The Strippers’ Tao

Page 1

Tall and lean, she approached. Her prey, a frumpy gentlemen, seemed lost as he blankly stared into the bar wall’s mirror at his own sullen, time-melted features and thinning hair. He was a lot of middles: middle heavy, middle aged, middle manager (at best), perhaps even middle America. Except they were in Lennox, CA, a lost, smoggy few blocks of L.A.’s South Bay. Lennox had been slowly losing whatever personality it might have had in the 1960s’ aerospace boom. A strip club is not usually so welcome in a suburb. But the city of Lennox, so desperate for funds (or so corrupt), quietly renews the club, Jet Strip’s, license each year. Cramped between a dry cleaners and a liquor store, it’s just another storefront — even with the blacked out windows adorned with pink neon tubes twisted and curled into silhouettes of busty sweeties.   Jet Strip was the neighborhood strip club. Cheaper and less gaudy than the flashy mega clubs downtown or the ones closer to the airport, Jet Strip’s ladies ranged from a substance-abused grandmother named Mel to Cindy, the slim, well-endowed 19 year-old, the one now seducing her mark, a man more than twice her age. She hopes to soon be carrying back to her warren his cash, credit, maybe even a ring or two. Quite a feat for a wide-eyed 19-year-old recently from the baked, hardscrabble flatlands halfway between Las Vegas and L.A. The other liked her. She caught on early to the strip-club hierarchy, and she was funny, sometimes in spite of herself.    Cindy padded up to the man quietly and stood so close to him that he felt her heat, the heat of her bare flesh, radiating into his tired suit coat and caressing his chalky, weak arms. His gaze, still within the large dusty mirror, flitted to her skimpy, sparkly bikini and healthy skin. She finally caught him looking at her in the mirror and grinned. In return, he smiled a smile of coffee-stained, half Chiclets. He turned to her, and the scent of her expensive flowery perfume caught his underused imagination. “Can I buy you a drink?”  he asked, with forced confidence. She smiled, feigned an excited “thank-you” and ordered a $5 energy drink. The bartender, a former stripper herself, took a small, chilled can from the refrigerator and placed it on the bar. Cindy, while reaching for it with her right hand, placed her left hand flat against the small of the man’s back as if to balance herself. Electric jolts sprinted upwards and downwards from his toes to head, short-circuiting his advanced grey matter and bringing online his small, waxy, reptilian walnut. “I’m Cindy,” she said.

Page 2

Mel, another dancer, olive-skinned and older than Cindy, leaned against the far end of the nearly empty bar and took in the little scene between Cindy and her nervously excited client. The site of Cindy, now with one slender arm draped across the man’s small shoulders, like a San Quentin bull marking his bitch, filled Mel with the rage of the damned. And why shouldn’t it? Mel, now 30, was certainly damned here in the stripper business.

Mel saw the road signs everyday. Deepening and darkening crows’ feet, errant hairs, facial adipose that gave her a double chin when she looked down were saying it: her stripper life-cycle was nearing its completion. She was like a butterfly in reverse.

Mel felt time was personally victimizing her. And what made her feel most victimized was how cruelly age and gravity were dragging her once magnificent breasts down towards the center of the earth. “My tits are literally going to hell,” she thought as she saw Cindy masterfully accidentally brush hers across the man’s arm.

But Mel wasn’t going softly into the night. To fight her mammary droop, she strapped into a reinforced gold-sequined stripper’s bra so tightly that it made comfortable breathing impossible. And when  it was time to show the goods during her performance, Mel, with Herculean finger-and-thumb strength, unclasped her bra, thus unleashing so much stored energy that the garment popped off explosively and flew out over the audience like a rare, glittery tropical bird. The release left her sun-spotted orbs dangling like two hanged men.

Needless to say, Mel hadn’t been a headliner for quite a while. Something she constantly rolled around in her hair-dyed, chemical-burned head.

My year as the grim reaper’s intern

Grim statistics:

The person most likely to kill you is you. The second most likely person to kill you is someone who lives with you.

It’s 3 am and I’m an ordinary guy heading to a crime scene in one of L.A’s more dubious come-as-you are neighborhoods. The freeway is quiet and wide open. My old 1990 Toyota Corolla motors on as I psychologically prepare myself for what’s coming up. I slow down as flashing red lights brighten the dark, pre-dawn sky and bring an eerie carnival-like feel to the dirty streets.

The police are out in force, trying to secure a small island of safety with yellow tape and guns. They aren’t welcome here. it’s a neighborhood that’s largely lost the fight against crime. a place where no one flinches at the sound of gun fire. Where cops, when they come, come in force. They do their jobs and quickly leave.

I pull out my identification and sign a log book. “Park anywhere, the bored patrolman says as he moves the barrier. The street is ours. I double park, step out of my car and then head over to a police Sargent who is with a survivor, probably the victim’s mom. She is quiet and lost, overwhelmed.

I introduce myself. “My name is Richard and I’m with the mayors crisis response team. I was asked to come here and offer my assistance. Would you like me to stay?” She stares at me blankly and then nods her head. I ask her if she has called anyone. She hasn’t.

Everyone dies. But if you die in a terrible way, by accident or incident, first responders might call me or a fellow volunteer. We come to be with those who’ve been suddenly left behind: parents, wives, children. We come and try to keep them on track. Lessen their shock. Help them navigate through the first hours. We’re not social workers or psychologists, we’re just neighbors who care.

My goals are simple: ensure physical safety, activate the survivor’s support network, act as an on-scene liaison between the family and first responders, and provide information on psychological and legal resources. But I’m mainly there so they don’t have to be alone for those first numb hours after tragedy has struck.

Horror comes from underestimating reality, from a lack of imagination. it shocks you into a new awareness and out of an old one. I sit with the mom in silence as I have done before with other moms. I know how this will play out. We wait for the coroner. She will ask to see her son or daughter. The coroner will probably say no, attempting to lessen the trauma. Then, together we will watch as the body, her child, now wrapped in plastic like an object, is wheeled out on a metal gurney and loaded into a nondescript white city van.

This is an easy call. There are ones that are much harder, ones that become so horrible, so bizarre, that they seem unreal I won’t speak on those. There are also coincidences: suicide patterns — a death every Tuesday at 9 pm for weeks. Also, deaths occurring at the same location year after year. One time I responded to a call where an old woman had somehow fell and drowned in a shallow fish pond in the back yard. It had maybe six inches of water in it. The name of the street–deep water drive.

The work raises your awareness of death. Brings you closer to the daily body count. In L.A, if there hasn’t been a homicide for three days, it makes the papers. The last time it happened, the no-homicide streak was broken when a man was shot in front of his 12-year-old son. They were waiting in their car to buy a phone from someone they contacted through craigslist. The hardest calls to make are for dead children, especially when the call comes and the child is still alive but is expected to pass away. We often accompany the police or doctor when they go into the waiting room and give the bad news. Reactions vary, we are taught to expect anything and to stand near a door.

So what did I learn after a year of these experiences? When every story had an unhappy ending? I learned that human caring could be potent medicine. That being with someone even a stranger, sometimes not even saying a word, can bring comfort.

Limo driving: Lesson One — Don’t kill your fare

“You just ran a red light!” No limo driver wants to hear that. It’s done. There’s no going back, If  there ever was going to be a tip, it’s gone now. And now my passenger is fearing for her life, I look back. I’m so sorry, I say, She’s actually sweating, silent and in shock. I see her contemplating the door handle. I step on the gas to get us going fast enough so she’ll have second thoughts about jumping out. Burbank Airport is just a few minutes away, maybe three more signals. I want her out as much as she wants out.  We both share that common goal. But not until we get to the airport.

I hear her on the phone. She’s calling a friend and asking if we are going in the right direction. Her friend is reassuring her over the phone and I can tell my customer has somewhat relaxed. She wipes away the thin patina of sweat from her face. ” I think if you go up this street, it’ll take you to the airport” she says, trying to be supportive. I can tell she’s cooling. I drive extra carefully, ignoring the GPS that is contradicting her. “Whatever she wants,” I say to myself. Having a sense of control calms her even more. She recognizes the area and knows she will make her flight. She is a mixture of emotions. I know she could call my boss and complain and that would be that. What do they do to drivers who run red lights and get lost? Probably nothing at the company I work at. But my pride would be shattered.

We turn into the small airport and drive slowly towards the terminal. How much do I owe you? she asks in a tone of tempered rage. I stop the car at the curb. If there is one thing that working  with humans has taught is that no one accepts an apology, they only accept cash “I can’t charge you for this,” I tell her. The woman’s voice changes. She’s taken aback. The story she would tell about the horrible ride now has an unexpected ending. She is off balance.”Really?”  Getting  something for nothing wrestles down her anger. She melts.

I pick up her bag from the trunk and place it on the ground. She grabs the handle and begins to roll it away. Watch the red lights, she tells me in a strangely warm tone.  I tell her to call on us again if she’s brave enough and she smiles. We have an odd moment  and then she vanishes into the airport, her mind preoccupied with the day ahead. I hope she never calls again.

Holiday in Vietnam: Post-war porcine reflections

“They’re going to kill the pig,” Julie said, excitedly. She grabbed Jack’s arm and worked her way to the front of the crowd. Just a few feet in front of them, two men struggled to keep the large male pig still, one man at the head, one at the tail. It was the main event of a ceremony that no one could fully explain to Jack in English.

They were on a small island in a bay near the seaside town of Nha Trang. Julie, an Amerasian, had come back to her hometown for a visit after being in America for about ten years. She had met Jack, an American tourist, two days earlier and invited him to the ceremony.

The scene was illuminated by a large flood light, and the star of the show squealed and defecated in fear. Its owner patted the animal’s big head and calmed it down. Jack noticed how the pig’s mouth curled at the ends, looking like a defiant smile.

The butcher, long killing knife in hand, approached, and the owner, who had raised the animal since it was a piglet, lifted its chin, stretching out its pink neck. The butcher pierced the pig’s throat and slid his silver blade across it in one quick, seamless action. Blood gushed, splashing onto the dusty ground. It spread out in a thick, sticky puddle. When the pig could no longer stand, its two handlers gently laid him on his side. The show was over, and the crowd returned to their conversations, their eating and drinking and their laughter. In the background, pints of blood pumped from the pig’s wound with the slowing rhythm of his weakening heartbeat.

“Now, there’s a pig with a problem,” Julie said.

“Doesn’t this bother you?” Jack asked.

“It sure does. Why did they waste all that blood?”

Jack laughed.

“Here, try one,” she said, holding up a small paper plate of eggrolls.

Jack bit into one. “Pork!” he exclaimed.“How appropriate.”

“Why did they sacrifice the pig?” Jack asked.

“Just so things get better,” I guess.

“Well it didn’t get better for Porky over there.”

“Who knows, maybe he’ll be reincarnated as rock star.”

Jack looked over at the pig. “Maybe.”

“Don’t worry, Jack. Vietnam will always have plenty of pigs. Come on, let’s go set up the lanterns.”

Julie led him to the water where an old boat filled with small paper lanterns was beached. They pushed it into the water and, along with a Vietnamese soldier who would operate the small engine, boarded it. “Why’s he here?” Jack asked quietly. “To prevent people from leaving the country,” Julie replied. Two years ago, someone threw out their lanterns and just kept on going.”

The boat stopped and Julie handed Jack a plastic lighter. Getting the lanterns lit and on the bay wasn’t easy. A slight breeze coming up off the water was just strong enough to blow out the lighter’s flame. The lanterns were small, waxed paper boxes so it was hard for Jack to get his large fingers inside to light the candles. Once he managed to keep them lit, he had to gingerly place them on the bay without them capsizing. His efforts proved endlessly amusing to Julie, who applauded and praised him each time he got one successfully on the water. “You did it!” she would shout playfully. Thankfully, others were also placing lanterns on the water. And soon the bay was aglow with candlelight.

Silently, the two of them took it all in. The hundreds of glowing lanterns competed with the sparks of silver, white moonlight caught by the bay’s ripples. Jack remembered the pig, which reminded him of a hunting trip with his friend one summer when he was in high school. They had driven to the country, leaving the predictable sterile comfort of their suburban homes and neighborhoods behind. Walking through fields and orchards, they proudly held their well-oiled, new shotguns, which were loaded and ready. When something suddenly took flight, they fired. Smart quails would run into the thicket. But the dumb ones took to the air and were usually doomed. Excitedly, they would fire the big guns, blasting a lethal mist of bird shot into the air. Their game dropped like stones.

The trip a success, Bill and Jack drove home, recounting their day and chiding each other along the way, their greasy bag of death in the back seat. But when night fell and Jack was in bed, guilt over the day’s killing slowly drifted into his heart like a coastal fog.

“Earth to Jack.”

Jack snapped out of his memory and saw Julie looking at him and smiling. “Are you still fretting over that pig?” she asked. Jack shook his head. “No, just thinking.”

There was a pause.

“Do you like me, Jack?”

Jack looked at her. She was wearing an expression of anxious vulnerability.

“More than like,” he replied with a smile.

Julie giggled. She pointed at him with her chin, smiled and said. “Good. I more than like you, too.”

She switched benches and sat next to him, so close their hips touched. She placed her head on his shoulder, her long, black satin-soft hair fanned out across his back.



“Where do you think the pig is now?”

“Pig heaven. Where do you think the pig is?”

“I think it’s still over there in the dirt.”

Jack laughed, feeling foolish and overly sentimental.

Pants On


Blog rerun

Originally posted on Confessions of an Albino Roofer:

“Where are your pants?” I awoke with my wife hovering over me. Her voice was strained, schizophrenic, trying to be two things at once: helpful and hurtful. It was Monday and she was going to work. I was sprawled out, pointed at the TV. Her question shocked me for a moment. Where were my pants? But then cool reason settled in. Where ever they were, I didn’t need them. There was nowhere I was going. I hadn’t had a job for a year, hadn’t had an interview for months, try as I may. I closed my eyes. Time was on my side. She would have to leave for work soon.

She fluttered around our house, doing the million tiny tasks required for her departure. Picking out socks, ironing her hair, choosing shoes, choosing a hat, choosing a scarf, looking at her painted lips in the mirror as time drained away…

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There are only three of us in my immediate family, but I shop at Costco. if we need a castle of paper towels or a bottle of shampoo, I go to Costco. it’s not because I am a savvy shopper, a careful consumer or even a half-healed hoarder. I go there because i’m both lonely and hate most human interaction. Costco is my buffer, my go-between, my beard, my chaperone. It protects me from the human race while allowing me limited contact. It gives me the opportunity to be a male Jane Goodall (but without all that messy compassion).

I especially like spying on the many amoebic tribes that spread out and across Costco’s bald, cement floors in a constant search for free samples. Finding their prey, they pounce on the tiny, white-smocked serving women’s little paper cups. Modern gluttony exposed beneath the bright, slaughterhouse lighting.

But the samplers are only one of the huge warped pieces to my Costco fetish. I am weak in the knees for the Somali-style refugee like check outs. Who can deny the excited agitation and excitement that comes from waiting in one of those convoluted lines. It’s addictive–like sky-diving or cheating on your taxes.

I can always rely on a long, drawn out check-out experience at Costco. It’s part of the oversized package. And I love the ever-present puzzled woman who ,while under pressure, forgets how to separate herself from her cart — does she go left and the cart goes right? Or is it the other way around? The rest of us look on, miming our incredulity in a plethora of somatic gestures and eye rolls. Emotions are prickly, but the flabby middle aged cashier in clothes so tight they might be considered explosive, points to the two red signs and calmly explains, as she has for the past five years to countless others, just how customer and cart should be disentangled. The lesson we learn: Costco is patient, like geological erosion.

No matter how dehumanizing Costco tries to be with its stark steel and it’s survivalist-friendly, 12-month portions, it’s mountains of pants and it’s walls of underwear, humanity breaks through. You may have to buy a package of toilet paper as big as your couch, but it’s cheap, and the human circus performs daily.