After a two-week hiatus at the club, I arrived back to find my lock broken and my thigh-high vinyl boots stolen. Having arrived at the club in flip-flops, I had no shoes to dance in.
I stormed out of the club breathing fire and high-tailed it down the 35 to Hard Candy, my favorite Stripper Grab & Go. The minute I began telling my sob story to the attendant, someone behind me started giggling and wouldn’t shut up. After a few minutes of this, I got really annoyed.
“Who is laughing at me?” I demanded, whirling around.
There was no one behind me. There was only a bird cage with a large, green parrot on top, giving me some side-eye and chuckling.
Apparently, it takes a parrot laughing at me to remind me that my problems were of the first world stripper sort and therefore not to be taken so seriously. I grabbed the shoes and hit the road again. Despite getting hit with a higher house fee on top of the expensive shoes I’d just bought, it felt great to be back – especially after DJ Rob heard about my plight and poured a shot of Crown Apple down my throat.
Mere seconds after I slid into the new kicks, I heard my name being called. I stomped confidently towards the stage and immediately tripped in front of two tables full of dudes. Goddammit, these shoes had no ankle support! Onstage, the heels presented another problem: they were hella slippery. I slipped and tripped through my set and made four bucks in tips.
During my next set, however, in the space of time it takes The Prodigy to scream “Smack my bitch up!” a million times, I made one forty. Making money at this job continues to be a total crapshoot, but God bless the boys who tip with twenties.
My night was made when some out-of-town friends arrived unexpectedly. They had been at a swingers party but left disappointed, so I engaged them in a rousing rendition of “Hide the Dollar Bill” instead. That’s right, friends, I am available for all your after-party needs. Your party might disappoint; I promise I will not. We can play games like, “Pin the Dollar Bill on the Stripper,” “Turn the Stripper Into a Faucet,” “From Stripper to Slot Machine,” and basically anything your freaky little imagination can dream up.
Well. I did not intend for this story to turn into an advertisement for my entertainment services, but there you go, folks. It’s been a slow summer. I also cannot really think of a way to tie the rest of this story to life lessons learned from a parrot, so I’m just gonna end this here.
I am picking up a few more shifts once school starts, so hopefully the stories will pick up too. Ya’ll come see me, and bring your freaky little imaginations with you.