by Douglas Young
That evening Forsythia Farmer turned into the parking lot of Gator Tales, the state’s largest strip club, to park by the private back entrance manned by a large, intimidating bouncer. Despite being one of the club’s most popular attractions, the dancer known as Domino Double-D Dean still drove a fifteen-year-old car with fading paint. Between providing for her two-year-old son, rent, university tuition, and various other never-ending bills, plus investing as much money as possible toward her son’s education, Forsythia figured she was better off holding onto her old Toyota. When enticed to buy a flashy new car like several other dancers, her ready reply was, “I can afford it, but can’t justify it.”
Once parked, Miss Farmer sighed and turned to the large gray cat resting on the front seat.
“Showtime, Lucy Fur,” she announced as she picked up her bag and feline friend. Though against the rules, Forsythia could bring the cat to the dancers’ dressing room since she was one of the club’s top earners, and the establishment’s owner figured having a beautiful cat there who was friendly to the girls could help keep harmony. While Lucy Fur welcomed the attention of the dancers, she hissed at any male employee trying to pet her, inspiring the club owner to provide her name.
After speaking with the bouncer who opened the back door, Forsythia soon entered the large dancers’ dressing room carrying her cat. On one side of the room were the mirrors where the young ladies fixed their makeup, hair, nails, and costumes. On the other side stood their lockers. A couch sat against the back wall with a small table and a couple of chairs in front of it. A few girls spoke to Forsythia while others looked at her and turned away. Though against the rules, several women smoked cigarettes, and Forsythia smelled marijuana as well. Loud music echoed behind the mirrors, punctuated by the disc jockey announcing the on-stage arrival of a new dancer.
“Hey there, girl.” Mozelle Jackson smiled and motioned for Miss Farmer to sit at the mirror by hers. Mozelle was the closest thing to a friend that Forsythia had at the club. She was a very attractive Jamaican immigrant who always appeared upbeat and, like Forsythia, was one of the few dancers there who neither smoked, drank, nor did drugs. She, too, had a baby to rear on her own and focused on making as much money as possible at the club, having no interest in socializing, finding a sugar daddy, or getting high. She and Miss Farmer were held at arm’s length by many younger dancers. This only strengthened their bond.
“How goes it, gorgeous?” Miss Jackson asked.
“Oh, just doing the do.” Forsythia shrugged as she pulled out her makeup.
“Mozelle, tell her your brother’s story about his recent ambulance run,” Gabriella Grahame remarked with a grin as a few other ladies chuckled.
“Well,” began Mozelle, “you know my brother’s an EMT, and he told me about an ambulance run last week involving some boys over-inflating a car tire that blew up, causing pieces of rubber to go everywhere, including all over their grandma.”
“Oh, the poor thing,” Forsythia exclaimed. “Is she all right?”
“Yeah,” Mozelle answered. “But when she was in the ambulance and Anthony had finished examining her, she took his hand and said, “Honey, I got just one question. Now tell me true, shug. Did it hit my cooter?”
Several dancers erupted in laughter, and Forsythia could not help giggling.
“Well, did it?” she asked.
“No, her cooter’s rubber-free,” Mozelle replied.
“You’re up in five, Syth,” a bouncer announced poking his head through the door. Forsythia finished applying her makeup and quickly changed into her magenta pink bikini and high heels.
“Blow ’em away, babe.” Mozelle smiled.
Miss Farmer ran down the hall to stand behind the curtain facing the center of three elevated catwalks down which dancers would parade. The music was now quite loud, alternating between top forty rock, rap, and disco, depending on the requests of the top dancers who occupied the most lucrative “Catwalk #2.” Some dancers thought Forsythia was “weird” for asking the D.J. to play her favorite alternative rock songs. A few secretly complained to the club owner that such obscure tunes inhibited tipping and that only the most popular hits should be blared out of the loudspeakers. But the owner liked Miss Farmer for bringing in more customers, always being professional and polite, and never causing him trouble with drink or drugs. So her eclectic musical tastes were respected.
As she played with her hair and stretched in anticipation of being announced, the club owner walked behind her.
“Get after it, babe!” he exclaimed and she smiled at him. Though she had heard stories that he had taken advantage of a few girls and was involved with illegal drugs, Forsythia had no complaints about him. She also knew she was older and more willing to stand up for herself than most of her colleagues.
When the opening drum riff from The Cure’s “Just Like Heaven” was heard, the D.J. shouted, “And now feast your eyes on Catwalk #2 for the delightfully delovely Domino Double-D Dean!”
Forsythia put on what she called “the face” – a coquettish smile – and jumped through the curtain to be greeted by a kaleidoscope of colorful spotlights as she gyrated to the music. Many patrons applauded her and some left the bar to sit alongside the middle catwalk for a closer inspection.
At the sight of many regular customers who liked to tip her, Forsythia’s smile turned into a genuine grin with frequent winks. Whenever she recognized someone who had not tipped her before, she ignored him. Soon her fans approached the stage with ten- and twenty-dollar bills to put in the garter belt adorning her left leg. She thanked them and sometimes patted their faces.
When a nerdy-looking thirty-five-year-old sitting alone came to the edge of the stage to place a twenty-dollar bill in her garter, Miss Farmer recognized him as one of her most loyal fans and patted his cheek. When he tried to speak above the booming music, she leaned forward to hear him stammer.
“You look … really great, Domino,” he managed to get out with some effort. She thanked him and wondered if he had ever kissed a girl.
As she began teasing the audience by playing with her skimpy bikini top, several men shouted for her to remove it, prompting her to flash “the laugh,” as she called it, a simulated laugh produceable under most any circumstances.
When she removed her top, there was a roar from the audience and more men of all ages went to the stage to place more tips in her garter belt, including one of her favorites, an older man who always tipped her and was charmingly polite.
“What would you say to marrying a rich retired businessman?” He smiled.
“One voyage on the Sea of Matrimony is enough,” she answered before thanking him and patting his cheek.
As she moved down the catwalk, the music changed to the Psychedelic Furs’ “Pretty in Pink,” and she adjusted her dancing to accommodate the new beat while teasing the audience with removing her pink bikini bottom. When she tossed it to the floor, another round of applause went up, followed by a fresh number of tippers, some of whom had tipped her minutes before.
When she finished her set on stage, Forsythia walked from table to table soliciting lap and table dances. Soon a group of out-of-town businessmen took up her offer of the latter. With “the face” intact, Miss Farmer danced for them, carefully gauging their expressions to see which moves seemed to excite the most interest. The middle-aged men at the table eyed her intently, a few with smiles, and one occasionally chuckling and looking at his colleagues. After getting a tableful of applause, compliments, and cash, Forsythia slipped back into her bikini and resumed the search for more customers.
Then a determined middle-aged woman on a mission and her distinctly uncomfortable husband approached Forsythia. Seeing the very concerned look on the lady’s face and no dollar bills in her hand, Miss Farmer calculated behind her frozen smile that there could be trouble. After quickly looking around and seeing a pair of large bouncers nearby, she smiled broadly at the woman and said “Hey.”
“Hello, Miss,” the lady got out before hesitating amidst the loud music. “Young lady, you just look so sweet, and I’m really concerned about you working in a place like this.”
“So why are you patronizing ‘a place like this’?” a still-smiling Forsythia asked under a wrinkled brow. “Especially since you had to pay a cover charge just to get in here. You know, to subsidize this ‘place’?” She failed to stifle a slight giggle.
“Lord knows, I sure didn’t want to.” The woman sighed. “But I just didn’t know how else to speak with the girls working here.”
“‘The girls working here’ are quite aware of what kind of place this is. I bet they know it a lot better than you do,” Forsythia replied.
“I just can’t imagine why a nice, well-spoken gal like you would want to work here,” the woman insisted. “It’s just not healthy. I can’t imagine working here. But, of course, I’m a mother. Anyway, I’m just here to tell you that you don’t have to do this.”
“Liberate your mind and the body always follows,” Miss Farmer retorted with a faint smile. “And I imagine you don’t know remotely all the reasons why gals like me work here. I’m a mother too, which is a big reason why I choose to work here to provide for my son, especially since I don’t have a husband to provide for us.” She pointedly looked at the woman’s husband.
Frustrated, the woman turned to her spouse who stared firmly at the floor.
“I just want you to come outside with us so we can discuss a future for you without all this,” the woman looked around in exasperation.
“No ‘Please.’ No ‘Thanks.’ No dice,” Miss Farmer answered. “Maybe I should appreciate your concern but I don’t think you know much about me or this place, and I doubt it would matter to you anyway. And since I’ve got a baby to feed, I’m getting back to work.”
“Well, I just can’t sit by idly and watch someone destroy herself,” the woman proclaimed with her head now raised. “How long’s it been since you had a really serious conversation about your eternity?”
“And how long’s it been since you had a really seriously satisfying bowel movement?” Forsythia replied with the face firmly intact.
When the woman frowned and began to respond, a bouncer told her to leave Miss Farmer alone. As Forsythia mouthed “Thanks” to him, the woman’s husband leaned over to the dancer.
“I’m right sorry ’bout this, Miss. She’s got some snakes in the head but she’s all right. She does mean well. She’s just a Baptist.”
“No problem, honey,” Forsythia replied and patted his shoulder before moving to the next table.
As the couple turned to walk back to their table, the wife almost bumped into a topless dancer. Apologizing, the older lady could not help but notice the younger one’s large bare breasts. Tattooed on the left one were the words, “Dizzy Ray Hollister,” and inked below the right nipple were the words, “was here.”
“Whatever you do,” the young lady said leaning forward in a teasing tone, “don’t ever put nobody’s name on your taters.”
Forsythia continued to hawk lap and table dances and was having a lucrative shift. Since it was Friday night, there were several groups of men on out-of-town business trips eager to get a table dance, and tonight there were many generous tippers
“What kinds of guys are the best tippers?” one young customer asked after she collected her tips from a table dance.
“The nice ones,” was the prompt reply.
The next table had three local male graduate students meticulously grading the beauty and sexiness of each dancer. Realizing the students were hardly lucrative prospects, Forsythia asked in a pro forma manner if they wanted a table or lap dance. When they politely declined, she quickly moved on her way.
One of the young men looked at his friends and expressed regret that they missed out on a table dance “from the hottest chick in this whole place.”
“Oh, come off it, man. If a few minutes of staring at strippers makes you a beauty expert, then I’m a gynecologist,” one friend replied.
“Yeah, if you’re so into her, go ask her for a lap dance, man,” volunteered his other buddy. “In fact, why not ask her out? You’re decent enough looking, and far closer to her age than most guys in here. Tell her how in a few years you’ll be making big money as an engineer – which is true. Besides, you’re the one complaining about being dumped last month and how long it’s been since you got laid. Well, here’s your chance. Go for it.”
“I guess I’m just not hungry enough yet,” the first friend answered. “Or I’m too insecure to ask. I don’t cotton to getting more rejection.”
Having stopped by every table in the club, as well as seeing if anyone at the bar wanted a lap dance, Forsythia left the crowd, noise, and flashing lights to return to the dressing room for a quick break and to check on her cat. Upon entering the room, she smiled at a couple of girls petting Lucy Fur who rested contentedly in front of a brightly-lit mirror.
Turned off by the smell of a lot more marijuana, Miss Farmer noticed three dancers seated on the sofa taking turns using a rolled twenty-dollar bill to snort cocaine on the small table. After years of breaking his parents’ hearts, Forsythia’s brother had recently done a stint in rehab for cocaine addiction, and a dancer who had been a mentor to Miss Farmer and other dancers when she began working at the club had died the previous month of an overdose of cocaine and heroin. She was another single mother. Forsythia stood staring at the young women, surprised they would flout using the very drug that had recently killed their colleague.
“Want a little bump, babe?” one girl asked with a smile as her two friends chuckled.
“No, and I strongly suggest y’all go real easy with that marching powder,” Forsythia replied.
Sorely tempted to criticize them and remind them of the other dancer’s death, she realized they already knew. She sat down in front of a mirror to see a troubled and tense face staring back. The dancers on the sofa laughed loudly and Forsythia noted how several more girls entered the dressing room and no one appeared to notice all the drugs about.
Two mirrors down, she saw one of the youngest dancers who she failed to recognize at first before realizing that she had mentored the young lady when she was hired a year ago. Though not twenty, Miss Farmer was struck by how much the girl had already aged. Gone was the spark that had initially drawn Forsythia to her.
Lucy Fur jumped into Miss Farmer’s lap, and Forsythia felt as if the two of them were an island in rough seas. As she petted the cat, a bouncer put his head through the door.
“The boss wants you back on the floor, Syth,” he announced. When she did not reply, he spoke again.
“Syth, you hear me?”
“Yeah…. Thanks,” she replied with a weak smile, but remained seated to look at the tired lady in the mirror. Thoughts of her brother and the dead dancer continued to preoccupy her as the dressing room got ever louder with more girls arriving for the late-night shift.
Despite the din, Forsythia dwelled on how much she enjoyed her pre-law classes, especially regarding free expression issues. It was fun participating in class discussions, and she dared dream of becoming an attorney. She sighed knowing she still had another year of college and then three more in law school, but she almost smiled at the thought of her arguing a case in court. Though still facing the mirror, she no longer noticed herself.
Slowly but resolutely, she changed into her regular clothes, stood up, tossed her bikini on the makeup table, and left the room. As all the dancers did when clocking out, she went around the main floor tipping the bouncers, bartenders, barmaids, and disc jockey. This time she hugged several and kissed a couple. A few asked if she was okay, and she said she just had to go. After picking up Lucy Fur in the dressing room, she started walking down the hall to the rear exit. As she passed the club owner’s office, he saw her through the open door and called out.
“Syth! What’s up, babe? Your shift’s not remotely done. You all right? Something wrong?”
Forsythia looked in his office where he sat behind a large desk, on the other side of which sat several beefy middle-aged men in loud suits whom she did not recognize.
“I just have to go,” she stated above the loud music echoing from the other side of the hallway.
“Syth, I don’t want a scene, but if you want to keep working here, you need to get back out on that floor and finish your shift,” he said evenly.
“I know. I got no beef with you, but I just have to leave.”
“Now, Syth, I like you – a lot – and if somebody’s done something or said something to you, I want to know so we can fix this. You’re a great earner, and a real sweet gal too. I don’t want to lose you. But if you can’t explain this, in fairness to all the other girls I’ve fired for a lot less, I’m gone’ have to let you go. Before you walk out that door, ask yourself. Can you really afford to turn your back on all this easy money?”
Forsythia acknowledged that she had never made remotely as much money elsewhere and felt some butterflies launch in her stomach. At least for the next few years, no other job would let her earn anywhere nearly as much or choose her own hours. But she reminded herself that she now had some savings and could surely get work waitressing or bartending. She also kept seeing her brother and the dead dancer, and she felt an intense pang of loneliness that frightened her. Then she saw her little boy eagerly running into her arms as she returned home. She looked up from the floor at her former employer.
“I can afford it and justify it. Best wishes always.”