Sneak Peek #3 "Dancing into Deliverance"

The Missing Teddy Bear Caper and Other Stories from The Club

…Another that comes to mind is Mark. Mark was less than average looking and seemed to try to make up for that by wearing a suit every time he came in, which was most days. His suits were nice, well-tailored, three piece designers that probably could have garnered him some attention in the real world. Unfortunately, Mark was desperately lacking in conversation skills.

I remember a conversation with him while I was on the Main Stage, once. It was about breakfast. Yes, breakfast.

Mark: “Did you eat breakfast today?”

Me: “Yep.”

Mark: “What did you have?”

Me: “Cereal.”

Mark: “What kind of milk was in it?”

Me: “Huh?”

Mark: “What kind of milk was in it?”

Me: “I don’t know. Cow probably.”

Mark: “Was it 2%?”

Me: “Maybe.”

Mark continued on about the benefits of 2% milk versus whole milk as I was dancing topless and as I wondered how we could be having a conversation about cereal and types of milk.

Mark did have some mad baking skills, though. Quite often he would show up to the club with some of the most amazing concoctions. I generally don’t like cheesecake, but his was delicious.

The third, who comes to mind is Tim. Oh, Tim! But let me start with another story before we get to Tim.

Robert had just been hired on as a club manager. During one of his shadow training shifts with Mason, the general manager, I approached Mason and asked for a drink ticket. Mason explained the drink ticket situation to Robert letting him know that we were only allowed 3 drinks per night and the ticket system kept track of that.

The dancers had to request tickets from the manager then present them to their waitress or bartender in order to get any alcoholic beverage. This kept the dancers from getting drunk and falling off the stage onto one of the clients, who I’m sure, wouldn’t mind.

As Mason handed me my ticket, he told Robert, “The standard is 3 tickets, but you’ll get to know their drink limits. Andi can have as many as she wants. She can be hammered and you’d never know it.”

Wow! Was that a compliment? I’m not sure. It was true, though. Maybe it was because of how Irish my heritage is. Maybe my tolerance was high because of how much I had been drinking. I don’t know. I do know that, after the first 6 months of dancing sober, that I had required of myself, my drink of choice became the Chernobyl.

What is that, you ask? It’s basically a Long Island Tea with a shot of Midori instead of Coke. The ingredients? 1 shot of Vodka, 1 shot of Gin, 1 shot of Tequila, 1 shot of Triple Sec, 1 shot of Rum, sweet and sour, and a layer of Midori. It wasn’t a beverage for a lightweight and on some shifts I would manage to down 5 or 6 of these. At least there was no chance of a DUI for me. I would rollerblade to work, shower, work my shift, then take a cab home. Management was aware of this, too, which helped in the “Let her drink all she wants.” directive. (I just looked up “Chernobyl drink” online and found they have started making vodka from the still radioactive area of Chernobyl. That was not what I was drinking!)

Back to Tim. “Tiny Tim” we called him. Tim was dwarfish but not quite a dwarf, who I would sometimes see riding his bike cart along and below Speer Boulevard in Downtown Denver. Actually, I guess it would be a trike cart since it had 3 wheels. It looked as though Tim collected metal trash in his trike cart as that’s what the back trailer usually held. I don’t know if Tim rode his trike to the club, but he did frequent the club quite often.

It was Robert’s first or second night shift managing the club on his own when the Great Teddy Bear Caper happened. Tim showed up at the club and set up his teddy bear collection on one of the tables not too far from the center of the room. Tim’s Teddy Bear Table was directly in front of the Main Stage where everyone could see…and everyone did.

I stopped by to say, “Hi” to Tim and ask about his bears. Apparently, Tim had told one of the girls all about his Teddy Bear Collection. She had seemed interested enough that Tim thought he would try to impress her by putting them on display. I guess a strip club would certainly be the place for putting things on display.

Tim asked me if that particular dancer was working that night and I had to inform him she was not. I felt really sad for him as I saw a look of disappointment wash across his face. He had set up his teddy bears in the perfect order and had been very meticulous in their placement and poses.

I always felt really bad for guys like Tim, who were blinded to the concept of why strip clubs exist. The guys who thought maybe, just maybe, the fantasy could become more than a reality. I don’t mean sexually. For these guys, the fantasy was to have a friend. Someone to talk to and cared about who they were. For these guys, the fantasy was to be heard, because someone wanted to hear them. Not because they were being paid to give someone attention.

A little later in the evening, Tim approached me and asked if I had seen who had stolen one of his teddy bears.

Me: “Huh?”

Tim: “I went to the bathroom and, when I came back, one of my teddy bears had been stolen.”

(I think he might have told me the teddy bear’s name, but I’m not sure.)

Me: “No, Tim. I’m sorry. I have no idea who might have taken it and did not realize one was gone.” (I genuinely felt horrible for Tim. Who steals a teddy bear from a guy that has enough issues to actually bring a teddy bear collection to a strip club?)

Tim was visibly distraught and I wanted to help. “I know! Maybe Robert could help or might know something.” I told Tim. Honestly, I was feeling incredibly awkward and wanted to help, but also wanted to remove myself from the weird situation.

I found Robert. “Robert, I need you! One of our guests has an issue you might be able to solve.” Robert’s face lit up with excitement. “What’s up, Andi?” (I had rejected my initial stage name in lieu of my nickname months earlier, but that’s a story for later.) “Tiny Tim has a problem that maybe you can help him with. It’s probably best if he explains it, though.” Robert might have been new, but he already knew who Tiny Tim was and immediately headed off in his direction.

Robert’s face was not as lit up with excitement the next time I saw him. In fact, his face shot a look of utter disdain in my direction. I asked how things went with Tim and the Teddy Bears. Robert’s face growled.

“Seriously, Andi? Teddy Bears? You sent me on a Teddy Bear Quest? I was so excited to get my first problem to solve and it was a missing teddy bear!” I could not hold in my laughter. Robert’s level of teddy bear hostility had me cracking up.

“No, I did not find Tim’s missing teddy bear but I have no doubt some [expletive] grabbed it while Tim was gone and then later took it in the bathroom and [expletived] it, then ripped its head off.”

Robert had a wilder imagination than I did. I had not even considered teddy sodomy, much less with a Praying Mantis ending.

********

We had some patrons who could say some pretty stupid things at times and, quite often, it was in an attempt to make themselves feel better about their own insecurities by putting down the women who were baring it all…or almost all.

On several occasions, I saw the result of this in the dressing room, as a dancer would be in tears over some idiotic comment by a guy she wouldn’t have given the time of day to if she had met him in the real world, outside of the imaginary, upside down world of our club.

Susanna was a beautiful blond with a little more weight than most of us. She was still thin and gorgeous, by all measures. I went downstairs to change into my next tight, short, sparkly, velvet outfit of the night, when I saw her crying. I asked what was wrong. Through her tears, she told me how one of the customers had just told her she was fat and unattractive. I felt a little anger well up inside! Even though I had not seen the guy, I knew the answers to my questions before I even asked.

Me: “Was he fat?”

Susanna: “Yes.”

Me: “Was he bald?”

Susanna: “Yes.”

Me: “Was he ugly?”

Susanna: “Yes.”

Me: “Then why do you care? You are way more attractive than he will ever be. He hates himself and he’s trying to take it out on you. Is he someone you would ever want to date?”

Susanna, no longer crying: “No. Never.”

Me: “Then ignore his ugly self.”

I remember a guy trying this absurdity on me, once. He sat down at my stage and it wasn’t long before he told me I “wasn’t all that to look at.” Since it was early and he was the only one at my stage, I had no intention of disrobing until he left. That normally happened on second of three songs. During song number two, Sparky was still sitting there. I wanted him to leave so I could do my job without him watching.

I asked him why he was still there. He mumbled, “Don’t worry. I’ll be gone soon.” then pointed to a scar on my left leg. “Look, you’re covered in bruises, anyway.” (I had no bruises.)

Me (bending down closer to him): “That?” I asked, pointing at the scar that had been burned into my leg several months earlier from a motorcycle muffler. “That’s not a bruise, it’s a scar. And it’s too bad I’m not perfect, like you.” I said as I reached down and pinched the fat roll resting on top of his belly.

“F*** you, bitch!” he yelled, as he jumped from his seat. The bouncer nearby, quickly jumped into action and my new friend was promptly escorted out. Once Pudgy had been appropriately dealt with, the bouncer returned to make sure I was okay. I could not have been better. Words like that never bothered me, but I hoped he would think twice before trying to make some other naked girl feel as bad about herself as he felt about himself.

The only time I can remember something at the club bringing me to tears wasn’t about me. It was a crowded Saturday night and I was on the Main Stage. Two guys, who looked like they had just come from golfing at the local Country Club, were standing at one corner of my stage. They had put dollars down on the padding in front of them that trimmed the edge of the stage, signifying they would like some of my attention. I went over to dance for them long enough to take the money. As I did, the one on the left bit his lower lip and said, something along the lines of, “Wow! You are so beautiful it makes me want to go home and beat my wife.”

What in the actual hell? Who says that? I was shocked! Could what I was doing legitimately cause a reaction like that. Was someone back home getting hurt because of me?

My response? “Why don’t you go home and [expletive] her? I can promise you this, I would never cook for you. I would never clean for you. I would never do your laundry. I would not bear your children. All the things she does for you that I would never do? Maybe go home and appreciate her for that.” I don’t remember his response. I didn’t care. I think it was just shocked silence.

After that set, I went and sat and cried in my manager’s office. Sam was the only manager I trusted with any of “the feels” and now he was stuck there having to suffer through more stripper drama from me.

I had never really thought about what happened outside of the club. What happened when the guys went home. What was I doing? What was I causing? How was I affecting people I had never even met? Sam couldn’t answer my questions and they really weren’t meant for him. Was I losing my soul? It was beginning to feel that way.

Bartender Joe and I had that “lost soul” conversation during one slow shift. Joe was not much to look at, but had a great personality. Always happy and always telling jokes, he was an absolute pleasure to be around. He loved his motorcycle and, with his long, black, Italian locks pulled back in a ponytail and his leather jacket, he looked like your quintessential biker.

Somehow, Joe and I began talking about our faith, or what was left of it. It got pretty deep and we seemed to be on the same page of believing there was a God, believing Jesus was His son, and believing we were probably going to hell because of where we were working.

I was saved when I was three years old, but look how far I had fallen. I had loved Jesus so much when I was little, but things got confusing when my step-dad began trying to beat the Jesus into me. Joe was confused, too, and I distinctly remember him saying he wondered if he had sold his soul by working at the club. Would he go to hell for working there? I didn’t have the answer. I was wondering the same for myself. Within a couple of years after that conversation, Joe would be killed in a motorcycle accident…

If you would like to help publish my book, “Dancing into Deliverance; From Slut Bucks to Slaying Demons,” you can do that