Of course it wasn’t. He was in Vancouver, with Simone.
It had only been a year since her roommates left for the west coast, but it felt like a lifetime had passed. Strip club life was like that. One year could feel like ten, and it aged you. And if you didn’t take care of yourself, you’d be an old woman by the time you hit thirty. Sugar, a dancer Joey thought was in her forties, turned out to be twenty-eight. Twenty-eight. If Joey was still dancing at the Cherry in eight years, she’d jump into the lake and drown herself.
The takeout window slid open. “So tell me, Joey,” Fitzroy said, handing her a white plastic bag knotted at the top. “What’s your New Year’s resolution?”
She considered for a moment. “To marry an old rich man with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.”
Fitzroy let out a hearty laugh. “Well, I hope you meet him tonight. Be safe, okay? Happy New Year, sweet girl.”
“Happy New Year, Fitz.”
“Hey, geisha girl!” a man in the lineup called out to her as she headed toward the alleyway that led to the back entrance of the Cherry. This one was wearing a gold plastic crown. “What you got under that coat, China doll? I want you to love me long time.”
It was one thing for customers to proposition the girls inside the club, but out here on the sidewalk, before her shift, it breeched some kind of unspoken etiquette. And three Asian stereotypes in ten seconds? Had to be a record. Whatever. As long as they were paying, she would be whatever Asian they wanted her to be. Inside the club.
Mae had taught her that.
“Who gives a shit if they think you’re Chinese, or Korean, or whatever,” Mae had told her the night they first met. As the only two Asian dancers in the club—and both Filipino to boot—they’d bonded immediately over their shitty childhoods. Mae had lived in several different foster homes before running away at fifteen. “Most of the guys who come in here don’t know the difference, and even if they do, they don’t care. Your job isn’t to teach them, it’s to make money. So go get your money, bitch.”
It was going to be a big money night, and the night was young.
As she approached the staff entrance of the club, she could hear the music pulsing from inside. There was always supposed to be a bouncer stationed at the back door to prevent customers from sneaking in, but at the moment, it was unguarded. Joey pulled on the handle, and stepped into a whole different world.
* * *
“Hey, girls,” Joey said, placing her takeout bag at an open spot at the long vanity table that ran down the center of the dressing room. She dropped her knapsack on the floor and shrugged out of her parka. “Where is everyone?”
“Already on the floor.” Dallas, a platinum blonde of indeterminate age who was dressed as a Cowboys cheerleader, was carefully applying her strip eyelashes two spots over. “A lot of big groups coming in tonight. Money, money, money.”
“Not if they’re snaking,” Candie said from the other side of the vanity. This was the new Candie, with an -ie. The previous Candy, with a -y, had gotten a boob job and left to work at the Brass Rail downtown. Richer clientele, better tips. “And let’s hope they’re not all rocks. Last Thursday I barely made enough after the house fee to cover my babysitter.”
It had taken Joey a while to learn the lingo of the club. A customer who watched the lap dance someone else was getting was “snaking.” “Rocks” nursed their drinks all night and didn’t pay for lap dances at all. The “house fee” was what the dancers paid to the club just to work there.
Joey had done the math. In order to earn a comfortable living after the house fee and the nightly tip out to the DJ, bouncers, and other staff, she had to earn at least six hundred dollars a week. It was expensive to be a stripper.
Fortunately, Joey made much more than this. On a regular night, she earned about five times what she used to make working for minimum wage at the video store. On a good night? Double that. It was also lucrative to be a stripper.
“Bump?” Dallas said under her breath, offering her a small vial of cocaine. “Just stocked up.”
“Nah, I’m good.” Joey opened her Styrofoam takeout container, and the heavenly aroma of jerk chicken wafted out. “And hide that shit until everyone’s gone. Cherry will kill you.”
“Ewww, what is that smell?” a voice said, and she looked up to see a dancer named Savannah staring at her food as she spritzed perfume all over her body. “You shouldn’t eat that in here. It stinks.”