Sondra was an enigma, too, but in a different way than her boss. Her performances were limited and I sometimes wondered why she didn’t dance more. She only stripped twice a night, fifteen minutes at a time, and when she was on stage, she owned the joint. She interacted with the crowd without ever really getting involved with them. Unlike most of the girls, Sondra didn’t do lap dances or work the crowd when she wasn’t dancing. In fact, you never saw her at all in between sets. She’d disappear backstage and she didn’t appear again until her second set came around. I wondered what she did back there. There was no way I could get backstage to meet her. Two bouncers guarded that area at all times.
Maybe she didn’t need to work the crowd in between her time on stage. She sure as hell made a killing while she danced. Every night, guys (and sometimes women) would rush the stage, crowding around as soon as she came on. They reached for her and she floated just out of reach—an endless ritual. Trying to touch Sondra was like trying to hold gossamer or a cloud. Her admirers were always grasping, never quite touching, fists clenching ones and tens and twenties and more. They’d put them in her g-string. She’d pick them up with her mouth or push her breasts together and collect the bills with her cleavage. And at least once during every set, one lucky individual would get an extra special treat—he’d roll the bill into a tube and hold it upright, and Sondra would squat over it and pick it up that way—not using her hands. The crowd always went nuts when she did this, even though they’d seen her do it before. I didn’t blame them. I totally understood. I went nuts every time, too. I imagined what it would be like to be that dollar bill. I imagined a lot of things.
Was I obsessed? I don’t know. Maybe. Fuck it. Yeah, maybe I was. But if you’d seen her, you wouldn’t blame me. You’d know why.
I sat there, night after night, and watched her. Sometimes she looked at me. Other times she didn’t. When our eyes did meet, no matter how fleetingly, I always wondered if Sondra recognized me or not. Was my face familiar? Did she think, ‘Oh, there’s that nice guy who’s in here watching me every night’? When she did look my way, she always smiled, but she fucking smiled at everyone. Was her smile different for me? Special? Did it hold some hidden meaning or message? No, of course it didn’t, but sometimes it was fun to trick myself into believing so. What else did I have going on in life?
Shit.
So I’d leave the Odessa and think about Sondra. At work. At home. Out with the guys. Even at my parent’s house on Sunday afternoons. Mom asked me if I was seeing anyone. I told her yes and didn’t elaborate. I thought of Sondra when I was in the shower and when I was doing laundry and while I ate and when I laid down to go to sleep.
But my fantasies never became reality.
Infatuated, I remained alone—except for my cat. Wanting Sondra somehow made my loneliness worse. But I was okay with that, because at least I finally had some fucking excitement in my life.
I never spoke to Sondra, until the night she spoke to me first—and then I had all the fucking excitement I could ever want.
Be careful what you wish for and all that.
Here’s how it happened.
seven
Darryl and Jesse were with me. I’m sorry about that. Of all the things I regret in this whole fucking mess, that’s one of the big ones. If they hadn’t been with me, then maybe none of this shit would have ever happened. They wouldn’t have been involved. If they hadn’t been with me, maybe I wouldn’t have even gone to the Odessa that night.
Oh, who the hell am I kidding? Of course I would have gone. Sondra was working, like every other night. So I was there, like every other night.
And things got fucked.
Jesse was already inside the club. He’d gotten a table close to the stage and saved seats for me and Darryl. When we walked inside, he was getting a lap dance from a skinny stripper named Natalia, who I didn’t care for. In truth, she grossed me out. Her black hair was cropped short and she had way too much ink on her body. Even her tattoos had tattoos. Demons and flowers and tribal signs. I hate that shit. Natalia always had dark circles under her eyes, and her arms and legs were usually covered with black and yellow bruises. Rumor had it that she was on heroin. Supposedly, she shot up between her toes so that the customers wouldn’t see the needle marks. In order to feed her habit, she offered rough trade in the private rooms upstairs—S&M type shit. That wasn’t my thing. I never understood how pain was supposed to feel good. Whether you’re making love or just fucking, the last thing you wanted to do was hurt the other person. It just seemed wrong, somehow. Defeated the entire purpose. Years ago, I used to work at the foundry in Hanover. We had this dude there named Sherm and he was into that shit. Used to punch girls in the mouth during sex. Choke them as they came. Said it helped him blow a load. He also said that the girls got off on it, too. The cops shot him during a botched bank robbery. That had always seemed just about right to me.
Maybe Sherm and Natalia would have been a good fit. Then again, maybe not. He’d have probably gotten the shits of her skank ass, too.
Despite all of this, Jesse certainly seemed into her. No accounting for taste. Maybe he was drunk or maybe he just didn’t give a fuck. He barely acknowledged me and Darryl as we slid into the booth. He just kept staring into her eyes, his own lids half-closed. His body was tense, his arms stiff. His muscles stood out taught. Natalia ground against him. Jesse’s breathing quickened. Then he groaned. With a parting smile that was more business than it was pleasure, Natalia snatched a rolled-up twenty from Jesse’s hand and slunk away. Jesse turned his head towards us. He looked spent. I guess he was, at that. There was a wet spot on his jeans.
“Dude,” Darryl said, “you are one sick white boy.”
“Why? What the fuck?”
“Because, Jesse.” Darryl nodded towards Natalia. “That shit is infested.”
Jesse shrugged. “Pussy’s pussy.”
I laughed. “You’d fuck a garden hose if there was enough pressure in it.”
“True that,” Darryl agreed. “He’d fuck a bush if he knew there was a snake in it.”
“Screw you both.”
“No thanks.”
We’d brought a six-pack of Miller Lite bottles with us. Darryl offered him a beer and Jesse accepted. Apparently, Jesse was tired from blowing his load. His eyes drooped and his shoulders sank. The three of us popped the caps off the beers and took a drink. The beers were still cold. That seemed to wake Jesse up again.
“You alright?” Darryl asked him.
Jesse smiled. “Damn straight.”
He had the night off at GPS and was ready to party. Darryl and I had to go in later. Our load area was expected to get hit hard. Jesse bugged us to stick around the Odessa. Said we should call in sick. I considered it. I’d called in sick a few times before, just so I could see Sondra dance. But Darryl wasn’t having any of that. He needed his paycheck—his child support got taken directly out of it and if he didn’t work enough hours, there’d be hardly anything left. And since I’d driven us to the Odessa, I was his ride to work. No way was he letting me call off and no way I was letting him drive the Cherokee. Darryl had totaled three cars in the last two and a half years. I wasn’t going to let him do the same thing to mine.
It was a little after ten. We called Yul and laughed at him. He was just getting home from a flower show at the York Fairgrounds. Kim had made him go along with her. The poor fucker had to get up at three and go to work after spending a night doing that.