Six
The Day Before
In the curtained entryway of the strip joint, a massive bearded bald man in a shiny lavender suit perched on a corner stool,
immobile as a baseball bat and just as ready to be deployed in case of emergency. A woman in a microscopic minidress made
of sequins the size of quarters handed out pads of paper and pencils. “Welcome to Huckleberry’s Art Night,” she cooed.
“Art night?” Layna said.
Salma explained Idaho state law forbids the sale of alcohol anywhere you could see nipples. However, Boise had passed a local
ordinance that nudity with serious artistic merit was allowed. So “Art Night” was the workaround.
“You can practice drawing the female form,” the hostess said with a wink. “Twenty bucks each, please.”
I handed over the cash, guilty with the knowledge it should be spent on a jumbo box of Bagel Bites for my kids, not entrance
to a low-budget nudie bar. Being furloughed meant everyday expenses would have to go on a credit card straining toward its
limit.
Salma Hayek parted the velvet curtain, and we crossed the threshold from the plain, clothed world of Boise to the bare-bottomed,
chintzy mise-en-scéne of booty floss and glittery platform shoes. The club was dark as sin with pops of purple LED strip lighting.
As my eyes struggled to adjust, I stumbled on a carpeted step lost to the gloom.
Sunday nights probably usually weren’t this packed, but tomorrow was Presidents’ Day.
Heavyset guys in trucker hats sat at the rails, ignoring their art pads.
A gaggle of societal rejects—think waxed handlebar mustaches and paisley scarves—clustered at the end of the stage near a bunch of meatheads in Unite the Right T-shirts.
The dancer onstage wore a silver thong and angel wings reminiscent of peak Victoria’s Secret.
As we settled in at our little table, I made sure to sit with my back to the stage. I’m not a puritan. But I’d spotted my
high school geometry teacher at the rail and would drown a kitten to avoid making eye contact.
The other Pole Virgins cheered at more advanced pole moves while Salma Hayek dropped wisdom like she was Mr. Miyagi and we
were her five Karate Kids. I was relieved she was doing most of the talking—since I spent all my free time interacting with
kiddos, my main conversational topic was whether or not My Little Ponies actually liked to swim in the toilet.
“Having a pole name helps you really lean into your sensual, strong side,” Salma Hayek said. “The persona is a part of you
that maybe you can’t flaunt in the rest of your life. I want each of you to try a name on for size. See how it feels.”
I sipped a Fly Line lager, because everything in Idaho is named after fly fishing. I wanted a cocktail, but at least with
a beer, I’d be good to drive in an hour. Life as a single mom involves constant risk assessments. The plan, if I died tragically
and unexpectedly, had been for my mom to take my kids. But it was my mom who had died tragically and unexpectedly of an aneurysm,
and now there was no plan.
Zhang Xiu was explaining that while she’d first wanted her pole name to be Cupcake or Bubbles, she realized taking the name
of a minor warlord of the Eastern Han dynasty would better suit her fierceness. Strands of silver streaked her jet-black hair.
At first glance, I’d written her off as soft and uninteresting, the way I did sometimes with women in their fifties—probably
because of internalized misogyny. But once she’d shot up the pole like a comic-book assassin, I knew better.
“I want my pole name to be I Don’t Play I Slay,” the lone guy said. Did he slather himself in expensive serums every night or was that glowy skin a birthright? When assessing a twentysomething, it was tricky to tell nature from nurture.
“Is that a name?” I asked. “Or song lyrics by that one judge from RuPaul’s Drag Race?”
“Throw shade for me. Shade for me, shade!” he sang, clearly pleased I’d gotten the old reference. He brought a finger to his
lips. “I actually like that.” He shifted to the enthusiastic demeanor of a trivia night emcee. “I. Am. Shade!”
Everyone cheered.
The girl with silvery-blue hair and bright star-shaped pimple stickers said her pole name would be Gucci. “First purse I’m
buying when I’m no longer a broke grad student,” she said.
I’d bet a Ben Franklin she was studying some obscure sub-branch of the humanities that would leave her with no real job prospects,
but her hopefulness made me like her.
Salma Hayek offered to buy a round. “We’ll have to come back some night when Cheyenne’s dancing. She’s a dream on the pole.”
“Who’s Cheyenne?” Shade said.
“The wifey bartender!” Salma said, pointing. “The real bartender is out sick. Cheyenne goes to noon open studio at Pole Kisses
sometimes. Subs classes too! She just launched her own pole shoe company: Cheyenne’s Sentient Strippers! I barely know her,
but do you think it’s too soon to propose?”
“Whoa, there, cowgirl!” Shade pulled on a set of pretend reins. “Maybe try talking to her first?”
Salma squared her shoulders and headed to the bar, the rest of us egging her on.
All I could see of Cheyenne was a pair of Maleficent-style horns perched atop bright pink hair and a slightly rodent-like
face. It was hard to imagine what about her so dazzled the radiant Salma Hayek.
Gucci applauded wildly for a pole trick and hurried to the rail to tip the dancer.
When she returned, she said, “I’m taking pole because I love strip clubs.
You just have to bring your own Big Strip Club Energy with you.
As soon as the dancers realize what I’m here for they start pulling out their best pole tricks. ”
A Miami ten in gold butt floss and matching thigh-high boots led the dorky guy with the paisley scarf into the VIP room.
“In the real world, that woman wouldn’t give him a light,” I said.
“What happens in the VIP room?” Layna asked.
Shade’s eyes went wide. “What do you think happens in the VIP room?”
“Strip clubs do have a dark side, but there’s light shining out of that darkness.” Gucci had leaned in close so only I could
hear her. She ran a hand through her blue hair, which looked purple under the LEDs. “That’s the other reason I’m taking pole
classes. To get in touch with my sexuality. In a positive way.”
“Go on,” I said. “I’m listening.” My own grief had made me able to recognize it in others.
“My uncle. He was a bad guy. He did bad things. To me. When I was a kid.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
She shrugged. “He died of a heart attack. I was his next of kin. His only kin. So I donated him.”
“Like to a medical school?” I imagined med students giggling over his corpse as it bobbed in a tank of formaldehyde. It seemed
fitting.
“Better,” Gucci said. “To forensics researchers. They left him out in a designated field and checked his decomp progress on
the hour.”
“Oh my god,” I said, clapping my hand over my mouth. “You let him rot in a field?”
Gucci looked momentarily stricken. “I shouldn’t have said anything. My boundaries are so porous.”
“No. No, it’s perfect. So rare. For someone to get exactly what they deserve. It’s like you made your awful uncle do a selfless good deed. For science.”
“Exactly!” Gucci said, her hand on my arm. “Thank you for not judging me.”
“Judge you? You’re incredible,” I said.
“Honestly, learning about the decomp field, it’s how I fell in love with—” Gucci didn’t finish, because right then Salma Hayek
rocked up to our table with a cluster of tequila shots and a pile of lime slices in the bend of her elbow.
“It’s time to seal your bond as Pole Virgins,” she said. “And to celebrate that I just got Cheyenne’s number!”
Everyone grabbed a shot and lifted it to the heavens. “To Salma Hayek. Our fearless leader and a girl who has game!” Shade
said. He paused, suddenly noticing one lonely shot still on the table.
Everyone looked at me.
“I hate tequila and I’m drinking mine,” Zhang Xiu said.
“I’ve gotta drive home,” I protested.
“You can Uber,” Layna said.
“These shots are the equivalent of slicing our palms and mingling our blood,” Shade said. “If you’re sober—respect.” He gestured
at my beer. “But you’re not sober.”
“So much peer pressure!” I said. But it actually felt nice. When was the last time someone had wanted me to be a part of their
group?
We downed the shots together, bit into lime slices, grimaced. My spirits lifted on the wings of alcohol. I’d forgotten how
this worked. You had a shot, you felt better. You had another shot, you felt close to everyone around you. You became deeply
convinced alcohol could never make you feel anything but more and more happy. More and more connected to others. More and
more like your true self. Maybe alcohol was the solution to everything.
With a second tequila shot down my gullet, I couldn’t understand why I didn’t drink more often.
“You said you just moved here?” Layna asked.
Newly chatty, I told everyone I grew up in Boise, but had lived in Westside LA for twenty-five years. LA was my spiritual
home, I said. Comedy my religion. “But as soon as I got my big break, my career imploded,” I said. This was something I’d
be loath to mention sober, but seemed imperative to share now.
“What do you mean?’” Layna said.
“You’ve heard of Mickey Larynx, right?” I said.
“Of course,” Shade said. “He was one of my favorite comedians. With an emphasis on the was.”
The others nodded solemnly.
“Who is he?” Layna demanded. “Sorry. Not a pop culture vulture.”
It was rare to meet someone who hadn’t heard the whole sordid story. “He is . . . well, he was a big deal in comedy. Asked me to open for him on a fifty-city tour.” I’d heard the rumors about Mickey Larynx. But I’d waited
so damn long for my time to shine, and I’d worked it all out. Me, my mom, the twins, we’d drive behind Mickey Larynx’s giant
tour van for three months while my mom homeschooled Phoebe and Alice. The first couple nights—Oakland, San Francisco—I had
the audience rolling! On the third day of the tour, I got an email from a Netflix exec saying they were interested in having