What is a Stripper?
He looks at me. He went with Paul last night to see Strippers after work. This is something I have heard other people say. But I do not know what it means. Not really.
I know wives are not happy about it. I know guys do it with their newly cashed pay checks. And why he’s been late coming home. He continues looking at me, wondering if I am serious.
“It’s a dancer.”
“What do they do?”
He tilts his head, slightly. His eyes sparkle. He studies me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He smiles.
“Well, what is it? It’s a dancer? Where?”
“The Drake.”
“What’s a Drake?”
“It’s a bar.”
“Where?”
“Downtown. Gastown.”
“Why?”
“Why, what?”
“Why do they dance?”
“Umm, to make money?”
“Really??!! You can dance and someone pays you for it??? WHO???”
“Listen, my dirty, sweet little friend, if you want to go see them, we can. I will take you tomorrow.”
“Ok.”
Today is Tomorrow. I am seated beside him. Paul is on my right. We are at The Drake. I can feel my backside against the diamond tufted, purple velour barrel chair.
A sticky, marble-topped pedestal table rocks precariously when the waitress puts down our drinks. I don’t notice.
I order a screwdriver. It’s what I always order. It is orange juice and vodka. I order it in a short glass. With ice. I know to order it like that; it sounds like I know about drinking.
I have been ordering them since I stole my sister’s driver’s license and at 15 and a half years old started getting in underage at Rumors Nightclub, located just past the Su- per-Valu store, at the bottom of the hill, in my rural hometown.
The carpet smells like spilled draft beer. I can smell brass polish. The bartender, a short, middle-aged guy, with a big porn ‘stash, in a white dress shirt watches me.
He stuffs a white bar towel in and out of beer glasses. I can smell Tabu perfume. I do not wear Tabu perfume. Paul is wearing Polo. I know this because I wrapped it for his recent birthday party. We drank cocktails on the porch, overlooking the sea at the CEO’s house.
An expensive cut of meat, some huge onion rings and a gourmet burger with a steak knife jutting out the top of a butter bun go past on a tray.
“Food looks good.” I say.
No one responds.
Paul asked me twice on the car ride why I want to go to this place. He means well. He doesn’t want me to have a bad time. They are the first wave of the dot com guys, the code writers; never has there been a group so willing to embrace all possibilities. Someday, one of these things is going to be on everyone’s desk. We will be able to compress all the data we now send to the moon into a tabletop device. Every home will own one. These guys live in a fantasy world. The rest of us humor them. They live for coloring outside the lines. We smile and nod. Dreamers. Maybe, we say. They are certain of it. We don’t want to break it to them. Never gonna happen, Fellas. I work two days a week in a sandwich shop. I don’t have time to dream about super computers.
Paul is happy to be seen anywhere with a female at this point. And well, it’s a repeat of last night, so he’s in.
Paul is a Geek. Thin, medium height, not very significant, bookish, pale with blond hair, he has crooked teeth but a charming English accent.
He wears his work clothes; dress shirt with rolled up sleeves, wide whale, dark green corduroy pants. Decent shoes. It’s the 1985 Software Designer’s uniform. Dressy, with a touch of rebellious.
This outfit will eventually become a black turtle neck and jeans and then a hoody, and skater shoes once these guys start making hundreds of millions of dollars.
Paul is 27, a salesman at a Vancouver start-up software company. He knows me, has known me for several months. We like each other. He is my guy’s best friend, I suppose. Sometimes I give him relationship advice. Not that he has a relationship, but he would really like one.
The waitress pauses for a split second as though she wants to ask me a question. She decides not to. It doesn’t matter if she did. I’m not paying any attention to her. I made it this far. I’m not leaving now. Paul glances over my head at him; at he who shall not be named (for now). They exchange meaningful looks.
I can feel the embossed wallpaper in my soul. I watch customers in the mirror against the wall. They do not know I am watching them; the reflection is bounced off the geo- metric pattern, past the rope lights and I am a study in the behavior of people in this foreign environment.
A Stripper. What is it?
What magical being can keep him from me? He is so enchanted by me his feet barely connect with the ground; you feel like he may burst into a musical number at any mo- ment. Such was his delight that night of Strippers, dinner was reduced to a pile of rubble. I finally decide on a cold roast beef sandwich and go to bed alone.
From somewhere near the back comes an oddly resonant voice, like an actual Radio Announcer. I cannot believe it. This is not the 16-year-old kid they let spin the records at the roller rink.
This person clearly a graduate of Broadcasting School. It tells us to put down our drinks and Get It Up For Taffy!!
I follow directions. Clapping furiously, I watch as the neon, hot pink, feather-encased young blond woman, just introduced to us as Taffy, gracefully makes her way towards the glittering stage. I suspect Taffy may not be her real name.
She is lovely. Tanned, freckled, and cute. Blond and very self-possessed. So confident. She reaches out and they fall into the palm of her hand. Her name suits her. They are transfixed. Taffy smiles, they smile. Taffy moves right, they shift right. Taffy goes left, they swoon left.
The music blasts and Taffy is reflected in the mirror. They fall. Hard. Taffy hasn’t done a thing and they are missing dinner. Happily.
Taffy is a terrible dancer. I watch Taffy doing her best to dance. She has no rhythm at all. She is not even walking to the beat of the music. Taffy has zero saxophone in her act. I can’t help but notice it.
I nudge the guy on my left. I whisper.
“She gets paid for this?”
“Yes.” He nods affirmatively, never taking his eyes off Taffy.
“Who pays her?”
“That guy.”
He points to the white shirt behind the bar.
I look behind Paul - who is now lost to the rest of us. Paul is caught in the solar eclipse that is Taffy. The white shirt and I lock eyes.
“Wait, though” he says it with his eyes. I understand. More to it.
The music ends and some clapping happens. Taffy parks her pink feathers. A huge roar erupts, and Taffy looks up.
The Calgary Flames have scored. The camera pans Lanny McDonald and his dislocated thumb. The puck is dropped again at the center line. No one watches the puck drop or Lanny McDonald talk about his thumb.
Except the white shirt behind the bar. He is tired of Taffy. He doesn’t dislike her; he just doesn’t care. He watches the waitresses. No one realizes they are late for dinner.
I look back at Taffy after two minutes and ten seconds and Taffy is topless. Not terribly shocking. I figured it had something to do with removing clothing based on the name of it. I’m fine.
A visibly intoxicated Japanese man attempts to speak to her, he holds a fistful of high denomination dollars bills. Taffy toddles over on her fawn-like legs and bends down so her ear is close to him. She smiles sweetly and shakes her head ‘No’. No one can blame him, plus she is so kind about it. She really is lovely. Who doesn’t want to take her home.
This is Vancouver. We are Liberal by nature. The top floor of my apartment building consists of a gay couple, 2 old ladies sharing an apartment, a Drag Queen and a weird guy who lives with his mother and watches me too closely.
I have been to the beach by the Uni, where everyone goes topless, at least. I have seen pornographic magazines. Taffy doesn’t look like she’s under any duress. I am not shocked. I kind of admire her chutzpah. Look at her. She’s adorable. She’s tanned, she’s freckled. She’s young. She looks like a tawny small cat.
If they liked her before, now they are worshiping her. They look like happy dogs, waiting for the ball to be thrown.
“She’s got cute boobs,” I say.
Paul looks at me for a split second and nods vigorously. I have no boobs. I am flat as a board. A plank has more up top than me.
But Taffy can’t dance worth shit. She has tan lines like a bikini, but she isn’t wearing a bikini. Also, she has no underpants on.
This causes me a moment of con- sternation, but I look around and it seems not to matter to anyone in the room. I am the only one who has noticed. I am not even sure Taffy realizes.
The sound is deafening. They pound the tables; I understand why ours wobbles now. It is a while before I learn the term “Drake Shake”. It is a phrase used to describe the abuse these table endure. The white shirt behind the bar is furiously working the beer taps.
Taffy swishes awkwardly in the direction of our table. The front row is in real danger of toppling backwards off their stools, such is the angle of their up tilted little faces. Hoping the rays of Taffy-ness will wash down upon them.
The red-haired waitress staggers past us with a heavy tray, laden with A & W style mugs of draft beer and shakes her head.
Michael Jackson begins his song in earnest and by the time Taffy hits her knees, I have decided.
I am 16 years old.
