Forty-Seven
As a stand-up performer, I’d always wanted my clothes to be a blank canvas, a neutral palette. But now I nervously stepped
onto the stage in six-inch hot-pink plastic stripper shoes, turquoise velour booty shorts, and a matching strappy push-up
bra Layna had gifted me for the occasion. Luckily, the shoes were much more comfortable and stable than they looked.
Several hundred people stood out there. Layna, Zhang Xiu, and Ida Hoe had slipped around to the front row to cheer me on.
A few people held their cell phones up to film. The angle would highlight my every dimple and bulge. But no woman ever got
into comedy to look pretty. That’s what I told myself.
“Hello, Boise!” I called.
The crowd seemed game; a few people even yelled “hello” back.
“I see some of y’all looking at me like you feel bad I’m up here in this outfit,” I said. A handful of folks chuckled like:
busted. “But seriously, I never expected to find myself in front of a crowd in this getup. See, I’ve been furloughed from my job.”
I scanned the crowd. The faces were smiling, eager, buoyed by the warm weather and blue skies. A woman with homemade snowflakes
pinned all over her stood next to a guy wearing a snowman onesie. I hoped Emmylou was out there somewhere, but I didn’t see
her. Or Nate. I didn’t see Ralphie and Errol either. Maybe they hadn’t spotted the sign in Miranda’s yard. Maybe they hadn’t
come. But if they had, we were ready for them—capitol police officers, Boise PD, and federal agents dotted the crowd, scanning
for threats.
“Three weeks without pay,” I said, “and money is tight at my house. So I decided to take to the pole.” I gestured to the stripper poles behind me.
I had the crowd’s attention.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I said, “but I’m not pole dancing professionally. And I’m not saying that in a puritanical
hashtag-not-a-stripper kind of a way. Strippers are amazing. I just don’t have what it takes, and not just because breastfeeding
twins did something scary to my boobs—don’t be fooled by what this outfit is giving. This bra could make two bowls of oatmeal
look like Scarlett Johansson’s cleavage.”
An appreciative blast sounded from Layna’s air horn and everyone laughed.
“But let’s not talk about my mom boobs,” I said. “Let’s talk about pole dancing.”
The crowd let out a collective sound of excitement—Cheyenne and Salma Hayek had stepped out onto the stage behind me. I knew
they were pole walking in matching silver thongs and strappy bras. But I didn’t look back at them. I wanted to give the sense
that Cheyenne and Salma were figments of the crowd’s collective imagination.
“Imagine, it’s New York City, 1988. You want to strip?” I said. “Head up to Midtown on the D train with your big bush and
your ratty undies. No Brazilian wax or acrobatic talents required. The pole is just for keeping your balance.”
For the first time, I grabbed onto my own pole with one hand and gazed, dull-eyed, at the crowd, undulating mildly like a
bored eighties stripper. I knew behind me, Cheyenne and Salma Hayek were doing the same.
Every person out there stared up at us, mesmerized. I was a powerful comedy witch, casting my spell.
“And the strip club patrons, they were fine with that level of enthusiasm from the dancers,” I continued.
“They just came for the fantasy that a woman who wouldn’t give them the time of day in the real world was into them.
Y’all heard of Cookie Mueller?” Most of the audience members shook their heads.
But a couple artsy weirdos hooted. “She starred in a bunch of John Waters films. She was also a writer and she stripped. That was part of the patchwork of how she made a living as an artist. She said she could dance her heart out onstage. High kicking, shimmying like a showgirl.”
I gave an unprofessional shimmy, knowing behind me Salma and Cheyenne were kicking higher than a couple of Rockettes.
“But Cookie Mueller, she realized she’d make more money if she just lay down on the stage.” At this point I lowered myself
awkwardly to the floor, where I lay on my side and propped my head up with the heel of my hand. “Yep, she’d gaze deeply into
a patron’s eyes, and just do some leg lifts.”
I gave the crowd a faux sultry look and started leg-lifting like a young Jane Fonda. Behind me, Cheyenne and Salma Hayek were
doing the same, only in a sexier way. The crowd loved it.
“Cookie Mueller said when she did this, patrons would throw twenties at her like a car dealer tossing candy from a parade
float,” I said.
Using the pole, I fumbled to my feet as Cheyenne and Salma Hayek did sexy pop-ups. The crowd laughed joyfully at the juxtaposition
between my awkwardness and their grace.
“So even though back in the seventies and eighties, strippers could rake in fat cash by lying down and giving bedroom eyes,
still they were like: ‘What if we made pole dancing acrobatic? What if we made it art? Let’s elevate this shit!’”
Finally I looked back at Cheyenne and Salma as they began to air walk, legs running in elegant slow motion. They inverted
in unison to execute a graceful series of gravity-defying moves. I applauded and the crowd joined me, polite claps swelling
to genuine appreciation. When Cheyenne and Salma’s feet hit the ground and they went back to languidly moving their hips,
the crowd quieted.
“So in a few short decades,” I continued, “strippers developed this whole new art form, this aerial sport. Just because they could. And let me tell you, it’s harder than they make it look!
I’ve taken a few pole classes, and for the record, this is the vibe when a mortal tries a beginner’s pole trick.
” I executed my awkward version of the fireman’s spin.
As the crowd chortled, I staggered back to the mic stand.
“You’re laughing because you know if you tried it, you’d look even worse. ”
The audience nodded and laughed harder.
God, how I’d missed this. How had I ever thought I could give it up? I’d been born to throw my dignity on the funeral pyre
and watch it transform into the phoenix of laughter.
“By the way, the three of us are all wearing pole shoes from a new line called Cheyenne’s Sentient Strippers, created by Cheyenne
here.”
I gestured at Cheyenne, who bowed and beamed.
“They’re so comfortable even a sneakerhead like me can get around in them just fine.”
Some ladies in the front row let out a volley of “Woo”s.
“I see you, Woo Girls!” I said, pointing at them, and they “Woo”ed even louder. “I learned recently that if you’re a straight
gal ‘Woo’ing in a strip club, it’s poor form to tell the strippers you respect them too much to hire them for a lap dance.
In a strip club, you don’t show respect by being wary of transactional demonstrations of sexuality. You show respect by tipping
like a coked-up stockbroker.”
I spotted Nate at the edge of the crowd. He wasn’t looking at me. Rationally, I knew he was scanning for dangers, but still
I felt the vise grip of disappointment at having lost his attention. Then he glanced up and smiled. His adoring eyes said:
I see you up there, doing your thing. I smiled back.
But I couldn’t get distracted. Not now.
“Now I’m just a nascent pole hobbyist,” I said.
“But I imagine being a stripper is a lot like being a mom. You have to set boundaries a million times a day. We moms are all like: ‘No, you can’t have another popsicle. No, you can’t stay up past your bedtime.
Please stop putting your hand down your pants.
’ And strippers are like: ‘No, you can’t touch me.
No, you can’t touch yourself. Please stop putting your hand down your pants. ’”
One woman in the front row was crying she was laughing so hard. But on the far side of the park, some sort of commotion had
started to brew. I heard shouts and saw three officers hustling toward the Kids’ Tent. Could our plan be working? Could the
cops be grabbing Ralphie and Errol?
In an effort to keep the crowd’s attention, I pulled the mic from the stand and leaned forward as if to impart a secret. “I’m
going to level with you about the actual reason I’d never be a stripper—other than the fact that I can’t pole dance for shit
and would need to work at a niche club catering to guys horny for Gen X pheromones.”
I paused to let the laughter die down.
“The reason I could never be a stripper is I don’t have the other necessary skills. Those baddies have to be excellent at
sales. And most important, they have to have the ability to act like male sexuality isn’t disgusting ninety-five percent of
the time—and that’s one talent I do not have.”
The ruckus over by the Kids’ Tent seemed to be escalating. A murmur rippled through the park. I had the panicky sense I was
losing my audience. But underneath it lurched hope—that law enforcement had found Ralphie and Errol, that they were arresting
them right now, that this nightmarish period of my life was coming to a close.
“But I don’t not strip because I don’t want to sell my body. I already do that. In return for a paycheck and bennies for me and my kids, I
spend forty hours a week slinging meatloaf, refilling ketchup, and doing the schedule in the Capitol Grill cafeteria.” I pointed
at the capitol itself, even though the Capitol Grill was actually in the tunnels underground. “That’s how I sell my body.”
Barely half the crowd laughed. The rest had turned to see what was going on at the far side of the park, where crying children with half-painted faces came pouring out of the Kids’ Tent.
I heard shouts of “Fire!” and “My kids!” Streams of capitol police, Boise PD, and ATF officers sprinted toward the tent as tendrils of smoke curled into the air. Approaching sirens wailed.
Agent Lanagan appeared beside me, rudely grabbing the mic. “Please stay calm,” he told the crowd. “But we need everyone in
the Kids’ Tent to evacuate now.”