-out. “We need more white girls,” he tells me plainly.

From what I’ve observed so far, the girls here spend most of their time in the dressing room, playing cards and bullshitting. The conversations I’ve overheard have run along these lines:

“Public assistance ain’t really no thing.”

“Yeah? How long I’ma have to wait for it?”

“Depends. You got kids?”

 “Nah.”

“Well, so maybe longer than I did, chica. But when you get it, it’s all good. They give you a card to swipe through the machines at the grocery, jus’ like a credit card. It’s like, and what, white girl? I got a card too – I’m just as good as you.”

Somehow I doubt the girls here would agree with their manager’s assessment of the Merry-Go-Round’s staffing needs.

I doubt I’m going to work at this place. But I’ve decided to see if I can at least make enough to put some gas in the car today. I hate going through my savings. The act of spending money rather than making it, for the first time in something like ten months, really worries me.

They wander into the club while I’m in the middle of a set, and they head right for the stage. They are three guys and a girl. None of them look much older than I am.

It’s always a little strange for me when a woman comes in. I feel like I need to go out of my way to talk to her and try to figure out what her deal is. Usually she’s half of a couple. This one is attractive. A goth chick or a metalhead from the looks of it. My money’s on metal – she’s wearing black jeans and not very much makeup. She tips me when I dance in front of her.

“Tell me which one’s your boyfriend, and I won’t touch him unless you want me to,” I tell her confidently.

She laughs. “None of them,” she says. “We all work together.”

“No kidding.” I’m surprised. “What do you guys do?”

The girl points to one of her colleagues, a chubby guy with glasses. “He owns the company. J.J., can I give her a business card?”

J.J. nods his permission. “Give her this, too,” he says, and passes her another wad of singles.

“Thanks,” I say to him. He raises his glass at me, his eyes taking in every inch of my body. I look down at their cards. She’s A&R for a record label I’ve never heard of. He’s the CEO. “That’s really cool,” I comment. “Is it a fun job?”

“Yeah, I like it,” she answers.

What else is she going to say in front of the boss? I feel silly for asking the question. An A&R rep – of course she likes her job. I clamber back up the pole and do a trick. The three guys clap politely, and throw more money up on the stage.

I should be living in their world, not this one. I wish there was some way that I could let them know I don’t belong here.

My set ends. I collect my pile of one-dollar bills and walk through the club to the dressing room, naked and clutching my dress in front of my body.

After I’m finished putting myself back together, I return to the floor, where a pretty Latina dancer has taken the stage. I watch her move, staring as hard as any customer would. My motivations are different. It’s not lust for me, not today. I’m trying to picture her dressed. I’m trying to imagine what this girl would look like if she did something else for a living.

The Fugee’s version of “Killing Me Softly” comes on. The girl onstage wiggles her ass to it, looking thoroughly bored. I tap my foot automatically and sing along with Lauren Hill.

“Strummin’ my pain with his fingers… Yeah, he was singin’ my life with his words…”

One of the label guys walks past me on his way to the bathroom. I continue to sing. I’m not sure if he hears me or not. I’m not even really sure that I want him to. His expression never changes, so I assume he didn’t.

Over the course of the next hour, I do another two sets. I notice that I’m not the only girl who isn’t selling private dances – I haven’t seen anyone actually land one for the whole time I’ve been here. I decide not to finish the shift.

The manager is decent enough about it – what can he really say, after all? I tried. It feels good to get back into street clothes. I’ll try another club tomorrow, and if necessary, the day after.

As I emerge from the dressing room, I see that the A&R people are also leaving. I’m not going out of my way to listen to their conversation. But I hear it anyway, and I stop cold. They don’t notice me standing right behind them.

“Did you hear that skinny chick caterwauling over the music?” says the guy who walked past me.

My stomach drops. He means me. I’m the skinny chick.

“That’s what you get when you tell people you’re A&R,” laughs his boss.

“Does every stripper on the planet think she’s a singer?” the first guy asks.

“No. Some of them think they’re actresses, too,” the third guy says.

They all laugh. The only one who doesn’t say anything is the girl. I can’t see their faces, so I have no idea whether she agrees or not. What I do know is that I feel ill.

I give the A&R reps a good head start before walking out to my car. I don’t want them to see me in my street clothes. My lower lip quivers as I fight off tears.

Singing is the only thing I’ve ever really thought I was good at. And I guess somewhere in the back of my mind, I always hoped that when I finally got my shit together, I’d be able to do it for a living. I don’t even know what else to aspire to if I don’t want this.

But what if I’ve been deluding myself? Maybe I was good enough to slay the competition in grade school – was I merely a big fish in a small pond? These people listen to music for a living. They not only thought I was horrible – they all had a good laugh about it, too.

I hear a set of tires screech somewhere down the block on the West Side Highway, and a second later, the sound of glass shattering.

Perfect, I think to myself bitterly. Somebody upstairs is making it real clear, all right.

It seems appropriate to me that failure has its very own soundtrack.

My teeth start to chatter as I enter my musty, cold apartment. There’s still no heat in the building – it’s been four days now. Barry is bundled up in front of the TV under a mountain he’s made using every blanket in the house, including mine. He doesn’t look up when I walk in. I ignore him and go straight to the bedroom, where I plunk my ass down on the bare bed and stare at the wall.

I keep hearing that one guy’s voice in my head, over and over again like a loop, until I’m ready to start screaming just so that I can hear something different.

I don’t know anything about those A&R people. It’s possible they just don’t like this kind of music. I have no idea what they’ve put out on their label, but they can’t be the final word on good taste, can they? Most people hear me sing and then tell me I’m great at it. Why would they all lie?

What about Sean? His opinion counts, doesn’t it? I can think of nothing I’d like better right now than to jam with someone who likes the way I sing. But Sean’s at school.

And then I remember the blues band in the subway. Those guys loved me. I never did call up that frontman. I should call him now.

I rummage through my phone numbers. Do I even have his card anymore? That was months ago. He probably won’t even remember me. But I finally find the card buried all the way on the bottom of the box. Before I can lose my nerve, I dial the number. My hands shake. It’s ringing.

“Yeah?” It’s a woman’s voice. She sounds old and not very friendly. When I ask for Chuck, she doesn’t answer, leaving an awkward pause.

“Hello?” I say. “Is this Chuck’s number?”

“Who this? Why you callin’ my husband? You sellin’ somethin’?”

“What?”

“You one of those telemarketin’ people?”

“No. I met Chuck at Grand Central, and…” I trail off because I’m nervous. She’s already put me on the defensive.

“You met Chuck? When you met him?”

“I don’t know, a while ago.

“Mm-hmm.”

“He said to call him, back when we met. It’s about his band.” I sound moronic. “Is he around?”

“No, he ain’t.”

“Oh. Um… could you tell me when’s a good time for me to call back?”

“Ain’t no good time. Chuck ain’t here. Chuck ain’t gonna be here.”

“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry to bother you, then.”

“Mm-hmm,” she says again.

“Has he got a new number where I can reach him?”

“Honey, you cain’t reach him. He dead.”

“What?”

“I said he dead. You unnerstan’? Chuck dead.”

There’s no answer for that and she knows it. I apologize and hang up the phone, dazed.

“What?” I’m abrupt, already defensive.

“Baby, what you got to be all the way over there for? I’m sayin’ - give me and my peeps some love. We got money.”

My gaze is suspicious. “You can’t just do whatever you want to me for a damned dollar, you know,” I assert.

“How much would that be?” one wiseass pipes up.]]> “Here, kitty, kitty!”

A balled-up dollar bill lands next to one of my stilettos, followed by a round of hooting and hissing. I hate the way these guys act when they’re here in groups. It’s ludicrous – not one of them would bother to be so obnoxious if he was in here alone. This time, they are five young Hispanic guys, perhaps Dominican – I can’t really tell – all of them slouching too close to the stage in their wife-beaters and their baggy low-rider jeans with the boxer shorts hanging out.

“Oh, mami, mami, come bring me punani,” another one chants. I give him what I hope is a withering look, but he just chortles, sipping his O’Doul’s with gusto. I’ll bet the dumbass really thinks he’s getting drunk.

I don’t even try to move to this techno beat that Richard has on. I’m cold, pissed off, and way too sober. It’s less than halfway into the shift.

I’m strapped tonight, of course, and I somehow owe the club a fifty dollar late fee. I suspect that this fine is retaliatory on behalf of Alannah, who wasted no time telling everyone we work with that I tossed her ass out onto the street, leaving her with no place to go. How I ever managed to succumb to that bitch’s convoluted little mind games and come up empty-handed is beyond me, but that’s exactly what has happened. The dog eyes I’m getting in the dressing room from most of the girls who work here say it all.

“Shake it, meatflaps,” I hear one of the would-be O.G.’s saying behind me. I set my jaw hard. I don’t deserve this.

Ignoring the roughnecks, I climb up the pole and flip backwards, letting all the blood rush to my head until my ears start to pop. I do various pole gymnastics for a minute or two while I’m completely naked. I’m trying to kill time until this horrific set ends so that I can get offstage and suck down some vodka.

Meanwhile, the vulgar little bastards are growing more and more rowdy. The catcalls continue, and so do the insults.

“Choacha!”

“Yo, baby, come on over here and meet Oscar!”

“Show us some coochie! Gotta dolla fo’ to make you holla!”

There is more loud laughter. One charming lad stands up and claps his homeboy on the back. “Good one, B,” he says.

“No doubt, no doubt,” says his friend, who also rises and leans over the periphery of the stage. “Hey,” he addresses me.

“What?” I’m abrupt, already defensive.

“Baby, what you got to be all the way over there for? I’m sayin’ – give me and my peeps some love. We got money.”

My gaze is suspicious. “You can’t just do whatever you want to me for a damned dollar, you know,” I assert.

“How much would that be?” one wiseass pipes up, but he falls silent when B glares at him.

“Nah, girl, come on, it’s cool, we was just messin’ wit you,” says B. “We came to have a good time. Come on over here and dance for us.”

“I’ll dance for you over here,” I say.

B pulls a hundred dollar bill out of his wallet and waves it in the air.

Normally I wouldn’t fall for such a tactic. But tonight I’m flustered. There’s too much going on in my head for me to give this situation the amount of caution it deserves. I cross the stage and lean down for the hundred. “Yeah?” I say.

“Yeah, that’s right,” says B, his eyes alive with merriment. “Turn around for me.”

“No.”

“Well, where I’m supposed to put it then?”

His friends punch each other, mumbling approvingly and egging him on. I tap my garter. “You can put it here,” I announce.

“You saw this was a C-note, right, mami?”

“Yeah, and? So what?”

“So ain’t you gonna let me put a whole C-note no place better than on your leg? That ain’t special.”

I sigh. Nobody’s ever tipped me a hundred dollars onstage. It’d be nice to be able to say that someone has. Maybe it’d make the other girls respect me more.

“You can put it between my tits,” I say reluctantly.

B’s friends start to hoot again, and I’m immediately sorry for what I’ve volunteered. But it’s too late to back down. I cover my breasts with my palms, and I push them together to create cleavage.

B holds up the hundred.  I lean towards him. He puts his fist in between my hands as they lay over my chest. I try to grab the bill from him, but he won’t let it go.

“Now come on,” I tell him, my expression stern.

“Aw, honey dip, I’m just gettin’ my money’s worth,” says B. “Spread your legs, baby. Let’s see some poontang.”

“That’s not part of the bargain,” I announce indignantly, and I pull away.

I’m not fast enough. B grabs the back of my head with his other hand and starts trying to shove it down into his crotch. His buddies cheer. As my palms come off my chest to push on the stage floor for leverage, one of his friends grabs a handful of tit, while another one of them slaps my ass. They surround me like brush wolves on a kill. I don’t even try to defend myself against so many men. Instead, I scream.

“TIM! MAKE THEM QUIT TOUCHING ME OVER HERE!”

Tim looks over at the stage with little interest, and Ronnie takes his sweet time strolling up to the scene. By the time he is standing in front of us, the hooligans have had their fill.

“Fellas, no touching the girls onstage. Okay? If you do it again, I’ll have to ask you to leave,” Ronnie tells them, far too mildly for my liking. He and B nod at each other in understanding, and then he starts to walk back to the bar.

By now, I’m shivering next to the pole on the opposite side of the stage, climbing back into my handkerchief of a dress, and I’m absolutely livid. Last week, someone touched Brittany while she was on stage, and she didn’t even have to raise her voice. Ronnie pulled the offender up out of his chair and had him out the door before the poor wretch was even aware that he was being moved. I’ve made these people a lot of money some nights. At the very least, I warrant the same courtesy from the club as Brittany does.

“That’s it?” I carp at Ronnie. “That’s all you’re gonna say to him?”

Ronnie shrugs from across the club. “I gave him a warning. If he does it again, he knows he has to leave.”

“That’s bullshit!” I exclaim. “You’re letting these pricks think they can get away with anything they want to in here!”

“Sweetheart, spare us the ‘woe-is-me’ act. You’re not fooling nobody,” Tim pipes up.

Richard has turned the music all the way down, and the house lights almost all the way up, making an even bigger spectacle of me than is necessary. He’s standing outside the DJ booth, beaming.

The other girls, forced to pause mid-lap-dance, shoot me hostile looks that match the ones their customers are giving me.

The homeboys that started it all are now sitting back against the mirrored wall, all holding the same identically cocky pose. Each one is slouched all the way down in his chair with his arms folded over a sweaty chest and a dirty wife-beater.

I decide to stand up for myself.

“Tim, what the hell are you talking about?”

Tim raises his glass to his lips. He’s drinking seltzer water – I think.

He takes a sip, and then replies, “So a customer touches your precious booby. Innocent little you. He does it onstage, he’s a bastid. He does it in the VIP, you make money. It’s not no big deal. And why do you have your dress on? Your set’s not over.”

“Oh, fuck yes, it is,” I tell him, and I climb over the rail and off the stage.

“What do you think you’re doing, missy? A girl has to be on that stage at all times!” Tim yawps.

“Oh, so some rules are set in stone? While the bend the other ones any way you feel like?” I fume. “I don’t fucking think so. I’m done. Get someone else down on her knees for you.”

“I am going to fine you an extra fifty dollars for every minute you are off that stage if you don’t get back up there right now!” Tim decrees. “You think you’re better than everyone else?”

“That seems to be a common theme, so I guess I must,” I say.

“GET BACK UP ON STAGE OR YOU’RE FIRED!”

“How on earth do you fire someone who pays you to work?” I wonder as I head towards the dressing room. “I don’t think you can fire me. I think this is me quitting.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Clarissa whispers when I pass by her on the way to the basement door. “You know he’s not gonna let you come back if you leave!”

This is the first time she’s spoken to me in a couple of months. “Piss off, whore!” I tell her.

I storm downstairs, grab my bag, turn right around and head back up the stairs. I don’t even want to be in this place long enough to change out of my skimpy costume.

On the floor, the music is up once more droning some colorless techno, and Alannah has taken my place on stage.

I muscle my way past the bar, ignoring everyone. I don’t look back once. It’s not until I get out the front door that I remember my car is in the shop. I’m not holding enough cash to pay for a cab.

I open up the bag to find that my jeans and my coat are missing. Some bitch went and fucked with my things – probably Alannah or one of her friends – on this night, of all nights. Fabulous. That’s just beautiful. There’s no way I’m going back inside to further humiliate myself by asking anyone where my clothes are.

It’s nearly winter time, it’s windy and crisp out here, and now I’m going to have to take the subway home in what amounts to lingerie and stilettos. At midnight.

I try not to think about how cold I am, walking cross-town for several blocks dressed like a regular streetwalker. Shit, even those chicks wear jean jackets and legwarmers sometimes.

It’s warmer when I get down to the subway station, but not by much. If I was dressed for the weather, of course, I know damned well it would be sweltering down here. Just not tonight.

The station is deserted. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. There’s no one around to see me dressed like this, thank God. No cops – they’d probably arrest me for soliciting if they showed up right now. But I keep looking behind me anyway, paranoid that someone will materialize. Knowing that if anyone does, I’ll be alone with him and my screams as they bounce off the walls underground.

Finally, after an eternity, I see two tiny dotted headlights beginning to shine their way around the corner of the subway’s passage.

A middle-aged man, tall and robust in a suit and a trench, walks purposefully down the stairs in my direction, looking dead at me. I shrink against the bench, praying that the train moves faster. He strides closer. I can see the first car in the distance. I can’t hear it yet. He advances. I look away.

The train roars to a stop in front of us. The stranger takes off his coat, throws it across my lap, and strides through the doors as they open.

By the time I recover from the shock that I’m the recipient of this random kindness, I have to throw my body between those same doors to keep them from closing in my face. I huddle in the coat, which covers me and then some. My face is in my hands. I’m too ashamed to even look up and thank the man. When I finally work up the nerve to do it, he is already getting off at the following stop. He doesn’t turn around to look at me again.