“Why is the air conditioner off?” I was being a jerk and asking a question that I already knew the answer to. It was hot as fuck and a heroin-addicted coworker, we’ll call her Belle, had turned it off for no apparent reason.
“I turned it off. It’s cold in here,” she whined. She was huddled on the counter, crouching barefoot in front of the mirror. She looked like Smeagol applying makeup.
“No, it is not. You unplugged it?!” This somehow seemed extra offensive. She had pulled the plug out of the wall instead of simply pressing the power button.
She whimpered, “It’s broken…” This was a lie.
“No, it’s not.” I plugged it back in and jabbed the temperature button with my index finger until the numbers on the screen reached 60. I felt like somebody’s mom or an exasperated teacher. The parent/child dynamic had started between Belle and I with the incident of the triple-barreled hair waver. I very calmly but firmly explained to her that she was not allowed to use my crimper because she had borrowed it the previous day without asking. This was our first ever interaction, and seemed to place me in some kind authority figure position in her eyes. Ask before you use things that do not belong to you! The AC unit is not a toy!
I vented about her turning the dressing room into a sauna to some of the other girls when she was upstairs, “Why couldn’t she just put on her monkey robe?” We all snickered. The monkey robe is a white flannel pajama robe with a whimsical monkey head pattern. It’s definitely something she picked up from the children’s section of Goodwill. It fits her tiny frame like a lab coat. She wears it when she goes outside to smoke. Sometimes she gets so fucked up that she wears it all night and only takes it off on stage, where she lies down and twitches like a dying animal.
I told myself that the reason I didn’t like her was because she undercuts the rest of our dance prices. Because it wasn’t fair for her to undercharge when she already had the advantage of looking like a child. Because she occupied one of two stalls for half an hour, causing a line to form for those of us who actually wanted to use the toilets. Because then she came downstairs, scratched at her back and arms with the end of a Bic pen and nodded off, making me worry that she would die on me with no one else in the dressing room. I didn’t see why I should have to worry about my coworkers dying on me when I’m just trying to charge my phone. I didn’t see why I should have to carry her with me in my thoughts when I walk back up stairs to try and do my job.
Notwithstanding the aforementioned offenses, I refuse to say anything negative about her (or any other coworker, for that matter) to customers. This is a personal policy and there are many reasons for it, including that it’s not becoming, and that customers are not trustworthy.
I was sitting with a thinner Alex Baldwin look-alike (read: total silver fox) from Chicago in town on business. He was drinking O’Douls. He gestured at Belle up on the cage stage above us. She was swaying zombie-like, bracing herself on the bars, like a kidnapee being transported. “She’s not old enough to be here!”
“No, she is. She’s twenty-one.”
“Then she’s gotta be on drugs! Look how skinny she is!” I’m sure I squirmed. I should have just touched my finger to my nose because it would have been subtler. Sensing he could get me to squeal, he whispered, “What’s she on? Meth? That’s it, isn’t it?!”
“I don’t know.” As he was about the press the issue further, I cut him off saying something about how I don’t like to pass judgment. He responded really well and apologized to me, “Oh, I can’t throw stones! I used to be a crackhead!”
Turns out he used to be a high-functioning white-collar crackhead, but that wasn’t surprising; I already just knew it from the O’Douls. We talked about Bill W, exchanged high fives, and learned that we both quit drinking five years ago. He was shocked, “Really? You’ve been working in this environment this whole time?” When I confirmed that was the case, he was so impressed that you’d think he’d misheard whatever I said about working at the titty bar as “passing the Bar.” He made an O’Doul’s toast to me then and there, focusing on my strong character and perseverance.
As basic it sounds, it was really refreshing to have someone give me big ups for doing my job sober*. I don’t get much acknowledgment in that department and I started to choke up. This completely snuck up on me but I caught myself and took a deep breath and hoped that nobody could see that my eyes had glazed over.
Usually I try to evade the subject at work, turning away drinks with “Aw thanks, but I’m good for now” as if I’ve already done ten shots. I skirt the issue because people respond with either a) “Great, a bar full of strippers and the one Mormon one bugs me” or b) “So, you must have had something really traumatizing happen that made you quit. Why don’t you tell me about it right now?” I don’t like lying about drinking because I already lie enough as it is (when I’m at work), and I hate dealing with fake drinks or worse yet, bartenders who consider weak drinks to be nonalcoholic.
Recovering Crackhead Alec Baldwin got a couple dances and I moved on to the next guy and the next guy until the night was over. Everyone was changing in the dressing room when Beer Sip and a girl who resembles a birdlike, tattooed version of Molly Shannon were standing very close to each other and yelling into each other’s mouths. At first I thought that they were fighting, and then I thought that they were about to kiss, and then I realized that they were both extremely drunk and probably coked out. They just kept yelling into each others mouths like baby birds trying to feed.
Beer Sip finally got it together and staggered upstairs to leave. Molly Shannon Winehouse kept yelling at Beer Sip as she walked up stairs. Then she kept yelling as if Beer Sip could answer her through the floor. She was just screaming her head off, spouting incoherent nonsense. I couldn’t even hear myself think and it was making me take longer to get dressed, which in turn was making it take longer to get out of that hole and into my bed.
Words came out of my mouth. It’s not like I decided to myself, “Hmm, I’m going to yell at her to be quiet.” I just told at her to please stop yelling! And it had to be loud enough that she would hear me over her own voice. She spun her body around and aimed one boney inked arm in my direction, narrowing her eyes, “Why don’t you stop…” she drunkenly paused to think, “…talking!”
There was a stirring in the background and a meek voice protested during the pause. It was the sound of Belle defending me. She had come to life and was visibly upset. She continued to feebly yell at the girl’s back, while the girl belligerently pointed and screamed at me some more before marching upstairs, never turning around to notice.
* I usually just say that I don’t drink, because I have smoked pot over the past five years and I hate when people casually throw around the word “sober.” I’ve been very sober for a while now though.