7. CHAPTER SIX #4
This ridiculous new habit has been filed away under “annoying side effects of living next door to your ex-boss.” Don’t cry for me, Argentina.
I can still go about my daily life and be about 96% okay.
(Sure, the remaining 4% is on constant Brady alert but I can’t help the fact that I haven’t had sex since my last boyfriend, Keith, back in – well, let’s just say it’s been awhile.) Anyway, since then, my body has slowly morphed into a wanton, salacious frightmare on account of my internal frothing of the ovaries.
I’m serious. They have a collective mind of their own and always behave like the apocalypse is coming.
I can almost feel them shooting out my eggs every month like darts out of a Nerf gun, loosely aiming for anything that looks like potential baby daddy material.
It’s bad-news-bears, because my flirting game is about as tight as a wizard’s sleeve.
The good news? Today I have a shift at Cosmo-pole-itan. Thus, to exactly no one’s dismay, I have no time to consider the rambled musings of my hyperactive (if ignored) libido.
I get myself ready (new tiny T-shirt and glossy, mermaid panty under a loose fitting, cotton romper to hide the getup), apply a shit ton of makeup, first on my pole bruises and then on my face, grab my platforms and throw them in a Stop & Shop reusable bag and slide on my Birkenstock sandals.
I drive up to Wellingham with the windows down and the music up loud, truck-stop sunglasses on and my hair whipping around in the wind tunnel that is my front seat.
When I arrive at Cosmo, I open the front door and head straight for the locker bank. The door to the office is closed, but behind it, I hear what appears to be the end of a difficult conversation.
“I’m sorry, honey,” the voice says. It’s Arrow, but you wouldn’t know from the tone.
This voice is sweet like Nestle Toll House cookies, rich with the unique combination of sorrow and comfort that can only come from a mom.
“I wish I was there with you, baby girl. But, listen to me,” she continues, firmer now.
“You’re my strong little kitten. Anytime you get scared or nervous, I want you to hold onto the tiger stuffie I sent you, and remember that you are fierce.
Just give it a big squeeze, and know that I believe in you.
” There’s a pause, and I realize that I am 100% eavesdropping at the door now.
I can’t help it – I’m hearing a side of her that I never could have dreamed existed.
“Of course, my angel. You did the exact right thing. That’s why I gave you that kind of phone, so you could always call me if you needed me.
” A deep breath. “No, little lady. You should never be sorry for that. You’re a good girl, Kit.
You’re my good girl.” Another pause. “I love you more, baby. Now, let me talk to Daddy, okay? Yes, sweetheart. I’ll talk to you soon.
” She makes a kissing noise three times and then, silence.
About 30 long, quiet seconds pass, and I’m tempted to knock on the door just to let Arrow know that I’m there.
I don’t want to seem like a creeper and end up pissing her off.
This job pays way too much for me to risk losing it over something as innocent as overhearing a conversation.
I consider sneaking back out and coming in again in five minutes, much louder this time.
Just as I’m about to turn and walk out, she says, “Listen fuckface, if I find out that you left her home alone again, I’ll get on the next flight out there and slit your motherfucking throat, you hear me?
” Shit. Now I really want to disappear. “No, I don’t want to hear it.
She’s a baby, for Christ’s sake. I don’t give a fuck if it was ten seconds – you never leave a child alone like that.
You scared the shit out of her!” A sigh.
“Don’t you dare raise your voice at me even a hair, you hear me, Ricky?
I swear to God, if you upset that child any more today…
” Her voice trails off. “Just don’t, got it?
I’m financing your entire life out there and I can come get Kit and pull the plug on your cash flow at the drop of a hat, understood?
Now, put on your fake smile Daddy voice and say something nice to me before hanging up like a gentleman.
I don’t give a shit what you think of me.
You have a daughter who’s watching your every move.
You owe it to her to at least pretend to not be a total piece of fucking garbage. ”
Another few seconds passes, accompanied by a long string of “mm hms,” and then I hear her slam the phone down on the old metal desk.
I’m terrified that Arrow will discover me outside, so I calmly knock three times before opening the office door and popping my head inside. “Hey!” I say, in my most cheerful voice. “I just got here, but I heard you on the phone and didn’t want to bother you. Just saying hi!”
I avoid making eye contact with her as she spins away from me, towards the wall, and grabs a paper towel from the roll on top of the fridge.
It’s clear I’ve startled her. “Oh, hey,” she says, trying to be cool.
She blows her nose, a heavy honk, into the paper towel.
“Fucking allergies,” she says, then grabs her phone off the desk and looks at it while blotting the edges of her eyes. “You’re early.”
“Just a few minutes. Sorry,” I reply.
“No. It’s fine. I gotta go, anyway.” Arrow grabs another paper towel, and swipes her keys off the desk. “You’re fine with tow lot, right?”
“Uh huh.”
“K. I’ll be back later.”
Like a flash of lightning, she’s gone.
Well . That was certainly something.
I’m trying to reconcile the fact that I just saw Arrow tearing up when I hear the front door open again.
It’s a partygoer from last night – and so begins the next hour of tow lot.
I remain fully dressed to greet hungover girls and hand out their car keys.
After the last Lexus has left the lot, I strip down for a workout with Saffron, who shows up early because she promised to help me work on my pole climbing.
When she arrives, I debate whether or not to mention what I heard on Arrow’s phone call.
But, admittedly, I don’t know Saffron that well, and I don’t like to gossip about people, so I leave it alone.
Plus, she swirls in like a tornado, ready to spin all night – and she’s singularly focused on getting my pole climb up to snuff.
She’s convinced me that it’s all in the shoes.
“The stickier your pole shoes are,” she says, “the better you’ll be able to get up.
It’s got way less to do with upper body strength than it does with your footwear. ”
I make a face. “Sticky? That sounds gross. Who wants their shoes to be sticky?”
“Not sticky like covered in bubble gum. I mean the fabric. The best shoes are the patent leather ones. They’re made out of a vinyl-plastic combo that just naturally adheres to the pole when you put pressure behind it. Trust me. You’ve got to try them.”
So, begrudgingly, I go into the little back office with the Jell-O shot stocked fridge and I slide my finger down the stack of shoeboxes until I find a pair my size.
They’re open-toed boots with a seven inch heel, but the three inch platforms make the heels only four inches insofar as my arches are concerned.
I text Jenna a picture. So, *this* is happening, I write.
She texts back a mind blown emoji. I try the shoes on, and am unsurprised to find that I can’t walk in them – at least not naturally – but am delightfully bemused to learn that I can swing from the pole without much trouble.
When landing, I’m careful to make sure both feet are firmly connected to the floor and I’m standing fully upright before I let go of the pole, as if it is a walker intended for a 90 year-old instead of the strip club essential that it actually is.
After all, nothing’s worse than a shot girl on crutches.
I need more practice in the shoes, but not so much practice dancing as practice just walking. “You should try wearing them tonight,” Saffron offers. “You can always change out of them if they become too much.”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“This one’s going to be an easy party. Arrow told me there are only 15 girls coming. It would be a really good night to test them out.”
That sells me. I’ve never worked a party that small yet. Surely, if I move a little bit slower than usual, it won’t kill the vibe with so few ladies in attendance.
So, I keep my usual platforms on standby in favor of the toeless boots once the party begins at 8:00.
It’s a cute little group. They’re throwing a masquerade-ball-themed shindig, so each of them has on a fancy eye mask.
One’s laden with neon blue and purple feathers (reminiscent of a peacock), another’s covered in glitter.
The bride is wearing a mask covered in white lace, which reminds me of something I saw on one of my mom’s old Madonna cassette tapes from back in the day.
She’s got little fingerless gloves to match, but she’ll learn soon enough that you can’t use gloves on the pole.
They give each of us a mask to wear also.
Mine is neon green faux snakeskin – which doesn’t exactly match my mermaid-inspired outfit, but really, who cares?
The only issue I have with it is that it slides a bit more than I’d like, so there are moments where it gets in the way of my actual line of sight.
Which feels a little scary, given that I’m trying very consciously not to resemble the walking dead when I strut around in the dimly lit space with my trays of Jell-O.