Christmas night. Just pulled a double shift. Me and the rest of the guys who don’t have wives club, as I’ve kind of coined it. Not that I’d say it out loud, don’t want to let everyone in on the fact that I’m depressed.
I walk outside. It’s cold. Brutally so. The roads are covered with a slim layer of slush. I’m sure underneath much of it is black ice. It’s 45 miles home. I decide that’s a bad idea. Gotta be at work in the morning anyway. Same skeleton crew of misfits will meet up again and put out a newspaper that has no relevance.
But what to do for the next six, seven hours? I get in my car. It’s cold inside. As much so as outside. Just no wind. I crank the engine. Thank goodness for a new car. The heat is still on from when I drove to work 13 hours ago. However, instead of pushing out a nice gusher of hot, warming air, I get a face full of cool breeze. It may be a new car, but the heater is still not the top of the line unit. “Get what you pay for,” I think to myself.
After a couple of minutes, I put the car in reverse. Ready to find something to do. I point the car east, the way home. I figure maybe something will pique my interest. Hopefully.
I see a co-worker walking home. It’s 3 in the morning on Christmas. I pull over. Honk. He looks at me, not knowing who the fuck I am for a moment, then bends down and opens the door.
“Thank ya partner,” T.J. says in his southern drawl. “It’s cold as a witch’s titties out there.”
“Yes. It. Is,” I reply. “So, where you headed.”
“I was going to hit the Driftwood before going home for a few,” T.J. murmured.
“The Driftwood? That Marine strip bar?” I asked incredulously.
“One and the same. You oughta come with, partner. You can meet my daughter.”
Well, that’s an odd invitation. Gotta hand it to T.J., he’s quite the character. Also, exactly who I’m slowly but surely becoming -- a single, old, toothless journalist. Holding on to some bit of the past in a job that doesn’t look kindly on those doing exactly that.
“Sure, why not,” I say. Feeling neither joy, nor pain, over this turn of events. Of course, now I have that song “Joy…and Pain…” by Rob Base and Ez Rock, but it’s fleeting.
The drive to the Driftwood is about a three-minute one from the office. And that’s only because of the numerous stoplights that fill Lejeune Blvd. There aren’t a lot of people on the road tonight, shockingly. I guess everyone’s at home with their families and friends.
Or more likely sleeping.
I pull into the parking lot of the Driftwood. It’s 3:13 a.m. There are exactly two other cars there -- a 1987 Sunfire and a 2009 Kia Sorrento. I don’t think much of it.
We go to the door. A tall, fat black guy is sitting inside the door on a stool.
“Well, Hell-OOOOOOOO, T.J.,” he says as we enter. “It’s Christmas, so you and your buddy, you get a free pass.”
“Much abliged,” T.J. replies with a wink and a no-tooth grin. He makes a sort of quack, quack, noise. I just keep walking. Inside, Motley Crue is playing. “Dr. Feelgood.” Can’t stand that song, so I don’t care to see who would dance to it.
There aren’t any folks in the place. In fact, I don’t even seen girls wandering about. I guess when there aren’t customers, there’s no need to troll around. I head to the bar. T.J. to the head.
“You want anything?” I ask.
“Just say ‘Give me a T.J. They’ll know what it means.”
Not surprised at all that he’s a regular. It turns out a T.J. is a whiskey sour. That actually does surprise me.
At the bar, all the girls that are working are huddled about. Just watching television or playing silly bar computer games. They all see me at the same time, and start making an effort to put on their game faces. That is, until I say “I’ll have a Shiner. Oh, and a T.J.” It seems his name, and his drink order carries some kind of weight here. Not good weight. The girls all turn back to their Tvs and video machines.
I grab my beer, take two long swigs. The music stops.
“And now, for your enjoyment. Eeeeeeveeeeee…” the announcer says.
Nightrain by Guns and Roses starts to play. This interests me. While I understand the attraction of the song to certain elements of society, including hookers, drug dealers and such, I never thought of it as a stripper song.
“Eve” is a redhead. Pale as the fog on a spring morning in the mountains of Tennessee. She loves the song. That’s about all I can tell from her dancing. I’m mesmerized for four minutes and 26 seconds. So much so, I find myself walking up to the stage and actually sitting in one of the chairs that lines it. Kind of gross in an empty strip club.
She sees me and doesn’t pay me much attention. Works the entire stage, despite the fact that I’m there and I’m the only one there. This is cool. I think. She doesn’t give a shit.
After the song, “Eve” disappears behind the stage. T.J. comes out of the bathroom.
“Where’s my drink, partner?” he asks.
I don’t realize he spoke for a second.
“Hey, kiddo, you in love or something? You need to stop staring at that door. She’ll be back, sooner or later. They all come back at some point.”
“Huh? Oh, here’s your drink,” I say, handing him his whiskey sour. He downs it in one long sip. Slams down the glass on the stage and bolts for the bar. Less than a minute later, he’s got two more.
“Two drink minimum, bah!” he says slumping into his chair. An Asian stripper comes over and starts giving him a lap dance. “Well, kiddo, I’ll be seeing ya.”
T.J. disappears to a private room. I don’t see him again until the next night at work. Doesn’t even mention a thing. Not surprised.
A blonde comes up to me, starts doing her thing. I look up, smile and say “No thanks.” This repeats itself four more times. Another blonde, in a black piece of lingerie first. Then a black girl with freckles on her butt. And then a brunette with blue eyes that have way too much eyeliner on them, as well as glitter, glitter everywhere. Finally, “Eve” gives it a go. She doesn’t seem to remember me. I just stare as she talks, not hearing a word. She takes my hand and we go to a private room. I know this is a mistake. I’ve got $58 in my bank account and $45 in my wallet. But I go anyway.
In the room, I just ask one question “Why Nightrain?”
“Because it’s my favorite song. But I only dance to it when no one is here.”
“But I was here,” I said.
“Yeah, at first I was pissed. But then I noticed you were mouthing the words. That means you weren’t just lustily leering at me.”
“Well, I was a bit.”
“Me too.”
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