During my next
shift at the bookstore, in between selling John Irving books, I scribbled down
the number listed in the want ads and shoved it into my pants pocket. I thought about the number in my pocket
as I sat ripping covers off the “mass market” romance and western novels with
Michael. There was something
satisfying about ripping off the covers.
Busty women with flowing dresses falling off of their white shoulders
being bent over backward by a swarthy long haired man, with a sword at his
side. Rip, and the cover was added
to a stack of others in a box, and the pulp fiction flew into another much
larger box overflowing with cheap print.
Although the job kept Michael from scowling at customers, just being
surrounded by so much bad writing seemed to aggravate him even more. Michael’s real love was loud, raucous
music, and he wrote regular reviews for several music related ‘zines. He despised mediocrity. I never read any of this crap either,
but there we were, both of us with bachelor’s degrees, literally surrounded by
crap fiction.
It was break time
for Kevin, as we could hear by the rhythmic tapping of his drumsticks. He kept them nearby at all times, and
would regularly beat out a rhythm whenever he had a chance. We once caravanned to Galveston
together for a weekend with friends.
He drove behind me and each time during the three hour drive I looked
into the rearview mirror, he was tapping out rhythms with his drumsticks on the
steering wheel. I wasn’t sure how
he actually drove the car.
“Michael,”
I said, as I ripped the cover of a Western off. The sunset and horse joined the busty women in the ripped
covers box. “Have you ever known
any dancers? I mean, you know,
stripper dancers?”
Michael
stopped for a minute and pushed his glasses back up on his face. “I was friends with a girl for a while
who did that. And Shanda, from The
Blaxx, used to be a stripper before The Blaxx made it big and so now she
doesn’t need to anymore.”
“Is
it good money, do you think?”
“I
guess so. Seriously,” he said,
holding up a true crime book titled All the Wilted Flowers, “who reads
this fucking shit?” He ripped the
cover off violently and slammed the book into the pile of paperbacks. “I hate this goddamned job,
sometimes.”
Kevin’s
tapping had stopped. I heard him
negotiating with a creditor on the break phone. His creditors were always calling him at work. I wondered how much money the author of
All the Wilted Flowers made on that book.
That
night, I sat on my apartment floor next to the phone, looking at the number I’d
scribbled down. I could hear Mary,
Blake, Cat and Brad down below me, drinking Miekey’s. It was hot in the apartment, since I didn’t have air
conditioning. I was in shorts and
a half shirt. My cat, Simon, came
over and rubbed against my leg. I picked up the phone and dialed.
On
the third ring, someone picked up.
“Devil’s Cave,” said a man’s voice. I heard voices in the background. I tried to sound confident. Like they would be freaking lucky to get such a sexy thing
as I. Simon tried to curl into my lap, and I shoved him off.
“Hi,
I was calling about the ad in the paper for dancers.”
“Oh
great,” said the man, who didn’t sound like I thought he would. I had expected an old voice, gritty and
slimy. This voice was young, and
seemed to be in a pretty good mood.
“Do you have any experience?”
A
tricky question right off the bat.
“I have 4 years of experience in dance,” I replied, “but I’ve never
danced in a club.” Suddenly, I
felt like I was applying for a college scholarship. It was all about selling myself. “But,” I went on, “I have lots of experience performing in
front of people.” I was really
sweating now. I pushed my sweaty
hair back from my forehead and I felt I trickle of sweat roll down between my
breasts.
“How
old are you?” replied the man, and I heard someone in the background whoop
loudly.
“Twenty-three”.
“On
a scale of one to ten, with ten being good, how would you rate your body?”
There
was an interview question I’d never heard before. An image of my naked body flashed in my mind. 110 pounds, skinny, knobby knees, pale
skin that never tanned, even in Texas weather, small breasts. “Eight and a half” I heard myself say
in a confident tone. I was nothing
if not competitive.
“Well,”
said the man. “Why don’t you come
down here and audition for us. Can
you come Friday night? 8:30?”
“Sure,”
I said, feeling triumphant and terrified.
Friday night was two nights from now. “Where are you located?”
He
gave me directions and told me to park next to the green dumpster in the
back. “And,” he said, “wear
lingerie.”
“Um,
okay”.
I
hung up the phone and my hands were shaking. I had an audition.
Or something. I had one
piece of lingerie, which no one had ever seen before. It was a one piece baby doll shift of red lace. It would have to work. I couldn’t afford anything else. I went to the cardboard box that held
my pajamas and underwear. The box
said “Penguin Publishing” on it. I
dug out my red lace and looked at it.
Then I stripped off my clothes, emptied the milk crate that held my
shirts, turned it upside-down and stood on it in the bathroom, so I could look
at myself in the bathroom mirror.
If I stood on the crate, I could see my head and most of my torso. It felt good to take off my sweaty
shirt. I leaned forward and looked
at my face critically. I had a
small mole on the side of my nose, but with makeup no one would notice. The Texas sun had brought my freckles
out, but they were just a small smattering, and I thought they looked
okay. I let my red hair down. It was long and fell down over my back
and shoulders. Definitely a high
point. I heard Mary laughing
downstairs. I was wearing my
glasses. I took them off and I
couldn’t see, so I put them back on.
But behind them, my eyes were a pale blue, although sometimes they were
more green. They were okay, I
guessed. I licked my lips. Sexy enough. I looked down at my breasts and upper body. Arms were decent, although I wished I
had more arm muscles. I’d never
been overweight, and certainly wasn’t now, since none of us ate very much. We mainly drank beer and Crown Royal
and smoked cigarettes. My breasts
were small. They’d be okay if they weren’t so small. I figured that was a drawback, but what the hell. Really, I was pretty hot and I decided
eight and a half was an exaggeration, but not by that much. I pulled my sweaty half shirt
back on, poured Simon another bowl of water, took my cigarettes and a beer from
the fridge, and went downstairs.
Brad
was really drunk tonight. A pile
of empty Mickey’s was next to his lawnchair. Mary handed him another cigarette from her pack, lighting it
for him. He leaned over to reach
it, and nearly toppled from his chair.
I figured Mary had bought him the beers. Brad never had any money.
I’d never even
been in a strip club. I had a
general idea of what went on from watching TV shows, or hearing about it, but I
hadn’t actually seen it for myself.
I didn’t know what part of town Devil’s Cave was in, but I figured I’d
find it somehow. I guessed I’d
just stand around in my lingerie and they’d decide if they wanted to hire me or
not. I thought about saying
something to Mary about my audition, but then Blake jumped up and howled again,
then slammed his fist into the side of the apartment, so the moment
passed. Part of me didn’t want to
hear what they’d say. Which was
probably that this was a stupid idea.
I’d tell them after I’d been dancing for a while and was making a ton of
money.
The
next day I started getting nervous.
As I rang up the now discounted Son of a Circus books, I felt a
nagging fear that it might not be a good idea to drive to a strip club by
myself in an unknown part of town wearing lingerie. I rang up a self help book titled, Loving and Leaving
Myself: A Guide for the Lost. I wished I had a gun. My stepfather had tried to give me one
once, but since I didn’t know how to use it, I refused. This was a great excuse for him to
force me to endure a shooting lesson, but this only reinforced my ineptitude
with firearms, as I couldn’t hit any of the cans he’d put out for me, and the
kickback from the rifle had given me a monstrous bruise on my shoulder. I rang up a large stack of “Cliff
Notes” books on major works in English literature for a young man who looked
like he was born in a fraternity house, and I sneered at him internally. I told Michael about it, and he threw a
book across the back room in rage.
I thought about snuff box films I’d heard about and thought about myself
in red lingerie.
On
Friday, all I could think about was my audition. I’d been practicing undulating around my apartment in what I
supposed was a sexy way, but my apartment was small and I only had book boxes
and milk crates for props, and I didn’t quite know what to do. I’d tried to incorporate some of my
ballet training, but I didn’t think that was helping me. I’d brought two potatoes with me for
lunch to heat up in the microwave, but I wasn’t hungry. I was going to need a drink before I went,
that’s for sure.
On
the way home, I smoked a cigarette and tried to feel confident. Smoking in the car never worked for me,
though. The smoke would just fill
up the cab of the truck, even if the windows were down, and my eyes would
water. If I held my cigarette out
the window, the ash would fly back into the cab and land on me somewhere. I found it hard to shift and steer at
the same time when I was holding a cigarette. I didn’t feel very sexy.
I
was hoping I would leave for my audition before everyone started sitting around
drinking like usual. Blake would
be off work where he was a prep cook at a Cajun restaurant around 7, but he’d
have to stop by and get alcohol and cigarettes. Mary was working the late shift at the bookstore, so she
wouldn’t be back until after 10:00.
Brad was home, but he was always confused and never really paid any
attention to what I was doing anyway, unless I was buying him beer. Mary was really the catalyst that made
our little group come together every night, so I figured I was safe.
I
took my shower at 6:30. I shaved
meticulously, trying to get every errant hair. I dried myself carefully, and applied lotion to my entire
body. I thought about the man on
the other end of the line. He
didn’t sound like an ax murderer.
But I guess I didn’t know what one sounded like. I didn’t want to sweat in my lingerie,
so I left it off and dried my hair with my blow dryer, fluffing it up and away
from my face. I curled it with my
curling iron until it fell in red curls around my face. I pictured a dark parking lot and a
green dumpster. I opened a
beer and drank half. I decided I
needed some protection.
I
threw on shorts and a T-shirt and went downstairs to see Brad. His door was open. “Brad?” I called, sticking my head in
and bracing myself for the stench.
Brad’s place smelled atrocious.
It was because he adopted cats.
He had 20 or so of them now who came and went through the open door as
they pleased. So it smelled like
cat and pee, and since Brad wasn’t fond of showering, also of stinky man.
“Brad! Are you in there?”
He
stepped in from his back patio holding a black short haired cat, wearing his
ripped jean shorts and tank top.
His sweaty hair flopped in his face. “Oh, hey, Naomi!
What’s up? Come on in. Hey,
you don’t have a beer do you?”
Brad
was happy to see me. He was happy
to see everyone who would stop by.
Other than us, he pretty much just talked to his cats. I stepped in and stood in front of the
fan, next to three cats who had flopped down in front of the fan, their fur
rustling in the blowing air.
“No,
sorry. Hey, I know this is a weird
question, but do you have a gun or something?”
It
was an odd question, but nothing really phased Brad. He shook his floppy bangs out of his eyes. “No, I used to, but someone stole
it. You know, when they robbed my
place a few months ago.”
I
didn’t actually remember this, but it sounded like a long story and I didn’t
want a long story right now. So I
didn’t ask.
“Why
do you want a gun?” said Brad, setting down the black cat and picking up an
orange tabby with a ragged patch in her fur. All Brad’s cats looked terrible. He couldn’t afford to take them to the vet or have them
groomed, or to give them anti-flea medication or anything. They just ate and slept there, a motley
collection of unkempt and matted fur, cat dandruff, limping wounds, raccoon
bites, and deteriorating teeth.
They whined frequently. But
he loved them all.
I
gave up and told Brad what I was going to do. He petted his cat and listened.
“Well,” he said when I’d
finished. “Do you think that’s
safe, Snackicat?” he whispered to the orange tabby. “What does Snackicat think about that?”
Great,
now this jobless, stinky man who talked to cats was going to tell me I wasn’t
being safe. Or Snackicat was going
to.
“I’ll
be fine!” protested. “It’s no big
deal. I was just thinking it would
be good if I had something, you know, just in case.”
Snackicat
started meowing as if to protest my determination. Brad set him gently down on the floor. “Sounds a little sketchy to me,” he
said.
“But
Brad, I need to make money! And I
can do this without it interfering with Bookstop, and I think I could make a
lot of money.” I noticed him perk
up a little at this. Probably
thinking of the cases of beer I could supply.
“You
know, I do have something. Hold
on.” He disappeared into the
bathroom, where I heard a great deal of rummaging around. Snackicat looked up at me with watery
eyes and meowed painfully. I
started to lean down to pet him, but thought better of it. I was always worried Brad’s cats were
spreading some kind of disease.
Brad emerged with a small canister. “Mace!” he announced proudly.
I
took the Mace canister in my hands.
“See,” he said, you just flick this switch, point and spray. That should do it.
“Why
does it have electrical tape over the spout?” There was a small strip of black tape right over the spout
where the Mace should squirt out.
“Oh,
that’s because I lost the safety cover.
But don’t worry, it’s really powerful. If you shoot it, it’s going to shoot right through the
tape.”
I
needed to get going. I still had
to get my lingerie on and my contacts and eye make up done, so I decided not to
discuss this. I thanked Brad, who
gave me a big stinky hug, and I headed back upstairs.
I
pulled on my lingerie. The lace
against my skin felt good. I
looked at the Mace. I wasn’t so
sure about it shooting through the electrical tape. I pointed it into the sink and pushed hard on the
trigger. The Mace dribbled out
from under the tape in rivulets and covered my hand, dripping into the sink.
Clearly, this was not going to keep me from being snuff boxed. I decided to forget the Mace. I had to finish getting ready and
go. I washed my hands
quickly. It was 7:45.
At
first, I couldn’t figure out why my eye was burning. I had just put my clean contact in my eye, and now I was on
fire. I bent over the sink, and
pulled my eye open with one hand so I could scrape my contact lens out with the
other. It felt like my whole face
was swelling. Tears were streaming
down my face, and I couldn’t open my eye.
“Brad!” I screamed.
I
made my way down the stairs, not bothering to find anything to put over my
lingerie. I could see out of the
eye I hadn’t maced, but my whole face hurt. “Brad!” I screeched as I stumbled into his apartment.
“Naomi!”
I heard him shout. I stepped onto
a soft furry thing that howled as I crashed down onto the floor, landing in a
pile of cat vomit. I felt Brad’s
arms under mine as he hauled me up.
“What
happened? Are you okay?!”
“The
mace!” I cried. He pulled me over
to the sink and held my head down over it and ran water. He splashed it up into my face, and I
tried to hold my swollen eyelids open.
“Oh
my god, what did you do?”
“It
doesn’t shoot right through” I gurgled through a mouthful of water.
A
few minutes later, I sagged on Brad’s flea ridden couch with a wet cloth over
my eye. I had reviewed the damage
in Brad’s bathroom mirror. My eye
would not open. It was swollen and
red. In fact, most of my face was now blotchy and red. My lingerie was soggy. A long haired gray cat with matted fur
and a limp sat on my foot. I was
not feeling sexy.
“Well,”
I said heavily. I guess I’m not
going to that audition.”
Brad
sat across from me, holding Snackicat.
“You could reschedule,” he said helpfully.
“I
guess so,” I replied.
“Let
me rewet that,” said Brad, taking the cloth from me. As I handed it to him, I felt a sense of relief. The image of the dark parking lot and
the green dumpster faded. “Maybe I
will, maybe I won’t.” Maybe I
didn’t need any more adventure for a while.
Brad
returned and handed me the cool, wet washcloth. And then he handed me a cold beer. I held it for a moment against my hot cheek.
“Thanks,”
I said. He smiled at me. “Here’s to staying home tonight” and we
clinked our bottles.
Oh man I was soooo hoping I knew a former dancing girl...unless there's a part 3 to this story? :)
ReplyDeleteAlas, no part 3. You'll have to settle for knowing someone who was almost a dancing girl, except she maced herself in the eye instead. In this blog, you can look forward to a similar theme - almost a drug addict, almost a pool shark, almost a rockstar, almost a lesbian. You know, almost exciting! But not. Thanks for the comment :).
ReplyDelete