September 1, 2006

Morning Drunk

I had occasion to head to downtown Indy earlier in the week. I passed by one of the more famous strip clubs on the way. I was not surprised to see several cars in the parking lot at 9 am. I am not sure which is worse, being there at nine in the morning, or working there at nine in the morning. For most jobs, the best shift is the day shift. For waiters and bar tenders, the nights bring the most pay. I would think that would be true also for those who undress and give lap dances for dollar bills. Is it higher now, I have not been to a gentleman's club in a long time? I could only think of the woman who gets her kid off to kindergarten and hurries out the door, painting the eyelids and wiping the lipstick on the lips in the minivan on the way to work -- at the strip joint. The whole idea seems surreal to me. Of course, the whole idea of a strip joint is crazy. Hot, big bosummed chicks hitting on guys that they would never look at twice were they at the mall or a club, all because the guy has a wad of cash. I am sure it is just a job to the girls dancing on the stage. Bend over wave the ass, did I unplug the iron? Hug the pole, do the splits, I need to stop for milk after work. Jiggle jiggle, Oh shit there is old crater face, hey he has a twenty, I better shake those tatas right in his face...I hope Junior did his homework. These shoes are killing me...that G string sure cuts into my ass. The whole idea is just absurd, and to me, even more so in the cold light of day.

In my youth, I worked a bit on third shift -- 11pm to 7 am. We often headed straight to the bar after work. Many a day I was drunk by ten in the morning. One such Saturday, my friend and I found ourselves entering the Combo Lounge before noon. The Combo was a strip club in the town I was raised. With a population of about 14,000 we did not get the best strippers, especially at eleven o'clock on a Saturday morning. Mostly the lounge attracted those too old, or too fat or too ugly to dance in the bigger city. I suspect they made way more money as hookers. I do not know, just a guess.

We were well on our way to a good buzz. The girls were bored, and I found them boring. There is nothing about a girl standing there waiting for the jukebox to change to the next record, arms akimbo, tities sagging, a vacant expression in her eyes. Duane went to the head, I silently smirked at the girl in the superior way one has when the you are 23 and king of the world. I had enough beer to make me 6'5"" and strong enough to kick Iron Mike's ass.

The girl was asking why I was laughing at her, getting pissed. Suddenly the restroom door flew open and a guy I had not seen before was backpeddling right at me. As he got close I saw my friend burst out the door behind him fists doubled. I did what any friend would do -- I smacked the guy in the back of the head -- he rebounded back towards my buddy like a dodge 'em car. Duane punched him in the face. The guy dropped like he was shot, out cold. The bouncer asked Duane what happened and he said the guy tried to hit him in the men's room. The bouncer dragged the guy out the back door. After all, we are buying beer, he was unconscious. We were just sober enough to finish our drinks and leave.

As we jumped in the car to head for another bar, I asked why the guy had tried to punch him? Duane looked at me and laughed, "I pissed on his shoes" he said.

God, I had some stupid friends. But I did have some good times.

No comments:

Consider everything here that is of original content copyrighted as of March 2005