There is a dancer that I have nicknamed “Double Rum and Coke”. She’s eighteen out of Oshawa. She’s too young to get a drink but that doesn’t mean she’s not drunk every night. I like her, though. She’s six feet tall and her thighs are narrow like pencils. She should be modeling for Calvin Klein but instead she’s stripping three sets a night at twenty bucks a pop.
Men who come looking for sex or a reasonable facsimile and the women who provide it are a primal bunch. Phases of the moon affect our club the same way that it affects the tides or hospital emergency rooms. You can feel a night coming on. The music too loud, the air too hot, eyes too glittery, mouths show too much teeth. But a tenuous balance is always maintained. Suddenly shouts, glasses break, two men fall on the floor…and there is peace again. The same is true of control. A dancer will be a primadonna, exerting a magnitude of control over her food and drink orders never before seen. She will scream “Waitress! Waitress!” repeatedly as you serve another customer until you turn around. Then, rather than wait until you approach, she will dictate the terms under which you will serve her at the top of her lungs. These delicate birds of paradise will wail:
“Vodka and orange, make sure it’s split!”
“Two Long Island iced teas made with Malibu rum, one with two straws!”
“Six tequila silvers with lemon and salt and a glass, not a bottle, of water, no lime!”
“Ten wings, medium, make sure it’s all wings and no drumsticks…50 cents a wing, isn’t that a bit ridiculous?”
Each order is not that difficult but they sing their desires in chorus and then act indignant when asked to repeat it. Sometimes they will complain:
“This shot is watered down. Get another.”
“This tequila is cloudy” after she had obviously poured salt and other debris in the glass.
They are rude. They know it. Do it, they smirk, you want a tip, don’t you?
And they are right. They know it. I do not envy them, though. Their hauteur is somewhat diminished when I pass through the Champagne room and I see them head down, ass up having some guy stick his fingers in their pussy like it’s a science experiment, for twenty bucks a song. The scales of justice are well oiled here at the bottom of the food chain.
It’s not that nakedness or sex is undignified, it’s their sad body language. The smirk is gone. I’ve caught them and they hate me more because of it.
Double Rum and Coke came into the kitchen one night when I was on break. She found an unused pot of lipgloss on the counter and decided to put Tabasco sauce in it. She left it on the counter and when I came in the next night someone had used it. That was a good prank.
Anyway, she came into the kitchen when I was on break and asked me for a cigarette, but I was looking for one too. She asked the cook and then sat down with me to share it. It was genuinely nice. You can see why I like her. Her skirt was so short that as she sat down I could see horrible marks on her butt. I can be rude at times:
“What are those?”
“Stretch marks” proudly showing me the ones on her stomach also.
“I had a kid”
“When?” After all, she was only eighteen.
“When I was seventeen.” She passed the cigarette back.
“Where is it now?”
“With my ex-boyfriend, in Oshawa.”
“Why did you have it?” I couldn’t remember what I was doing when I was seventeen.
“Because my boyfriend said he’d beat me up if I didn’t, and I loved him, I was scared, I didn’t know what to do…I don’t know” she shrugged and took the cigarette.
“Why didn’t you give it up for adoption?”
“Are you kidding? I went through too much pain pushing that kid out,” she laughed. “I’m keeping it.”
It’s all about control.