An End To War - Pt. 1

My partner and I watched the news of the fall of Afghanistan to Taliban rule with a combination of horror and a sense of woeful irony. The chaotic end of the decades-long war was no surprise. The blatant disregard for the Afghans who had served alongside US soldiers was tragic, but on brand. When Biden promised it wouldn’t be like Vietnam, it was already evident it would be exactly like Vietnam, if not worse, with military helicopters fleeing the scene and airports flooded by people trying to escape. We had no business there to begin with. The least we could have done was create a detailed escape plan with a fast track to citizenship built in for refugees. But none of that happened. And like most United States citizens, I was able to put it out of my mind and go about my day, handling my many tasks. It’s easy to forget about things when you outsource them, especially wars. In all honesty, I hadn’t thought about the war in Afghanistan for months, and when I did, it was primarily with a sanctimonious thought about how shitty the US is--a declining imperial power clinging to a piece of land we couldn’t afford to occupy.

I didn’t want to dwell on it before work. It isn’t good to focus on sad things before a night at the club, and I didn’t want to think about the voice of the Afghan woman that broke as she spoke about the collapse of her country. Instead, I listened to a podcast, hoping to shake the weightiness of the moment by listening to British people read bad porn. I know that I’ve mentioned this before, but I’ve been struggling through a prolonged bout of depression. I’ve been finding ways to push through work instead of finding moments to enjoy what I do. Primarily, I’ve been making it through solely by the generosity of my regulars. That Tuesday, I felt like I was on the verge of tears. There was nothing in particular that was wrong, but I felt unhinged. My nose prickled as I paused to deepen my breathing. I could hardly convince myself to approach any of the men, and I knew my reluctance was working against me. Men smell insecurity like a skunk in the bushes, and I reeked of it.

The club was empty aside from a few hesitant customers too shy to approach the tip rail. One was an older Republican from Colorado.

“I’m not ready for a dance now. I’m waiting for my friend, but you’re welcome to sit if you’d like.” He said, offering me a tight smile.

“I can sit with you while you wait.”

Normally, I wouldn’t sit with someone waiting, but he was one of four men in the club, two of which had escaped to the patio for a smoke. The other man had rushed into the bathroom, probably out of awkwardness. It’s unpleasant being the only customer in a strip club. All of the customer service energy gets directed at you, and most people want to melt into the anonymous darkness instead of being persistently asked if they’re still working on that drink. I didn’t think the man would buy a dance with me, but I needed someone to massage the gab out of me. I wasn’t feeling chatty. I was knotted up internally, and I knew I would need to warm up with some idle chit chat if I hoped to approach anybody else.

“What part of Colorado are you from?” I asked.

“Do you know Colorado pretty well?” He asked, skeptically.

“A little. I’ve been to Denver and Durango.”

“So, Boulder is a little north of Denver, and I’m a little further north of there.”

“Ah. Gotcha.” I said, disinterested. “So, are you here for business?”

“I am.” He nodded.

“What kind of business?”

“I work in defense.”

“Defense contracting?”

“Legal defense for the US government. It’s not that exciting.” He said, giving me another tightlipped smile that signaled he too was over the conversation.

“That’s cool.”

“What’s the mask policy here? I was surprised to see people indoors without masks on. Is LA not enforcing a mask mandate?”

“The strip club is not enforcing a mask mandate.” I replied.

“Oh, I see.”

“But I’m vaccinated.” I said with a smile. “Are you?”

It was almost like saying a pickup line.

“My job made me, so yes. I got vaccinated a month ago, but I don’t understand why they’re making such a big deal out of it. It’s just like the flu, yet people are acting like it’s the end of the world.”

I blinked, attempting to keep my face frozen as I listened to him think Republican thoughts out loud to me.

“Which one did you get?” He asked.

“Moderna. You?” I asked.

“Johnson and Johnson. I didn’t want to have to get poked twice.”

“Makes sense.” I said. It didn’t make sense. “So! I’m going to let you wait on your friend. I hope I get to dance with you later tonight.”

“Nice to meet you.” He said politely.

It was a noncommittal answer, but I didn’t care. I didn’t want to entertain him.

Hours passed. The worst part of the strip club--aside from predatory management policies, the rampant wage theft, and explicit discrimination--is the boredom. Some nights you sit around for hours waiting for a customer to come in. The DJ plays songs to fill the silence. Strippers take shots to pass the time. I scrolled on my phone, searching for the end of the internet.

Eventually customers began trickling in, but they weren’t the kind anybody wanted. The tables filled, and yet the stage remained dry. Most dancers received a couple dollars at best. Many of us performed our sets without any compensation. Sometimes a dry stage isn’t indicative of the money in the room, but oftentimes, when the stage is unpaid, the customers aren’t buying dances.

I reluctantly made my way around the room, approaching as many men as I could handle talking to. Each “no” made me wilt a bit more. And a bit more. It wasn’t me. It was that they were broke. But it felt like it was personal, because I wasn’t mentally healthy enough for their “no’s” to roll off of my back. It was already 11p and I hadn’t sold a single dance. It was remarkable. I knew I wasn’t alone, and yet the experience felt so lonely. We all have bad nights. Working as a stripper means that some nights you leave with pockets fuller than you ever could have imagined, and others you leave with just enough to get home. In reality, I didn’t need to worry about how much money I might make that night. I’d already made a week’s worth of money the day before, visiting a client for a lunch date. It wasn’t the money, it was the principle of it. I didn’t want the night to feel like a failure. I began texting my regulars.

I had one in particular I knew was coming by. I met him a few months back after he tipped me on stage. He sat alone, in a mask that covered most of his face. He’d been in a hurry, popping in between jobs to kill time. He was a driver, and had to leave in half an hour. He bought a Skybox with me, and was polite. He tipped me $100, which was enough to get my number.

A week went by. I hadn’t thought much about him after he left until he texted me.

Hey beautiful. It was great meeting you last week. Are you working tonight? I’d love to see you.

I had forgotten to take down his name when we’d exchanged numbers. I’d just put down “limo driver” in my phone as a placeholder until I could casually happen upon his name. I racked my brain, trying to recall what his face looked like, but everything was blurry, and I’d only gotten to see his face in the darkness of the lap dance booth.

I am! I’ll be around from 7-1a. Just come up to me when you get here.