The first time I met him was my first night back at my favorite titty bar in the whole damn state.
â€œDonâ€™t bother getting out your hustle. Iâ€™m furniture around here.â€ That was the first thing he said to me. Iâ€™d heard those kinds of lines from guys all over the country who thought they were too cool to pay for a lapdance and had hung out at strip clubs enough to feel entitled to a stripperâ€™s time for free.
I nodded and tried to think of a polite way to excuse myself, but he wasnâ€™t done. â€œI hear you have a degree.â€ Goddess, word gets around fast in these small towns.
â€œYeah,â€ I nodded. â€œWhy?â€
â€œYou wanna job?â€ He bobbed his head up and down and his hat teetered dangerously close to falling on the floor.
â€œUm, doing what?â€
â€œResidential treatment for teenagerâ€™s whoâ€™ve been incarcerated.â€
That was actually right up my ally, back in the days when I was into wage slavery and still believed in changing the system from the inside out. â€œPossibly,â€ I told him. â€œBut Iâ€™m not sure that the good people of this very small town want a stripper working with their troubled youth.â€
â€œThe good people of this very small town…â€ he paused, dramatically, “can go fuck themselves.â€
I laughed. I couldnâ€™t help it. â€œSo youâ€™re offering me a job? After, like, thirty seconds?â€
â€œI heard about you.â€ He squinted at me, his hat tipping down over his eyes. â€œI know youâ€™re good people.â€
Ah, the joys of small town living.
Itâ€™s been a few summers now. I stay on his wifeâ€™s empty land, and I stash my visiting stripper friends in their spare bedrooms.
The other day I walked into the bathroom and found my friend Hat-ma sitting on the floor, all three make up bags dumped out around her. My thongs were covering every inch of counter space, drying.
â€œHey,â€ I called out to him. â€œWeâ€™ve stripperized your bathroom.â€
He poked his head in for a second and laughed. â€œGood thing my son isnâ€™t home. He ainâ€™t used to strippers for sisters.â€
Goddess, I love these people.