Where I am…

Where I am a girl got fired last week for selling bad coke. Would it have been okay if it was good coke, I asked the manager. The sugar was the problem, she explained to me. The girl had sold him a five first, and it was baby powder. The guy went out and did it and he loved the baby powder, so he came back in and bought a fifty, but she gave him sugar for the fifty. If she’d just have given him baby powder it would have been okay.

I never met her, she got fired before I got here. A customer described her to me: she was old with crooked teeth and crazy hair and a belly that hung over her g-string. I know her, because these are the women here, the women I love. They are fifty years old and live in wall tents back in the woods smoking weed and moving in with asshole boyfriends for the coldest months. They care about living and getting high and what’s right and good, and they don’t give a fucking shit about selling sugar to some rich white asshole who drove up here in a two hundred thousand dollar RV.

Last night there were all these groups from other countries. Russia, Germany, the Ukraine, Switzerland, France, Italy. Davka knew how to party Russian style, slam your glass down and yell, “Vodka!” I learned how to say boobies in four different languages, tho all I rememer is Russian, because every time I went on stage the Russian guys would yell, “Russian Girl!!! Russian Girl!! Biiiig Siske! I Like Russian Girl Siske!!”

But none of them would get dances. One Russian guy told me, “No dance, dancing not for me. Only I fuck you is for me.”

After a while it felt like a funky alternate universe, so I drank some tequila and found one of the only two fluent english speakers in the place. Ironically, he didn’t talk much. But he got some dances.

At the end of the night the Russians were still there, looking for a whore. Finally they hit on the waitress, who promptly went to the manager and asked if she could gang bang the guys in the back for a thousand dollars if she gave the manager a cut.

“Fucking bitch!” she yelled, when the manager explained to her that there was no prostitution. “Come back here, cunt, I’m talking to you!”

The owner, sitting next to her, said nothing, but it seemed like he was trying to eminate a kind of calm. After a couple minutes the waitress decided to go back to the Russians hotel room, and she slammed out the door, screaming at the manager, “Okay, D, I’m gonna go fuck these Russians! Fuck you, D, I’m going to their fucking room! And I’m going to FUCK them!”

I’m curious to find out if she’ll be fired, or if this is not as offensive as selling bad coke.


  1. OK, now I’m sad I’m not there.

    In the back where? The bathroom? Dressing room? I cannot think of one single surface in that bar appropriate for fucking.

  2. Depends on the bar …

    Over here in Antwerp, there’s this bar/jeweller/leatherworking place with a leather covered bar over two feet wide.

    They serve amazing coffee, and the guy in charge has the uncanning ability to fix up even the tinies jewellry locks … amazing.

    Anyway, I’m quite confident you can do the strange on that bar … hack there’s probably a fetish market to be catered to if you tape’d it …

  3. Sounds like an interesting night, haha, wish my clients would teach me some other languages. Best of safety luck to the waitress!

  4. oh man.

    i bought coke from a stripper once. only it turned out that she had sold me meth instead, which i only discovered after the second rail.

    the guy who bought the sugar should consider himself fortunate.


  5. “…it seemed like he was trying to eminate a kind of calm.”

    Hahaha… maybe it was the kind calm like, “I hope nobody notices that I’ve just shit my pants”.

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