The sun slices through our apartment. Spotlights stacks of books, boxes of pastels, notebooks full of data. It climbs over the back of the couch and dances across the TV while we watch The Sopranos. Fourth season. I get up and draw the blinds.
Summer of 2010 I was sitting at the bar of a strip club in Portland. The only way I knew it was mid-afternoon was because I kept checking my phone, hoping someone would call, text. Ask to get me out of here. I was talking to a dancer before she went up on stage. A military wife looking to make some extra money to get by while her husband served in Iraq. “Plus, it’s nice to have people look at me. It makes it so much less lonely.”
The guys I was with bought us each a shot of bourbon, she rubbed my buzzed head, and kissed me on the cheek. Winked over my shoulder at my companions, talked a moment to the DJ, and disappeared behind the curtain.
Someone mumbled an introduction over the speakers. A name like Crystal or Kandi. There were two guys sitting at the rack. They both pulled out another stack of ones and slapped their hands together in a half-hearted fashion. The bartender and the three people in my crew clapped a few times before we all reached back for our drinks in unison. I don’t think there was anyone else in the whole place.
Neil Young’s “Heart of Gold” started playing and Crystal-Kandi walked out. Eight inch platform heels traced the stage in a slow and deliberate saunter. Shoulders back, hip sway exaggerated. She grabbed on to the pole and started swinging. We all only half paid attention. Focused on our drinking and discussion of our favorite Neil Young albums. Argued over the track lists of “Harvest” and “Harvest Moon“.
When we moved our eyes back toward the stage CK’s top was on the ground and she was hanging from the crook of one knee. Arms stretched out over her head, reaching. A delivery man opened the side door and drenched the entire stage in sunlight. You could see CK’s breath catch in her chest, eyes widening like a terrified wild animal.
The safety of the dark red strip club light had evaporated. A girl who had been only naked was now completely exposed. Her skin no longer like velvet, lacking any imperfection. Freckles, wrinkles, humanity all visible. She froze. The men at the rack squinted and leaned back in their chairs. The DJ yelled, one part anger and two parts nervous laughter, “Shut that goddamn door, dude!”
It’s February and the sun has been coming out the last few days. I keep expecting to feel basked in warmth and light. The promises of spring tickling my skin with hope as I loosen the scarf around my neck. But there is something bitter in its sweetness. An old friend returning to find me sitting in the same place. Hiding behind the same piles of to-dos, the same bad habits, still struggling with the same routines.
“I’m glad to see you, dear. I just thought I would be different the next time you came around.”
I pull the blinds and sink back into the soft red fabric of the couch. Hoping I can put off the exposure just a little longer. Maybe there’s still time to figure this one out.
4 thoughts on “On the Line”
Thank you, lady.
None of this story went where I thought it was going. Which is why I think it’s so good.
Thanks so much, Becka.
I’m always rather surprised about the things my brains connects, too.