It actually sunk in that my club—the place where I’ve been making the best money in years—is closing when I received the following text. It was from a number that wasn’t saved in my contacts.
“Finally dove into the Mercury tabloids. [Brother 1] really did sell [club name] to [brother 2] who is turning it into a sports bar but there is no telling when and these sleezy club owners will not tell us the truth or when. Gr! They are telling us it’s not true! So hush hush, watch your tail. Don’t tell anyone [ridiculous stage name] is spreading this! Just watch out, get a 2nd job & keep it. Save your money.”
It started with a friend asking for her eyebrow pencil. She had told me I could keep it indefinitely but then she said that she was leaving and wasn’t ever coming back. I was shocked. She sounded really matter-of-fact, but it was so unexpected that I had to ask whether something really bad had just happened. Girls typically announce that they’re leaving and never coming back when they’re upset.
“You haven’t heard? This place is turning into a sports bar. It was in the Willamette Week.”
No, I had not heard. I proceeded to google search from my phone for recent articles with the club name, finding nothing. I spotted the manager walking by and tried to ask him what was going on. He told me not to worry about it and briskly walked away. I knew I should definitely worry about it.
It became a question not of if, but when. If they were turning into a sports bar, when would that happen? When are most of the sports seasons? How long would they need to close in order for them to rip the stages out and add more televisions? Wait, this was why they remodeled the bathrooms. It all made sense.
Within a few days, the news had taken on a life of its own. The club was definitely either becoming a sports bar or a seafood restaurant. (One girl had heard a tip about a bunch of aquariums.) There was really no containing the talk, so it seemed like the manager was told he could be open. We now had a closing date and it was in a week and a half.
“I’m really sad,” I told him. I couldn’t fault him for lying to me before. I knew he was just following orders and is still my favorite manager.
“Don’t be.” He promised me that the sister club was way better and that there is tons of money there. How, I asked? I pointed out that it was located in Felony Flats. He assured me that Felony Flats was near Happy Valley. There are lots of big spenders from Happy Valley. I’ll see, he said. I’ll like it, he said. I wanted to look at a map of Portland.
I felt a little better until I talked to another girl. “Are you going to go to [sister club]?”
“That place? I’ve been there once. I walked in, and I walked out.”
“So you didn’t like it?”
“I walked IN. And I walked OUT.”
I don’t know where I’m going to take myself or what kind of swan dive my earnings will take while I try new clubs, so I’ve been working as much as I can. I’ve made a list of clubs and I’m going to give each new place a fair number of shifts and keep an open mind until I narrow the list down to one or two. I expect some beginner’s luck. I mostly expect to hear about how it’s “not usually this slow.” I dread the inevitable fresh batches of resident time wasters.
Before I found out the news, I had scheduled as many personal training sessions as I could before my trainer leaves town, also this week. I knew the number of sessions would be a little intense, but had already paid for them and didn’t want to switch to a different trainer. I thought it could be “boot camp” and liked that idea.
I’m physically and mentally exhausted. I’m trying to lower my shoulders, engage my core, not lock my knees, press into my heels, look up, make eye contact, smile, follow-up with every guy who says “maybe later,” and remember to keep going because there is not much time left.
At least I have some notice. Last year, it was one day my work was open and the next it was closed. The only way the dancers found out was if they were in the loop enough to receive a text message. Well, besides showing up for work to read the sign on the door. Those that had their stripper wardrobes held hostage inside their lockers had the option of calling a number and leaving a message. This time is different though, because this club isn’t going to be temporarily shut down for two months.
I’ve been exchanging contact info with girls that I like. I don’t want to have to wait to run into my friends at other clubs and embrace like found each other inside a refugee camp. This feels more like we’re all transferring from 8th grade to different high schools. Some girls are going to find places closer to their houses, some are traveling out of town, and a few are looking for straight jobs. Everyone is talking about where the money is, and where it isn’t. The reports back from my last club all have adjectives describing a downward motion: downhill, drowning, sinking, into the ground. I’ve heard it’s “girl, don’t even ask.”
I’m trying not to be sentimental and nostalgic to a fault but the revelation that last night was my last Saturday there makes my stomach drop. I’ve been giving those that haven’t worked at other clubs pep talks, trying to believe my own words. I really feel like curling up into a ball and crying, but I guess that can wait six more days. First I’m going to take my aching body to the party supply store and go nuts. It’s not every week that you get to party like you’re closing.