The holidays rolled around, my first after college. My parents went away around Thanksgiving, which was my greatest reason to give thanks. Not only did I not need to stay sober on Thanksgiving Day – an agonizing thought – but my parents asked me to watch our poodle, Mocha, while they were gone.
I was getting a dog!
“We can trust you to take care of her, right?” they said.
“Of course!” I said. I loved dogs more than I loved anything else in the world, and I loved Mocha more than I loved all other dogs. She was the treasured family pet, my bright light from childhood. I was thrilled that she’d be coming to stay with me.
Mocha was a very easy dog. She was older, relaxed, and required only basic care. She slept next to me on the couch as I drank and smoked – things she’d never been around. Our yard was a small square behind the house that couldn’t be reached without a hike down the block, around the slum building and through a locked fence – so Mocha got walked instead of “let out” every day. I’d stroll down the streets with her, me hungover and/or drunk, Mocha perky and happy to be outside.
These were happy times.
On Thanksgiving day, I woke up around noon as usual. Larry was in the kitchen with a tea towel tucked into his jeans, like he was in a sixties sitcom.
“I’m ready to cook the turkey!” I said, lighting a cigarette and grabbing the two-liter of Diet Coke.
“It’s already in!” Larry said, smiling. “We even have stuffing!” He showed me the empty box.
This felt wrong. I was raised with a Mom who did all the cooking, including on holidays. It seemed only right that on my first Thanksgiving with Larry, I should make the turkey.
“What do you mean it’s already in?” I asked. “It’s my job to make the turkey! I’m supposed to make the fucking turkey!”
“The turkey takes a long time,” he said. “You weren’t up yet and ….”
“But it was my job!” I screamed. “It’s our first Thanksgiving and I am supposed to make dinner!”
I had absolutely no idea how to cook, but I continued to scream at Larry until he started to scream back. We screamed and tossed things around in the kitchen until I finally stormed out the door, furious.
Mocha ran down the stairs and out the door with me. The noise terrified her; we both needed air.
But Larry followed furiously in his clunky boots, yelling: “You fucking bitch!”
Mocha and I were standing on the cobbled-brick street in front of the house when he arrived – fuming and out of control.
“YOU’RE NOT FUCKING LEAVING ME AGAIN!” he screamed, spoon still in hand.
Neighbors came to their doors and windows to witness the Thanksgiving commotion.
Hearts ruptured as Larry aimed all of his rage at my poodle. “FUCK YOU DOG! FUCK YOU STUPID FUCKING DOG!” He stomped after Mocha, his giant boots booming on the bricks.
I watched helplessly as Larry chased her down the street in ten thunderous strides.
“LEAVE MY FUCKING DOG ALONE YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!” I screamed at him.
“Fucking dog,” Larry mumbled, slamming himself back inside.
Mocha had skittered off into a neighbor’s yard, safely away from the mean man with the boots.
I found her quickly, trembling and traumatized. Mocha and I sat on the curb for a long time, me petting her, calming her, calming myself.
Eventually we had to go back inside. It was cold.
And I needed a beer.
While I found Larry to be alluring, like a speck of gold in a muddy creek, and I loved the music he put into my life, I had not one iota of respect for his job, his choices, his behaviors, his past, or his way of life.
I was extraordinarily seduced by the confidence of the man who became my surrogate husband and father. I found Larry to be extremely attractive, and I was fascinated by the blue-collar world I’d never seen. But Larry and I had not one millimeter of anything in common, and I had no interest in him as a person. I never thought beyond what he could provide for me in my 22-year-old desperation to live “independently.”
In my head, I was living a free and easy biker life – hair flowing in the wind, arms outstretched to reach the sun – able to do whatever I wanted to do, whenever I wanted to do it. That’s why I went back to Larry. I believed in the dream I thought I was living – and Larry continuously reinforced that dream. He never wanted anything beyond the simplicity he’d attained.
Sometimes we’d ride on the motorcycle on a warm day and the sun would blaze and the ice would melt and I would think, Yeah, this is IT!
And sometimes I’d be wet and hungry and sick and flopping all over the back of the bike because I was too wasted to sit upright and I’d think, I just want to fucking die.
But in my head, I only remembered the sunny days. I thought it was always summer and was surprised when the morning was cold. I was disappointed when it rained, which happened frequently in Pittsburgh, but remembered prior days as though they’d been full of carnivals and cotton candy. Every day, I’d wake in complete agony, head pounding, throat parched, and head straight for the fridge, and grab a beer as though my life was one continuous picnic.
I’d become convinced that my life was glorious. I thought I was beaming. I thought I was happy.
In reality, I was living next to a slum in a degenerate town teeming with derelicts. I was filthy to the core – barely clean enough to show up to work. My entire life revolved around the consumption of alcohol. On weekends, I had no reason to get out of bed except that there was a cigarette to light, a beer to crack open, and a dark bar into which I could crawl.
Other than those happy-hoo-hah moments when cocaine appeared, I did nothing other than sleep and drink beer. On a big day, I drank a few shots of root beer schnapps, or petted a dog on the street, or bought a carton of cigarettes, or a pizza with mushrooms. Sometimes I choked down a pickled egg or bought a candy bar at the gas station. That made it a big day.
There was absolutely no connection in my mind between my alcohol use and my behavior. Deep-down in the core of my soul, I believed that everyone wanted to live the way I lived.
And eventually, after months and months of living where and how I was living, drinking myself daily into oblivion, listening to everyone talking about freedom, believing that I was living my dream … I started to believe I belonged where I was. I began to feel at home, to find my place, and fit right in.
The more I drank, the more I fit.
I was staring into the mirror in the morning, stupefied; I’d never seen such a thing.
My left eye was swollen and the outside corner was red, hot to the touch. A puffy flap of skin under and around my eye made it hard to see, although my sight seemed to be unimpaired otherwise.
Larry walked in as I was staring into the mirror.
“Did I bump into a wall or something last night?” I asked. “Look at my eye!”
Larry glanced over and shook his head. “You’ve got a black eye.”
“It’s not black! It’s red. Or pink. Maybe I have pink eye!”
“You’ve got a black eye,” he said again, and walked out of the room.
I followed him. “How would I get a black eye? Did I get into a fight or something?”
“No,” Larry said. “Wanna go to the VFW?”
Football game! Beer all day!
“Yeah!” I said, and forgot about my eye. We drank all day.
By Monday, my eye was no longer red and puffy; it was bruised and black and blue and purple. Touching it made me wince, so I didn’t touch it. But I stared regularly into the mirror, baffled.
“What happened to my eye?” I asked Larry again on Monday night.
“You fuckin’ know what happened,” he said.
“I don’t fuckin’ know,” I said, “or I wouldn’t keep asking.”
“You fuckin’ know,” he said.
I did not know.
When my colleagues asked me at work, “What happened to your eye?” I responded, “I don’t know; I was drunk.” Everyone thought that was funny.
I laughed along, since it was the truth.
I didn’t drill Larry with questions, nor did I pester him. But I mentioned the black eye questioningly at least every couple of days, hoping that Larry would finally acquiesce to my request for information.
One day, when the black eye was almost completely gone, I said, “I sure wish I knew what happened to my eye. It’s so weird!”
Larry – who was chewing on a bite of sandwich at the time – swallowed and stared at me. Hard. He put down his sandwich and said nothing.
“What?” I asked.
“You really don’t remember what happened, do you?”
“No!” I said. “I don’t fucking remember! Do you know what happened?”
“Yeah, I know,” Larry said.
“Then why won’t you fucking tell me?”
“Because I hit you,” Larry whispered, as softly as I’ve ever heard him speak.
“No you didn’t!” I said.
He swallowed again, this time choking back tears. “I hit you,” he said. “You put the car into fuckin’ park when we were driving down the highway. You don’t remember that either, I guess. And I just … it was a reflex. I couldn’t stop myself.”
“You hit me?”
“Yeah,” he said. Then he picked up his sandwich, took another bite.
“I remember putting the car into park. I probably shouldn’t have done that.”
“You’re fuckin’ right you shouldn’t have!”
“But I don’t remember you hitting me. How can I not remember you hitting me?”
“I don’t know,” Larry said. He was chewing like normal now, no regrets.
“Huh,” I said. “I had no fuckin’ idea what happened.”
“Well, now ya do,” said Larry.
I was more interested in the fact that I had no recollection of the punch than I was interested in the punch itself.
Somehow I didn’t question that at all.
“I’m bored with going to the same places every week,” I told Larry. “Let’s go somewhere we’ve never been. Let’s just drive until we find a bar we’ve never seen before!”
Larry shook his head, laughing silently as he often did when considering my ideas. “Okay!” he said finally. “Anything for you, Baby!”
We headed out for a ride in our new car, which – Larry was quick to remind me – cost way more to drive than the motorcycle did. So we headed out on the highway into Westmoreland County, blasting music on our 8-track player and pretending we were far, far from home.
Somewhere along the highway we saw a lincoln-log-styled pub with a glowing neon sign: “Miller Lite.” Since that was Larry’s favorite, we knew that this was the place we should stop.
Since it was Saturday, the place was hopping: jukebox blasting classic rock, a handful of very active pool tables, and plenty of people hooting at the bartender for “another round over here!” Larry and I jumped right into the action. We played pool for hours, selected some of the best songs on the jukebox, and drank shots of brandy and schnapps along with our beers.
By this point in my drinking career, I blacked out regularly. While I remembered the general ideas of what happened during our days, specific details were often lost. For example, hours would pass, but I only remembered four songs on the jukebox. I’d “come to” while walking around the pool table, suddenly realizing I had no idea how long I had been playing or with whom I was playing.
On this day, with Miller Lite on tap, I remember picking up the pitcher of beer and downing the whole thing. It wasn’t a huge pitcher, but I remember guzzling it – because then I ran to the restroom and vomited, clearing my head enough to temporarily pull me out of my blackout.
I left the restroom and ordered another pitcher. I remember standing at the bar, waiting for the pitcher, and then … nothing.
Blackout-drunk was my new normal.
Next thing I knew, Larry and I were in the car.
I have no idea if I had blacked out or passed out – it’s all the same in the mind of a drunk – but when I came to, I was frustrated. We were speeding down an isolated highway in the middle of nowhere and I didn’t have a beer in my hand.
“Why did we leave?” I slurred at Larry. “I loved that place! Let’s go back!”
Larry never looked away from the road. “Nah, it was just time to go.” He didn’t explain why we left, and I remembered absolutely nothing about leaving.
“I want to go back!” I whined. “Stop the car!”
“We’re almost fuckin’ home,” he said. “We’re not fuckin’ going back.”
“I want to go back!” I screamed. Then I reached over to the gearshift – something I could never have done on the motorcycle – and slammed the gear into park.
With a noise like a boulder slamming into metal, the car skidded violently, going from fast to stop instantly and slamming us both into the dash.
“What the fuck!” Larry bellowed. “You coulda fuckin’ killed us!”
“I wasn’t gonna kill us,” I grumbled. “Can we please just go back to the fuckin’ bar?”
“Fuck NO!” Larry hollered. “We’re not fuckin’ going back! Fuck this shit!”
He furiously – carefully – slid the car into drive and drove us home where I promptly passed out.
The next day, I woke up with my first-ever black eye, and no idea how I’d gotten it.
Week after week, I worked night shift. Two out of three nights a week, I called Larry at three or four o’clock in the morning.
“Can you pick me up?”
“Sure Baby, be right there.” He never complained. Larry went to work at seven.
I’d stand on the street chain-smoking 120-millimeter cigarettes down to the filter, waiting.
Larry would light a cigarette and pull on his jeans, boots, chaps and jacket. He’d walk half a block to the end of the street in the pitch black, then lumber to the alley, reaching the garage. He’d brush off the snow from the lock, insert the key, and lift the manual garage door. Then he’d put on his helmet, back the bike onto the street, re-close and lock the garage door, put on his gloves, then drive 45 minutes in the freezing cold to get me.
I did not thank him for this. When he arrived, I hopped on, teeth chattering, hands and feet frozen, pulled on my helmet – and off we went toward home.
About two-thirds of the way home, we’d cross under an overpass, the Harley engine echoing briefly as we rode. And there, under the overpass, sat a decrepit black Camaro with a rolled, molding sign that said “FOR SALE.”
We passed that car for months.
On one particularly cold night, when I was exhausted and frozen to the bone, I leaned up toward the front of the bike. Over the echo of the Harley engine I said to Larry, as loudly as I could muster, “I want that car.”
“You want that fuckin’ Camaro?”
“Yes, I love it. And I’m fucking cold.”
Larry laughed his gravelly laugh. “What’s to love about it?”
“It’s black,” I said. “I want a black Camaro.”
“That car’s a piece of shit,” he said. “But maybe I’ll fuckin’ look at it.”
Less than a week later, Larry paid $250 cash and drove that Camaro home.
When I saw the car in the daylight, all I saw was rust. There were rust holes in the floor on the driver’s side and the passenger’s side – huge, gaping holes that allowed us to see the road passing by underneath. There were rust holes in the ceiling allowing us to similarly watch the sky. There was rust around the headlights, the taillights, both doors, and the bumpers on both ends.
The Camaro had the amazingly delightful smell of old leather, oil, mold and stale cigarettes. I inhaled deeply as I stuck my head through the window.
“It has an 8-track player!” I yelled, bumping my head and knocking a bit of rust from the door.
Our new Camaro was broken and misaligned and rusted out in every conceivable way. The fact that Larry was able to drive it home was a miracle; the fact that he could fix it himself was another one.
Our garage was too small to store the car inside with the bike, but Larry pulled it in halfway whenever he had time to work on it. Sometimes he pulled in the front part of the car and worked under the hood. Sometimes he jacked up the car to get underneath and laid on the cold garage floor. Sometimes he backed it in, jacked it up, and messed with tires and wires and bolts.
Six weeks later, we had a functional car.
“You painted it gray!” I screeched. “I wanted a black car!”
“That’s primer,” Larry said. “It’ll be black when I get the money to get it painted.”
A month later, we had a black car.
I loved it.
Ronnie was a chubby man with a permanent smirk and curly red hair. He still lived with his parents and, contrary to popular belief, did not have any mental challenges. He was sweet as could be and very, very quiet.
Ronnie showed up to watch Larry’s band play regularly, as he was bassist Leo’s brother-in-law. From what I could tell, Ronnie spent his time smoking pot and shyly looking at the ground when any females wandered by.
At first I was afraid of Ronnie, because I feared he was afraid of me. We spent a few Friday nights sitting together and alone, staring at the stage and drinking, until one night I was wasted enough and talkative enough to start asking him questions.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Thirty-four.”
“What do you do?”
“I work at the mill.”
He was very short with me, incredibly shy. But I was too lonely to care.
“Why aren’t you drinking beer?”
He became almost defensive. “I like mixed drinks.”
“What’s your favorite movie?”
“Eraserhead.”
“What?”
“Eraserhead! Haven’t you ever seen Eraserhead?”
I’d asked the right question.
Ronnie and I started talking about movies, and comedies, philosophizing about what was funny and what wasn’t. We didn’t necessarily agree but I felt like I’d found a kindred spirit.
Talking to Ronnie was like talking to a long-lost brother. We each had healthy respect for the other’s opinions, and we became instantly attached every Friday night. Looking back, we were both incredibly out of place in that environment, and both exceptionally weird with our lists of favorite things. But together, we were both just off-center enough that we saw ourselves as suddenly more normal.
“What kind of music do you like?”
“The Who’s the best,” said Ronnie.
“The Who sucks!”
“The Stones then.”
“The Stones are okay. What about Black Sabbath?”
“I hate Black Sabbath.”
“Me too! Everybody I know likes Black Sabbath, but I hate them! I love AC/DC.”
“AC/DC sucks. What about new wave?”
“Oh my god I love new wave!”
When I started going to Linda’s to watch Larry play, I would spend most of my evening watching Larry play and bristling at Zeke, the new guitar player, who was just too loud for my liking. But once Ronnie started showing up, I completely ignored the band unless I was called up to sing.
With Ronnie there, I had someone to talk to – someone comfortable, someone who drank all night and never left early, someone who was happy to see me even though his smile was perpetually condensed.
The only difference I saw between Ronnie and me is that Ronnie loved to smoke pot, and the guys would all go out and get high in the parking lot between sets. It was months before I realized that Ronnie always had weed – always – and that he was getting the band high.
I found marijuana to be incredibly boring, since I’d smoked it in high school and found it dull. So I stood outside and watched the joint go around and chain-smoked my absurdly long cigarettes and believed I was holier than thou.
Then the band would get back on stage and Ronnie and I could go back in and discuss whatever was next to discuss.
Ronnie and I had substantially more in common than Larry and I ever did.
So when Ronnie showed up, I had a friend. And Ronnie, who still lived with his parents at the age of 34, had a friend, too.
Larry’s band started playing regularly at a bar called Linda’s Place, in Whitehall. It was right at the end of the bridge that (in my eyes) went to Kennywood, but Linda’s Place was headed in the wrong direction, toward crime-ridden neighborhoods I’d never seen.
Being at the end of the bridge doesn’t mean that anyone frequented the bar. It was tiny and dark and quite empty. In fact, Larry’s band played there every Friday night – for a pittance of $120 to be split among four people – and the patrons on Fridays usually knew someone in the band.
Linda – the bar owner – didn’t seem to be aware that a band sucked up every cent of proceeds she might have otherwise acquired. Linda was a squat woman with bug-eye glasses who sat in a corner grumpily complaining that nobody was there, then leaping to her feet and dancing alone when she liked a song.
Larry and Leo were bothered by the lack of crowds, but had too much fun playing music to care. The drummer, Stogie, brought in a guy named Zeke to play guitar. Zeke was very, very loud and the more he drank, the louder he got. He wanted to play rock and roll, which didn’t sit well with anyone else, but managed to talk them into playing Keep Your Hands to Yourself, which he’d drag out with guitar solos until even the band wanted to quit. Zeke would breathe the occasional “whoo!” into the mic, so that everyone would think he was ready to close out the song, but then he’d just keep going.
With Zeke wanting to rock and Larry wanting to play country, they managed a fine line of southern rock music that kept them both happy enough to continue playing at Linda’s for more than a year.
In this new format, Larry started closing the last set with a rousing, very loud, run-on-forever version of Free Bird. And since I knew how to play Free Bird, and was there every week, and had been drinking by then for many, many hours, Larry eventually invited me on stage to play along with them.
I loved, loved, loved this time. I hopped on the stage, completely wasted, and in front of a crowd of maybe three people I jammed out on my guitar. I did the slow part, the fast part, the bar chords … I was a superstar! It was many months before I realized that Larry was turning the amp off when I played along.
Since my guitar playing left a lot to be desired, Larry brought me on stage for other songs throughout the evening. Together we sang duets: Meet Me in Montana, You’re the Reason God Made Oklahoma, and Leather and Lace.
Unlike Zeke, I required a microphone to be heard. With that microphone in front of me and a dozen beers in my system, I sounded exactly like Marie Osmond, Shelly West and Stevie Nicks.
I’d never heard of Shelly West before Larry taught me the Oklahoma song. But getting to be Marie Osmond and Stevie Nicks in one night…? Every Friday? Well, that was the most fun I had ever had in my drunken adult life. I sang my heart out, and then sat back and drank more beers while listening to the audience – sometimes all three people – compliment me on my singing.
I knew it was only a matter of time before I was singing in front of thousands.
I always envisioned Larry’s youth as a very brief phase that may have never really happened, since he was so very old at 37. Looking back, I think Larry learned a few lessons that carried him through life.
Lesson #1: Everything must be done yourself. No one ever did anything for Larry. His dad disappeared, his stepfather appeared way later, and his mom – a strong woman with an equally strong will – simply ignored him until he figured out stuff on his own. Larry became independent at a very young age.
Lesson #2: Motorcycles are essential. They’re the cheapest vehicles to run and maintain. Larry grew up poor, and was married with a baby by 18, so he had to be frugal. As a bonus, Larry learned to fix motorcycles and found an entire culture based around motorcycles with a pool of instant friends at the ready wherever he went.
Lesson #3: Music is free and easy, and the chicks love it. Larry taught himself to play the guitar and then learned every song he liked. He made an album of cover songs, and opened once for Hank Williams, Jr. – the highlight of Larry’s musical career.
I enjoyed gawking at the photo of Young Larry on the album cover, taken when he was maybe 20 years old. I found it fascinating that Larry was once young; I needed to see it with my own eyes.
At 37, Larry had learned that the motorcycle lifestyle was insufficient to sustain me, since I hadn’t shown any interest in rebuilding the Triumph in the Floridian backyard, and I spent the biker parties hanging out under trailers and in trees.
So Larry – who knew these three things – put his focus on music, with me in mind.
Larry set up the living room with a faux stage, amps and a mic at the ready. He bought me an Applause guitar that would plug into the amps. And he often suggested that I play guitar with him when we were drinking at home. I didn’t have a lot of interest in improving my guitar skills – bar chords hurt my fingers – and I didn’t have a lot of interest in learning finger licks and new rhythms to play ancient country songs.
But I plodded along; it was something to do. I learned that his bar chords were just fancy versions of the same chords I’d learned in high school, and I realized that most songs only required three chords anyway. I still enjoyed just listening to him play, but I started to watch his fingers more than I had before.
One day when Larry came home from work, I was rocking out to Free Bird – blasting the music so loud he heard it from the street. Larry strode across the living room in his boots, smiling and grabbing both guitars from where they hung on the wall.
He put one boot on the table, Free Bird still blasting, and Larry started playing along with the song.
I couldn’t believe it. Larry knew how to play one of my songs! I picked up my guitar and tried to follow him. When the song ended, he continued teaching me – finally a song I cared about! We played Free Bird for about two hours until I could sing and play the slow beginning, and even knew how to play rhythm for the faster part.
I learned Free Bird. It required learning a semblance of bar chords, but it was worth it.
Not long after, I hopped up on stage with Larry’s band to play it. After that, I never wanted to leave.
Every Sunday during football season, we drank all day long. This was not different than any other day, except that it felt infinitely more acceptable to drink on a Sunday if football was on TV.
In Pittsburgh, football is synonymous with Steelers: signs, flags, bumper stickers, everyone adorned in Steelers gear: hats, gloves, jackets, hoodies, jerseys. There is no other football in Pittsburgh.
We met Larry’s brother, Timmy, at the VFW. Every few minutes, as I drank, the VFW erupted in screams, yowls, hoots or roars.
I’d glance at the TV: Helmet-clad men. Green grass. White lines. Whatever.
I didn’t understand football.
My high school sweetheart played football. I sat in the stands and looked for his number (23). When I found him, I watched him stand on the sidelines until he ran onto the field. Then he’d line up. Sometimes he pushed somebody and ran a few feet. Sometimes he ran in a circle. Sometimes he just stood there. Then he ran back to the sidelines, at which point I would clap as loud as I could.
So this is how I watched the Steelers games, except I wasn’t dating any players so I didn’t know on whom to focus. There seemed to be a bunch of guys in helmets and shoulder pads running in circles, all diving on a pointy ball.
One day Timmy – not Larry – figured out that I had no idea when to cheer and when to boo. He stared at me and then, earnestly, asked me a question.
“Which team do you like?”
“The blue team is pretty.”
“You like the Oilers? No,” he said. “Ya gotta root for the Steelers!” Timmy explained that pretty uniforms do not make a team better. Then he provided a short exposé of why the name “Steelers” is meaningful to millworkers everywhere … and clarified that the team name did not glorify shoplifters.
This was news to me.
After that, Timmy took it upon himself to teach me the game of football, using the word “we” when referring to the Steelers. I’ve always been fascinated by the fans’ alleged ownership of any team s/he likes. I became a Steelers fan that day so I could feel included.
Timmy said there was an offense and a defense, which is why sometimes “we” didn’t get to throw the ball. Also, we didn’t always throw the ball. Sometimes we ran the ball and sometimes we punted the ball.
Sometimes we got field goals, but they weren’t as good as touchdowns. Sometimes we took the ball from the other team – the best thing we could do – and got points that way.
“Can they take the ball from us?” I asked.
“No,” Timmy said. “Nobody takes the ball from the Steelers.”
He was serious. I believed him.
When something confusing happened – like a penalty or a sack – I didn’t ask for clarification. Everyone was too busy hollering at the screen. But Timmy spent the vast majority of the 1986 season explaining to me everything I needed to know to understand football.
I still only went to the bar for the beer, but it was better being included in the insanity. I had something to look at while everyone was yelling, and I learned to love the game.
Late in my drinking career, I stopped watching football – and I didn’t watch again until 2002, when someone at my son’s preschool in Maryland told me that the Steelers might make it to the playoffs. I was sober by then, and discovered that somehow I could successfully watch football without drinking beer.
Nowadays I am completely obsessed with football. Thanks, Timmy.
The building next door to Paul’s Place looked like a giant block of cement. There were no lights, not even over the door, and no signs indicating its contents.
One night I saw three men coming out of the primer-gray door, all carrying bottles of beer. Suddenly I couldn’t withhold my questions any longer.
“What is it?” I asked Larry. “What’s in that building?”
“You don’t want to go in there,” he said.
“Why not?”
Larry laughed. “It’s a fuckin’ strip club!”
“No it’s not,” I said. I had seen strip clubs in movies, and they were larger, brighter and more interesting.
“Yes it is.”
“Then I do want to go in there!” I was more intrigued than ever. “Are women allowed in a strip club – women who aren’t strippers?”
“Sure!” Larry said. “Chicks get in free!”
So we parked in our usual place and walked over to the pitch black building. Just inside the first heavy gray door was a second, with a bored guy in a chair and a sign scrawled with “$5 COVER.” Larry handed a guy a five; I hesitated, waiting for permission.
The man stared blankly at his money and gestured toward the club using only his head. Larry pulled open the door; inside was even darker than outside.
After my eyes adjusted, I saw a bar – no tables – with ten stools nailed to the floor, two men sitting three seats apart, staring at their beers.
The wide bar doubled as a walkway for the strippers.
I saw feet first, on the bar as I sat: a pair of ragged, stubby heels in the dark. As I lifted my head, I realized that both women were otherwise completely naked, pacing back and forth in their confined area like zoo animals.
They did not dance. They did not smile.
Unlike the strippers I saw on TV, these women strolled lethargically: back and forth, back and forth. They were rail-thin with simple hair and zero props. There were no strobe lights, no poles, no g-strings, nobody hooting and hollering for more. The music was just one long song with no words, no pumping beat, no inspiring melody.
The old guys stared forward as though a black hole hung over them. If anything sexual – or even seductive – was happening, it would have been only inside their heads.
When I finally got the nerve to really look at the women’s make-up-smudged faces, they were staring at the walls. Upon closer inspection they looked not only bored but desperately, achingly, crushingly sad. Heartbreaking despair poured from their eyes.
I’d been so fascinated by the idea of strippers that it had never crossed my mind that they were human beings.
I looked down at my beer, then up again to be sure: yes, sad. So very sad.
I was dead silent, watching their feet pass.
Sipping.
Even the beer felt wrong here.
Larry had his arms on the bar, shaking his head at his beer and laughing immaturely under his breath, like we were teenagers doing something illegal.
After a minute, Larry leaned over and loudly whispered over the musical drone, “Your tits are nicer.”
He thought he was being reassuring.
For the sake of Larry’s five dollars, I stayed as long as I could. I made it about ten minutes.
Finally I whisper-croaked: “Can we go?”
“Sure, Baby.”
I walked out fast, the neon lights beckoning next door.
In the future when I considered that building, I wanted to cry.
