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Down in the Dirt v066



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Crawling
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 Ink in my Blood (prose edition)
The Real Thing

R. Steeves

    Russell Simons drummed at the wheel of his Honda Civic in a close approximation of the beat of the song on the radio. He had no idea what that song actually was- his radio had been merely a transistor the last time he listened to anything beyond NPR or sports talk radio- but he felt like he needed a throbbing beat to help him celebrate.
    For the second time, he flipped open the glove compartment and checked. The envelope was still there, its contents secure for the time being. Russell’s guts were churning and roiling, a combination of elation, anxiety and terror spreading through his bowels and into his groin. The presentation, the handshakes and signatures, the smiles and the panic, all swirled in a massive ball of energy, looking for release. He slowed the car, as the gaudy neon sign came into view.
    Russell pulled his Civic into the crowded parking lot, squeezing between burnished silver Jaguar and a rusty pickup. Best not to be the nicest or the dingiest car in the lot, he thought to himself. He checked his pockets for his phone and wallet, locked the car door with his keychain, and strode boldly out of the lot. He nodded to the gruff, bearded parking lot attendant as he passed, mentally reminding himself to tip the man when he returned.
    Pole Position II, name of the destination that Russell now approached, was somewhere in the middle of the spectrum between “gentleman’s club” and strip bar. The exterior was mostly innocuous: a sleek black fa&ccdil;ade- with no windows, of course- a single entrance, and one small neon sign, with the name of the establishment and a promise of “Girls, Girls, Girls.” Russell vaguely wondered why these places never seemed to promise women. The night was chilly, and he wore no jacket, so Russell quickened his pace, on a beeline for the door, lest he linger exposed in the open for too long.
    A cacophony of stimuli hammered into his senses as Russell breached the portal of the club. A thick cloud of cigarette smoke assaulted his nose, wafted on thick, humid air. His eyes were mometarily stunned by the sudden transition from dusk to darkness, and his ears were pummeled by an even louder, unfamiliar pounding beat. A hulking clichÉ of a biker, leather vest and all, sat perched on a stool, ready to check Russell’s identification if the patron seemed the least bit callow. But the man merely waved his timid customer in. There was no cover at this time of day.
    As his eyes and ears adjusted to the startling change in sensory input, Russell stumbled over to the bar. This, at least, was familiar, if not comforting. He had never spent a great deal of time in bars, not even in college, when his Saturday nights consisted more often of intense games of Magic: The Gathering than bar crawls. After a few moments of standing there, impotently, as the buxom bartender ignored him, and the sweaty businessmen around him were served beer after beer, the frantic waving of his twenty dollar bill finally garnered some attention.
    “What’ll you have, sport?” the bartender asked, her chest straining at the fabric of her halter top.
    “Um, I’ll have a beer, please.” The bartender frowned at this reply, as if he were providing insufficient information. “Um, Bud Light?” She grabbed a can from the cooler at her knees, popped the top, and slapped it on the bar, amber froth spitting from the mouth. She snatched the bill from his hand, returning shortly with a swath of one dollar bills, which she placed next to the beer. She moved on swiftly to the next customer.
    Russell gently picked up all but one of the bills with his right hand, and palmed the beer can with his left. He stuffed the cash into the breast pocket of his denim shirt, and turned his attention to the stage. And capture his attention, it did. In front of him was the secret revelation of his darkest teenage desires, made flesh. Copious amounts, in fact, of bare, glistening flesh.
    The stage was simple. A black platform, mirrored in back, with three poles distributed evenly across it, and a row of chairs pushed up to the edge. What he saw on the stage, though, was anything but simple. Three very different specimens of womanhood arrayed in three very different styles of dress- or undress. A buxom Brazilian, with a g-string in the color of her country’s flag; a leggy waif of a woman in enormous platform shoes and neon fingernails; a platinum blonde with a boy’s chest in a green plaid skirt. They hung on the pole, hunched over for the men, or gyrated to the beat of the rhythm. Russell didn’t know what to say or do first. Finally, he made his way over to the nearest seat, making sure there was an empty buffer seat on either side, sat down, and bellied up to the stage.
    Safe in his new vantage point, Russell began to relax. He set his drink down on the edge of the stage, and gazed into the wall-sized mirror in front of him. It allowed him to observe the world around him, something he’d been good at since his nerd-borne survival instincts kicked in during high school. He noticed the LCD screen behind him, playing a college football game; the patrons sitting around him, eyes deadened to the world, or hooting and hollering with liquid bravado. Businessmen, college students, burned out shells of men, looking for... what? Release? Distraction? The slimmest of connections with another human being?
    As a proud observer of human nature, and an early-adapter of bizarre cultural mores, Russell quickly decoded the rhyme and reason of the establishment. He watched as other men took the tattered and worn bills and placed them on the edge of the cracked and peeling stage, a beacon of promise beckoning out into the wild. The lure could not help but catch its intended target. Without fail, the women would approach, stepping casually along the edge of the stage, or slithering up on all fours, ready to show their wares to the paying customer. The transaction continued, as the lady took the bill, leaned forward, and whispered to the patron sweet promises of dances and desire.
    This circle of lust continued, unaltered, for several cycles. Songs would play, the women would flaunt themselves, then, inevitably, the menu would change, and another group would take the stage. The women varied in age, dress and body type, but one thing remained consistent- eyes that only looked at you, lips that licked themselves just for you, hands and bodies whose sole existence was for your benefit...
    It seemed the moving flesh had hypnotized Russell as he sat in his chair, nursing his drink. He had barely registered the last string of ladies as his mind began to wander, crashing and dashing its way around his skull. He was, then, brought back from this absence by the most unfamiliar of sensations: a tongue sliding up his neck and into his ear.
    “What’s your name?” the tongue seemed to ask. Russell, pulled from his stupor, could not quite make out the face or features of the woman, contorted as she was, although he could intimately describe the scent of the perfume that anointed her breasts. Before he could respond, she whipped her head back, her black hair cascading down onto the stage, her back arching and her body...
    After the parade of silicone and stretch marks, there seemed something different about this one, something indefinable. She had youth, to be sure, cheeks- all four- that still held a bit of baby fat, but there were other dancers who tried to present an appearance of youth. Despite her appearance, she did not radiate the expected naîvetÉ, nor did she have the hard, cynical edge that seemed to permeate the more seasoned women. Perhaps it was this mix, this tension between innocence and skepticism that drew him toward her. For whatever reason, his body acted on its own, leaning forward, crossing the threshold of the stage’s edge, entering her world.
    “Ron,” he replied, not even sure why he bothered to lie about it.
    “I’m Zoë,” she responded, pressing her breasts together, and forming her lips into a practiced pout. “This set is about over. I know you want a private dance, don’t you?” The question itself was perfunctory. She knew the answer as well as he did.
    This, however, was new territory for Russell. He had subliminally witnessed other patrons, eyes glossy, hands held, being led away to a curtained area in the back of the club. They would return a few songs later, their faces a mixture of pleasure and shame, their pockets, presumably, lighter. Although this transaction had occurred numerous times around him in the past half hour, Russell had not paid quite enough attention to absorb the etiquette of the situation. What did one say? What did one do, or touch or think? And what, precisely, occurred behind those curtains?
    All of this went through his mind in an instant, as his head nodded, and his lips whispered an affirmative. His body had committed as his mind deliberated. “Good,” she whispered huskily. “don’t go anywhere...” Her body uncoiled and her derriere shook as she walked away from Russell, leaving him aroused and confused- for the first time that night, but not the last.
    As he sat there, watching the woman in question display her assets to another customer, Russell could not help but wonder if he had made an oral contract, an implication of a future transaction that he simply could not renege upon. His mind and body were at war: an intellectual curiosity and animal instincts clashed with ingrained social paranoia and uncertainty. It did not last long, however, as the song quickly ended, and he felt a warmth and softness touching his neck. “Ready?”
    His body, acting on autopilot, stood up, as Zoë’s hand slid off his neck and into its place next to her shapely thighs. She walked with gusto toward the curtained area, glancing back once, with a look that was equal parts “come hither” and “get moving”. Russell followed...
    ...Down, it seemed, a rabbit hole of sorts. Through the curtain, past a bouncer who appeared to be the larger, meaner, steroid loving brother of the biker at the door. But he was merely the gatekeeper to the Wonderland at hand. Naked statues; gaudy purple carpeting; wide, soft chairs- some of which were occupied by two entwined bodies- one barely clothed and writhing, the other taut and alert. Zoë grabbed Russell by his hand dragging him to a chair in the farthest corner, shoving him onto the cushions, and ripping his glasses off his astonished face.
    The next two and a half minutes were a maelstrom of rubbing and grinding, of naked flesh and naked desire, confusing, cacophonous and chaotic. At one point she leaned in close and whispered “Do you want another?”
    Russell simply did not know what to say. Did she mean later that day? The next time he came in? For surely, he wanted this feeling again, he craved it, didn’t want it to end. She had stopped, for some reason, and he wanted her to go on. His confusion must have shown.
    “If you want me to dance for another song, you’ve gotta pay me another $20.”
    While his mind considered this, his throat must have grunted an affirmative, as she resumed her erotic gyrations, faster, deeper, more intense. His body was doing things he didn’t intend it to do, and his mind was wiped, lost among the sensations that threatened to overwhelm him. Eventually, she leaned into him again, and he knew this time, his answer would be “yes”
    “Would you ever pay for the real thing?”
    It was not the question he had anticipated, but his answer came nonetheless. “Yes.”
    She abruptly stopped, and dismounted his lap. She quickly dressed, and held out her palm. “Give me the forty for those dances, and let’s go talk.”
    After a moment of struggle as he attempted to locate his glasses, Russell pulled two twenties from the large wad in his wallet, and followed the woman out of the back room and toward a secluded table near the bathrooms.
    “How much?” she asked as they sat down. She clarified, in response to his apparently quizzical look. “How much would you pay for it?”
    Russell was not a man who was used to being unable to answer questions- especially those that pertained to money. He found, though, that he had absolutely no idea what the monetary value of this transaction could be. A figure blurted from his mouth: “100 dollars.”
    Zoë seemed to consider this for a moment. “Make it $140. I have a cell phone bill I need to pay. And you pay for the room.” She continued, taking his silence for consent. “We can’t be seen leaving here together- people would get suspicious, and I wouldn’t be coming back. Do you know where the High Horse is?” That was, of course, the other strip club in town, the one near the DMV. Russell nodded. “Good. I’ll be done here in an hour. I’ll meet you there in 90 minutes.”
    “That’ll give me time to eat something and get, um, you know...” he could feel his face flush. “... condoms.”
    “Good.” She paused. “You’ll need to pay me in advance.”
    Russell immediately reached for his wallet, counting out 7 twenty dollar bills. He handed them over to her without hesitation. “I guess I don’t get a receipt, huh?”
    She looked at him, considering this. “Here, let me give you something, so you know I’ll show up.” She pulled a small red ring off the pinky finger of her right hand. “This belongs to my four-year-old daughter, Clara. I wear it every moment of the day to remind me of her. I won’t leave it behind. Don’t lose it.” She placed it in Russell’s outstretched hand, then got up quickly. “You better go, before anyone gets suspicious. I’ll see you in an hour and a half.” She turned and departed. Russell took a deep breath, looked around for one last time, and exited the club quickly.

***


    100 minutes later, Russell was sitting in front of the stage at the High Horse, nursing a beer, the small ring sitting as a dwarf star in his front right pocket. He had a Big Mac, large fries and a coke sitting like lead in his stomach, and a three pack of condoms, bought with shame and humiliation at a nearby drugstore, in the glove compartment of his car, next to his envelope. The bar he now occupied seemed to be a clone of the previous one- dark, loud, smoky and full- of lust, hope and desperation. He had entered the establishment almost an hour ago. Since then, he had sat through one full rotation of the dancers on stage. His pocket was nearly drained of singles, his glass nearly drained of beer, and his soul drained of anticipation and longing. It had been replaced by anxiety and uncertainty.
    Once again he declined the current dancer’s offer of a private dance, and once again, he felt for the ring in his pocket. He glanced toward the door once again, but saw nothing. He looked at his watch, considering the late hour and his options, but doubt squeezed its grip of inertia around him.The dancers changed shift again, and the waitress pressed hard, trying to replenish his well-nursed drink. Russell got up, looked around, and started toward the door-
    Where he ran smack into a tiny figure in an enormous ski jacket. He was about to excuse himself and move out into the cold, when the figure addressed him.
    “Sorry I am late. Are you ready to go?”
    Startled, he looked down at the figure, wearing no make-up, hair pulled in a tight pony tail, ski jacket puffing out to obscure her body. Underneath all this, he assumed, Zoë lurked. He nodded and they headed outside together.
    What followed was a terse exchange about logistics- where would they go, whose car would they take. It was decided that, since Russell had no idea where to find a hotel in the area, he would follow Zoë’s SUV to a nearby Holiday Inn. In the meantime, he would be nice enough to charge the woman’s phone in his car. He agreed to this stipulation immediately, without asking why, and dutifully handed over the ring and got into his vehicle.
    As Russell entered the car, he plugged in the cell phone to charge, opened the glove compartment, snatching the condoms and pointedly ignoring the envelope (which he was relieved to see nonetheless). All of this only took a few seconds, which was enough to allow the SUV he was supposed to be following to streak off into the night. He ignited the car and took off after her.
    After a dizzying array of twists and turns down unfamiliar and dark streets, the two cars arrived outside of the Holiday Inn more or less intact. It occurred to Russell that, perhaps, she was trying her best to ditch him, but he pressed on. In for a penny, in for a pound, as the saying went. He shut off his car and approached her.
    “Is the phone still charging?” she asked, by way of greeting.
    Russell looked at the charger. The red light was not active. “Not while the car is off.”
    “Then leave it on. That phone has to be charged.”
    “But I can’t just leave my car running in the middle of the street.”
    “Why not?”
    Why, indeed not? He shrugged, turned the car on, making sure the lights and radio were off. Perhaps this would not take long, he mused.
    She quickly shuffled into the lobby, and he followed. What came next was a quick and embarrassed exchange with the front desk attendant, who noted their lack of luggage and Russell’s discomfort. He paid with a credit card, laying down far more than he had anticipated, and they rode up to the room in stony silence.
    As they entered the hotel room, Zoë made a bee-line for the bed. She stripped off her ski jacket, and kicked off her shoes. Russell placed the condoms and his glasses on the night stand and began to slowly undress. When he was bare naked, he looked over at the bed, seeing Zoë seated there, wearing a fuzzy green sweater and white socks- and nothing else.
    “Let’s do this.” Her voice had no twinge of desire, or even welcoming. The words were laced with something that Russell could not quite identify- disdain or self loathing, he could not be sure. What he did sense was that there would be not foreplay- no kissing, no fondling, nothing but the act itself.
    “Are you sure you want to?”
    “Don’t you?”
    The question, like all questions that came his way these days, was a loaded one. There were two answers, of course, neither of which seemed right to him. Like always, he gave the answer he felt she wanted to hear. “Let’s forget it, okay?”
    And just like that, they were both dressed. It was decided that she would come down and collect her phone, and then she would spend the night in the room- it was paid for already, after all. She even went so far as to promise not to order a movie. For this he was grateful.
    She came down with him to collect her phone from the car that was, thankfully, still there. She snatched it up, and, grabbing a pen and an old Lotto ticket from her jacket pocket, scrawled a phone number. “Call me, and we’ll find another time.”
    “For whom do I ask when I call?”
    “Zoë, silly!” She smiled, pecked him on the cheek and turned back toward the lobby. He considered the odds that she used her real name on stage, then compared them to the odds that she had given him a real phone number. He was good with odds, numbers bent to his will. These numbers, however, seemed more of a long shot than the lottery numbers over which they were written. He dropped the paper into the gutter, then drove off into the night.
    As he sped toward home, Russell reached into the glove box and found the envelope. He quickly tore it open and tipped its contents into his palm, reassured to find his wedding ring still there. He slid the car into his parking space and got out. His head swam as he approached the steps. The lights were on outside, but he could tell that the interior of his home was dark and silent.
    He keyed himself in quietly, leaving his shoes by the door. He stepped over the Brio train set that littered the floor, entered the bathroom and quickly stripped off his clothes. A bit of mouthwash and some orange scented soap later, he silently entered the bedroom. Blood pounded in his forehead and his stomach clenched violently as he crawled into bed, careful not to disturb his wife. She sighed and rolled over, while Russell buried his head in a pillow to stifle his sobs...



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