together for several minutes in silence. My partner finally broke the verbal reprieve half way back to the hotel room.
“Did you see that?” he asked rhetorically.
“We just got hustled,” I said.
“Yeah but that was really nice.”
“We just got hustled,” I repeated.
“You know, those are the types of girls that you could easily hook up with at a bar like that,” Fleas postulated. “All it would take is for a guy to go there a few times, like a few weekends in a row or something, get to know them a little bit, and they would go home with him.”
“Dude, they wouldn’t even talk to us,” I pointed out.
“Yeah, but we don’t live here. It’s the first time they’ve seen us. We’re strangers. I’m telling you, we should go back there tomorrow night and try to talk to them.”
“I’m not worried about tomorrow night,” I said. “I’m worried about right now. We didn’t get in any of those downtown clubs. But we went to a few bars, which was cool. We smoked a few fools and got the table, which was cool too. But now we’re walking back to the hotel. I don’t know about you, man, but I need some cones. There has got to be a strip club around here somewhere.”
“How are we going to find one?” Fleas asked. “We don’t know where anything is around here and we don’t have any transportation.”
“I got this covered, man. We’ll find the sleaziest bar in sight and ask the dirtiest bastard in there for directions. He’ll know.”
Within a few blocks of walking, we found what appeared to be a biker’s bar. Fleas and I looked at each other and silently decided not to enter out of fear of causing an uncomfortable scene. A short distance away, we found another nightclub. The doorman was a younger man. Getting desperate, we asked the guy where a strip club might be located.
“Oh, right down the street there’s a good one,” the doorman said. “It’s about seven or eight blocks away though.”
“That’s fine,” I replied. “What’s the door fee?”
“It’s something like fifteen or twenty bucks.”
“Twenty bucks!” I blurted out. “I just spent twenty bucks to watch some girls make out back at the bar while we were playing pool. I’m not spending another twenty bucks on pasties and G-strings.”
“The place is all nude,” the doorman explained.
“Say no more.”
While en route to our place of debauchery, Fleas made a pit stop at an ATM along the street. He gave his wife a quick call on his cell phone and asked her about the status of the family bills. Fleas then instructed his wife not to write any checks or spend any money on groceries until he got home. He then made a significant withdrawal from the ATM with which to pay for some hookers.
Once Fleas and I found the glittering lights of the strip club, a lady through a blackened ticket window advised us that the door fee was nineteen dollars, which included our first drink. The cashier then asked if we wanted to tip our dollar in change and make it an even twenty. I begrudgingly handed over my Andrew Jackson and Fleas forked over his family’s grocery money.
Walking inside the gentlemen’s establishment was like stepping into a different plane of the universe. The music was loud, the interior was nice, the employees were friendly, and the stage was of a majestic quality like I have never seen before.
“Dude, they got a shower!” I spouted off to Fleas, nudging him in the arm and pointing to the suspended shower cage that was dangling above our heads.
“Uh-huh,” Fleas responded with a smile.
“Alright, look,” I said. “I don’t want to tell any of these chicks my real name, where I’m from, or what I do. They are on the job. They are here to make money. Lots of idiots come into places like this and lose their whole wallet thinking that some hooch is talking to him because she likes him. I don’t know about you, man, but I’m Steve from Chicago. Import-Export.”
Fleas and I pulled up seats at a small table and begin to freeload. Neither of us approached the stage but, instead, sat back and watched the action while the other patrons wasted their money on the strippers for us. The announcer, who looked and sounded like someone introducing a Las Vegas swimsuit competition, stated that the girls could not get “all the way nude” unless there was at least thirty dollars on the stage. Until that time, the girls apparently just danced around topless. Although I wanted to see all that I could see, my cheap ass was content with having spent my twenty-dollar door fee and I was planning on just sitting back and soaking up the scenery for the rest of the night.
As song after song played and several strippers came and went without getting “all the way nude” on the stage, the girls began to filter through the crowd, running their manipulation scams upon the onlookers. One particular female, whom I found entirely unattractive, came strutting up to our table and engaged in some small talk me.
“Hi, I’m Sweet Pea, what’s your name?”
“I’m Steve,” I said, hoping that she would go away so that I could continue freeloading off the better-looking trim.
“Well, Steve, is this your first time here?” the stripper asked in a penchant voice.
“Yeah,” I mumbled without looking at her. “I’m from Chicago.”
“Really, Chicago? What are you doing down here?”
“Just business. Import-Export.”
Sweet Pea paused for a minute and then looked at Fleas. “Who’s your friend here?” she asked me while offering my compadre a sultry look. “Does he do import business too?”
Fleas extended his empty palm toward the stripper while dragging on a cigarette with the other. “I’m Keaton Albertson. I’m a treatment facilitator.” Fleas then shot me a shit-eating grin.
I darted a look of disdain at my chum, unamused that he had assumed my identity. The skanky hussy proceeded to engage in small talk with Fleas, completely unimpressed with his admission. As she did so, I made it a point to turn away from her, not giving her any reason to address me any further. Minutes later, the stripper strutted off after realizing that neither of us was going to give her any money for a lap dance or further entertain her soggy conversation. I then confronted Fleas over his flagrant violation of our established prostitute interaction policy. “Dude, what the fuck?”
“That was good shit,” Fleas asserted. “You should’ve seen the look on your face.”
“You need to stop that shit,” I explained. “I have a reputation to keep.”
Fleas and I spent another hour or so inside the strip joint being money-grubbing voyeurs. After failing to see any totally nude dancers perform on the stage, we finally left for our long walk back to the hotel. Along the latter part of our journey, I suggested that we find a place to eat so that we might acquire some sustenance prior to returning to our room. We then initiated a thorough search of the area, eagerly looking down every cross street that we came upon for signs of a restaurant that was still open at the late hour.
We had completed most of our walk back to the hotel before I spotted the illuminated window of a small eatery. Fleas and I quickly averted course and made tracks toward the establishment. Upon our approach, we took note of the neon shingle that read, “Skokie’s – Best Subs in Kansas City” and proceeded inside. Despite the early morning hour, the diner was surprisingly packed with heads, dark heads, of the African variety. I must have frozen in the doorway because Fleas looked back at me and quickly said, “Get your ass in here, don’t embarrass me.” My moment of pause dissipated and I cautiously followed Fleas inside the all-black restaurant. We saddled up at the bar, obtained some menus, and perused through a long list of sub sandwiches that were available to order. We placed our requests for some sub basket combo meals and then found