TWENTY-NINE
It’s five minutes to eight. Thirty girls are crammed into the dressing room. We’re all trying to get into costume before the clock strikes fines for everyone. Suddenly, the door at the top of the stairs bangs shut so loudly it echoes. Alannah comes running into the basement, sobbing uncontrollably. She falls into Anisa’s arms.
Everything stops. All the girls stare at Alannah. They surround her.
“What happened, ma? What’s wrong?” they ask.
Tim waddles down the stairs with Ronnie right behind him. Usually they don’t come into our dressing room. This is a big deal.
“We got rid of him,” Tim tells her. “Don’t worry about it.”
Alannah wails into Anisa’s shoulder. “He said – he said…”
“What, ma? What’d the pendejo say to you?” Anisa asks.
“He said he got tested! He said he’s HIV positive! He told me he has AIDS! And I have it, too!”
Tim uses his bulk to clear a path through the well-meaning girls. He puts his arms around Alannah. I’ve never seen Tim affectionate with anyone. Guess there’s a first time for everything.
“All right,” he consoles her softly in his hoarse brogue. “No one here’s gonna let anything happen to you. He’s not gonna be back.”
“What if I have AIDS, Tim?” Alannah moans.
“He’s just lying about it to scare you,” Ronnie says. “Don’t even let him fuck with your head. Just go get tested.”
“Alannah, we can go to Planned Parenthood tomorrow,” I say. “We’ll both go get tested. It’s about that time for me, too.”
“There, see?” Tim rubs her back, and she stops crying.
He looks around the room. “Okay, girls, show’s over. It’s five past eight. I want everyone upstairs.”
Ronnie wordlessly returns to his post, and the girls begin to file out and up the stairs. Tim grabs my arm.
“Hold on there, missy.”
I stop. When the three of us are alone, he continues.
“So you’re gonna make sure you get Alannah to a clinic tomorrow?” he asks, looking at me.
“That’s a done deal,” I assure him.
“How long before the results?”
“I don’t know. A week or two, I think.”
“You ladies gonna be able to work in the mean time? If Alannah needs time off, I already told her she can have it.”
“Can we get back to you on that one?” I ask.
“I can work, Tim,” Alannah pipes up, glaring at me.
“Okay, honey,” Tim tells her. He squeezes her tightly, and then lets her go. “You change your mind, you just come talk to me.”
“Thanks, Tim,” she whispers.
“And another thing,” Tim addresses me.
“What’s that?”
“That boyfriend of yours – the dirty fella that hangs out next to the club all night and bothers my bouncers…”
Oh, my God. He’s got to be shitting me!
“Yeah, what about him?” It comes out sounding defiant.
“That’s exactly it. What about him?”
“Excuse me?”
“Where was he tonight when this joker was harassing Alannah outside the club?”
I stare into two pairs of accusing eyes – his and Alannah’s – and I do the best I can to hold my ground. This is unbelievable. How can any of this possibly be my fault?
“I don’t have a fuckin’ clue,” I tell them, turning on my heel and making my way up the stairs with as much dignity as I can muster.
We have a full house out here on the floor. The club is dense with marks on the make. I start hustling right away so I won’t have to think.
I’m lap dancing on a tubby, middle-aged customer when I accidentally call him by the wrong name. Probably the name of the guy I danced on right before him. This happens sometimes, and usually an apology makes it right. But this mark’s been quietly hostile, almost combative, since we began the dance. I guess my lapse is the last straw for him.
“And we’re supposed to believe you’re not using us?” he says, looking at me like I’m made of dirt. “I want my money back.”
“There are no refunds, pal.”
“I’ll tell your manager,” he threatens.
I laugh hysterically. “What do you think this is, Wendy’s? Do it.” I start to walk away.
“Hey, get back here,” he exclaims. “You owe me money. I gave you a tip up front!”
I whirl around. “You gave me five lousy dollars, asshole. The usual tip is twenty.”
“You ripped me off,” he complains. “The song’s not even over yet.”
“It is for you,” I say.
I’m running out of steam, and it’s happening quickly. When I sleep, I dream about this place. There is no respite anymore. No matter where I go or what I do, I’m always at Angels in one form or another. The boundaries are all gone.
I sit down at the end of the bar, next to Damian and Ronnie.
“Poor baby, you are so sad all the time,” Damian says to me. I can’t tell whether he’s genuinely concerned, or just having fun at my expense, but I’ll welcome any ear right now – authentic or otherwise.
“It’s always something,” I gripe. “You know what I mean?”
Damian looks at Ronnie. “Some people always seem to have problems,” he says. “Why do you think that is?”
“I think that people who always have problems are people who always make problems for themselves,” Ronnie says neutrally.
I shoot him a look of pure hatred. I’ve got a good reason for this. Ronnie is detached, he’s mean… and he’s right.
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March 23rd, 2009 at 9:58 pm
I gave you an award!
March 24th, 2009 at 9:33 am
Well, shucks, m’aam. Thanks!
I love your blog as well. I lived in L.A. for the last couple of years before leaving the country, and I couldn’t even imagine stripping out there. Your post about the dangerous areas and isolated areas of town strippers are forced to work in especially struck a chord with me.
Go read this blog, everyone, TT is awesome!