“Where’s the room with the pole?” the guy turned to me and asked.
“Right this way,” I said. I took them down the hallway and opened our biggest room, the one with the stripper pole in it. It could comfortably fit enough people to have a proper late-night raver orgy but I wasn’t so sure that it was big enough for what they were looking for.
“Are you kidding me? I have to dance in here?” The girl looked at me, I guess expecting me to tell her it was all a joke and that there was some kind of incredible stage elsewhere built just for her performance.
I could see why these security guys were stressed out; this headliner was a piece of work! I looked to the security escort for a clue about what to do next, but the sweatpants guy was on his cell phone yelling at various people about confusing logistics. I addressed the woman instead.
“I mean, I was asked to bring you to the room with the pole. I don’t exactly know what you’re supposed to be doing. I’m Taryn, by the way! What’s your name?”
She glared at me. “Joanna,” she said. “Joanna ANGEL.” Her emphasis on angel was fierce and comical, as if stating her last name would help me remember who she was.
“Do you work at, um, Fantasies?”
“I’m a FEATURE,” she answered.
What the fuck was a feature? I didn’t know people could be features. I thought it was a noun that described some kind of a column in a magazine, or a verb that implied something was an attribute. Like: This room features a box of fine tissues, a television, and a stripper pole.
I stared at her blankly without a reply. She scoffed and rolled her eyes.
“I’m a porn star and I get hired to dance at strip clubs around the country as a featured performer. I’m not like a house dancer at a strip club,” she firmly stated. And then she buried herself back in her cell phone. I had no idea that there was a hierarchy of strippers.
“That’s so cool! Congratulations!” I replied. “Well, let me know if I can get you anything.”
“Yeah—a bottle of water, please,” she said. “Oh, and here’s my bio and my songs. Please hand this to whoever is in charge of the music.” She handed me a typed up sheet of credits for herself that read a handful of things like “AVN Hall of Fame,” “winner of over 40 AVN awards,” “Owner of BurningAngel Entertainment,” and “First Tattooed Centerfold of Hustler magazine.” I had no idea what to do with this—did she just want me to know more about her? Was I supposed to memorize this so I wouldn’t forget? She also handed me a flash drive. I was utterly confused, though under the context I guessed that the flash drive must be full of the music she planned on dancing to.
“Great, I’ll just… get this plugged into the speakers then.”
“Uh-huh, thanks.” She snapped her phone off, sighing, huffing, and puffing loudly as she opened up her giant suitcase. I couldn’t help but peek inside: it seemed to be filled with sparkly outfits, large patent-leather boots, and multiple cosmetic bags. She pulled out a giant, plastic makeup case with skulls all over it and began putting various powders and creams all over her face. I had no idea what I was to do here but I enjoyed the challenge, and whatever it was that I had to do here I was going to execute it as best as I possibly could.
I walked out of the room, leaving Joanna to change in peace, and headed past the sweatpants guy, with the piece of paper and the flash drive crammed into my hand. He was still on the phone yelling about outlets and electricity and entrance fees and a barrage of other things. He looked up at me as I passed him.
“Oh, great, you’re taking care of her music? Thanks so much!” he said. I nodded and smiled. I guess I inadvertently accepted the challenge.
So I pieced together the fragments of information I received this evening and deduced that this store and this room was going to turn into a strip club. This pink-haired girl was a porn star, and she did some kind of special show that required special music that was on this flash drive. We did have a speaker in the store, and I had a laptop in my backpack. I was sure I could get creative and figure out how to make something work.
As I finagled with the sound system, trying to find the best way to get the music files from the flash drive out through the store speakers, the place began to fill up with lots and lots of people; I hadn’t realized they were letting anyone in yet! I wish I’d had time to move some of the shelves out of the way.
The crowd was as varied as they come, though not in terms of gender. It was mostly men, but a wild selection: some looked like bikers, covered in leather jackets with cycle gang insignias on the backs, while others looked like hipsters, covered in plaid and knitted beanies. There were frat-looking guys; nerdy guys in graphic tees. A handful of couples came in as well. The only thing that really brought everyone together, from what I could see, were their tattoos. Everyone had tattoos! Big ones, small ones, colored and black and white, animals of all kinds, and artsy renderings all showed up on the customers’ skin. I wondered if people with tattoos really preferred to see tattooed people in their porn. At least some of them did, right? The hoard of people all meandered around the store, exploring the products, but looking incredibly confused. It was completely chaotic. There was an impromptu doorman who set up a chair in the entrance of the store and was charging people to get in. Was that legal at all? He also coincidentally (or not?) had sweatpants and the same “Fantasies” T-shirt on as the others. Was I going to be rewarded with this official wardrobe as well, if I completed my job?
The original man who came to the store—the alleged friend of Sandy—took it upon himself to just climb up on top of the front counter to make an announcement. I was desperately afraid of it breaking, and watched him nervously.
“Sorry about the confusing space, everyone! Don’t worry, Joanna will be doing her special LIVE SHOW in about fifteen minutes! Follow Dennis,” he pointed at the second sweatpants guy, “he will show you where she will be performing.” The store full of people clapped and cheered. Some of them had open containers of alcohol. In unison they all repeatedly chanted “JO-ANN-A” in three equal syllables.
There was definitely a severe lack of communication among the various men in the sweatpants. Every time I asked any of them a question they went to yell at someone or something on their cell phone. I went to the storage room in the back and pulled out my laptop. I plugged the flash drive in and downloaded the songs onto my computer. There was a mix of Slayer, Metallica, Mötley Crüe, and then a slew of other bands I’d never heard of that loaded up images of black albums with complicated dark script titles, and hand-drawn pictures of burning churches and upside down crosses. I guessed it would be kind of a dark show.
When all of the files had transferred, I brought the laptop over to the speaker system behind the counter. There were a ton of wires in the back of it and there appeared to be a USB port. I took an old spare Android phone charger that Sandy kept in the store, I dismantled the cord from the square thing, and attached it from my laptop to the speaker. I crossed my fingers and pushed play; loud, brash metal music started filling the front of the store, eliciting cheers from the patrons who hadn’t gone to the stage yet. Success! It worked.
I asked the least busy-looking sweatpants man to carry the speaker and my laptop into the stripper pole room. The room was awkwardly packed with a bunch of people waiting around with no music on at all. They seemed pretty restless. He found a proper corner to put it in, on the table that displayed the lube and the tissues. It seemed good enough.
I rushed to return to the “dressing room.” Shit. I completely forgot about getting Joanna a water. I didn’t want to go back in there without it. I ran back to the register and grabbed a bottle of water I happened to have in my purse. I had drunk only a few sips out of it. It was better than nothing.