Supposedly, Sara’s two-young daughters, who couldn’t have been more than six years old assisted in the childbirth because Sara’s husband was busy working on an important project. Two days after the birth of her child, Sara was back up on the stage stripping. A few of my colleagues and I were flabbergasted to say the least. After all, dancing on a stage nude two days after giving birth wasn’t exactly the norm. Although it was none of my business, curiosity had gotten the better of me and I was dying to know why on earth this woman had returned to work so quickly.
One day after Sara had just gotten off the stage, I decided to go into the dressing room and initiate a conversation with the strange woman. I began by asking her how the new baby was doing. It took her a few minutes to respond to my question. It was almost as if she needed some time to make up an answer. Finally she responded, but just barely. The ugly woman let out an exaggerated sigh. “The baby’s dead,” she casually remarked. I have to admit, her nonchalant response threw me for a loop. I looked at her in disbelief. “Dead from what?” I asked. “I don’t know. Possibly crib death or something,” she commented as she quickly grabbed her tacky-green mohair sweater and scurried out of the dressing room.
The door slammed shut behind her.
When my co-workers found out about the death of Sara’s baby, they were mortified. Some of them felt sorry for her, attributing her apathetic attitude towards her newborn’s death as simply part of the grieving process. I strongly disagreed.
As far as I was concerned, the woman wasn’t grieving; she just simply didn’t give a damn.
About one month after the death of Sara’s child, strange things began to take place at the club. Strip clubs were notorious for their loud music and this club was no exception. Most of the time, the music was so loud that you couldn’t even hear yourself talk. One night at around 1:00 a.m., a few of the other dancers and I thought that we heard a woman screaming out in the back parking lot. At first we just attributed the screams to some mischievous teenagers playing around, but night after night the screaming continued. One of the dancers who worked with me lived in the house that I was staying at. She had a German Shepard that had been fairly well behaved, until recently. The once well-behaved dog had become a menace, barking day and night at something or someone in Samuel and Sara’s house.
One evening, the mysterious screams that haunted the back parking lot of the club were louder than normal. Concerned, the doorman went outside into the parking lot to investigate. Ten minutes later he came back into the club reporting that he had seen nothing. The blood curdling screaming continued on and off for the next month. Time and time again the doorman would go out into the parking lot searching for the source of the elusive cries, but never found anything out of the ordinary.
This club closed considerably earlier than most. By 2:30 a.m., we were dressed and ready to leave. On occasion, some of the employees would stand around conversing and smoking cigarettes.
One night, I decided to join them. From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a man digging a ditch directly behind the little blue shack. Sara was standing across from me talking to one of the dancers. I thought that it was an opportune time to ask her why some man was digging ditches in her backyard at 2:30 a.m.
Sara snapped at me, “It’s just my husband doing some work for the landlord!”
“Well,” I sarcastically remarked, “he must have one good set of eyes.” Sara ignored my comment.
As time went on, a wooden building was erected behind Sara and Samuel’s house.
At the time, nobody gave it a second thought. As far as we were concerned, it was just another eye sore on their property. Shortly after the building appeared, the screaming seemed to disappear. The mysterious screams that we had once heard on a nightly basis were nothing but a memory.
After the owner at the Ruby Gartner died, Casey would stop by the Ruby Garter South on a fairly regular basis to check-up on the business. I did everything in my power to avoid him when he was around, but he still managed to make me miserable.
One night while Casey was in the back office doing paperwork, the strange screams returned. One of the dancers asked the doorman if he would mind going outside to investigate the noise one more time. The doorman was sick and tired of going on wild goose chases and refused to do it. He told the woman to report the incident to Casey. The naive young woman did as she was told. A few moments later, Casey came storming out of the office holding a large-black stick that strongly resembled a baseball bat. Casey flew out of the back exit door and disappeared into the pitch-black parking lot. Twenty minutes later, he returned and the exit door slammed closed behind him.
I could see Casey’s tall six foot seven silhouette approaching the little table where the dancers would sit between shows. He took the large black stick that he had been carrying and flung it against the wall directly over our heads. None of us moved. “Do any of you think that this place is some kind of a fucking joke?” he screamed. “This is a serious god damn business!” Casey kicked over the small table that we used to put our beverages on. Pop, coffee, and broken glass flew everywhere. The dancer who had reported the screaming to Casey had just walked onto the stage. When Casey saw her, he jumped up on the stage and began to beat the woman with his fists in front of all the employees and the customers. The woman fell to the floor from the intensity of the blows. Some of the dancers began to scream. Most of the customers got up and left. The badly beaten woman screamed for help, but nobody came to her aid. After Casey had knocked the woman practically unconscious, he ordered the doorman to get rid of her. The doorman, who wasn’t intimidated by Casey, suggested that he get rid of her himself. Casey dragged the semi-conscious girl into the women’s bathroom. We heard him order one of the waitresses to throw a blanket “over her ass.” The waitress went out to her car and returned with a dirty looking old sheet, which she used to cover up the battered woman.
After Casey dragged the dancer into the bathroom, he walked over and informed us that he had an announcement to make. In a loud threatening voice, we were told that if we didn’t like the way he operated, we could all get the hell out. Then Casey walked up to me and pointed his finger directly into my face and said,
“You’re going to be the next bitch I get rid of.” It’s a good thing that I didn’t have a gun when he made that comment. I probably would have put him out of his misery. His violent behavior and his threat were the last straw.
I intended to quit the Ruby Gartner and go to work at the Nite Strip Lounge.
After Casey stormed back into the office, I told my ex-roommate, Magdalene, where I was going. She asked me how I planned to get there without a car. I told her that I had intended to take a cab.
On my way to the hallway to use the payphone, I stopped and asked the doorman to lend me a couple of quarters to use the phone. The heavyset man reached deep into his pocket and handed me some change. I quickly fed the money into the hungry payphone. I had to dial information in order to get the number to the Nite Strip Lounge. The music that night was so loud that I could barely hear what the operator was saying. I wrote down the phone number that she gave me, and quickly made the call. The phone rang and rang, but nobody answered.
Finally, somebody picked up the phone, “Nite Strip Lounge, how may I help you?” The man’s voice was soft spoken and sounded friendly. I told the man that I wanted to speak to the manager. “That would be me,” the man said. I asked him if he was hiring any dancers at the time. He said that he was. I gave him my stage name, and told him that I would be there within the hour to talk to him.