Night Job

Chapter 2

We got to the club a little early, me all decked out, Sylvia hobbling around on crutches. She introduced me to everyone as her cousin Stacey from out of town, who would be staying with her until she got better.

They all said they were glad to hear that Sylvia had finally come to her senses and dumped that deadbeat actor boyfriend of hers.

I had some good news and bad news for myself. The good news was nobody raised a single plucked eyebrow at my stellar performance. The bad news was that my feet were killing me. There certainly was a big difference between prancing around an apartment in high heels and waiting tables all night in them, I'll tell you.

That first night I was a little worried people might get suspicious because I kept ogling the strippers. But Sylvia explained to me that quite a few of the dance girls and some of the customers were lesbians so that no one would pay it a never mind.

So that was why some of the more endowed dancers smiled back at me the way they did. That was encouraging—I think.

I've always been a student and connoisseur of the lap dance. To my way of thinking they're the ultimate tease. What happens is a beautiful girl slowly and passionately dances in your lap. Sort of an in-your-face come-on. What adds spice to this intoxicating liquor is that you're not allowed to touch her under penalty of expulsion by a burly bouncer. She brushes her nubile body against you, starring longingly into your face, and sweeping her luxurious hair across you thighs and hands. Anything to turn you on. Until you're right on the edge, until you can't stand it anymore, until—well anyway you get the idea.

You'd have thought Sylvia would be overjoyed after last call when we counted up my tips. And she would have been except that on my premier night I'd made more bread than she ever had on her best night.

Hey, can I help it if I have a gift for gab and a lot more in common with the guys than she does?

I'd undoubtedly have to work overtime to make it up to her when we got home.

Now, Sylvia is not a dancer though she is pretty enough to be one. She—as she's quick to point out—is a cocktail waitress. That was the promise she'd made to herself.

Truth be told, I loved the excitement and challenge of my performance. I'd forgotten how much I longed to be an accomplished actor who could assume any role and play it convincingly. This wasn't exactly what I'd had in mind, but it would have to do until the real thing came along.

Yes sir, I was right up there with Curtis, Lemon, Hoffman, Swazye, and Divine. Okay, maybe not Divine.

After my opening night Sylvia stayed at home and rested like the good little girl she was.

Me—by the end of the first week I knew all the regulars by name. I knew who the deadbeats were, who'd stiff you, and who the good tippers were. Pretty soon folks were asking for me by name. Sometimes they'd even wait until there was a table free in my section.

Everyone always said the same thing, that with my good looks and great body I should be a dancer. They couldn't put their finger on it but they all agreed I had that little-extra-something.

Naturally, I didn't let them in on what that little-extra-something was.

By the way, if anyone knows where I can sell the telephone numbers from guys I have now, please tell me. The girls' numbers I'm keeping.

By the second week I was hooked. Each night was a total rush. I couldn't wait to get to work. And as I got more confident, my performance became more fabulous and flamboyant.

Kat, the owner, was happy—business had actually picked up. Pretty soon, it was "what's good for Stacey is good for business."

The only fly in the ointment was that I was bone tired all the time. I mean, I worked all night, babysat Sylvia all day and spent whatever free hours I had left looking for a real job.

It finally got to the point where I had to stop looking. I decided I'd just wait it out until Sylvia was better. Besides the money was great.

Most of all though I was proud of what I'd done. I'd pulled the wool over the eyes of everyone. What I should have remembered was what my momma always used to say, "Pride cometh before a fall."