The Ninth Caller Ch. 02

Tim Jones sat alone in his 1989 Ford pickup and stared blankly at the pink neon sign across the parking lot. He had been there for a while and his ass was numb and tingly. His senses were at Defcon-1 on this hot August night, like an idle on an engine set too high. Every muscle, sinew or bone in his body burned like he was rubbed raw, his soul literally chewing its way out from his insides. Those gears in his mind, ever turning, always grinding, needed oiling, but none was available. Wild Turkey, as always, would have to suffice. God damn it but did he need recalibration!

He winced. The distinct buzz from the fluorescent marquis drilled into his ear like a swarm of agitated gnats. Could anyone else hear that? How can they stand it? God damn it, it's so loud! He squeezed his eyes shut, as if temporarily depriving his sight would make things better. It didn't. When he opened them again it was worse; much much worse. It was always worse! Now his sight too went into forth gear with no way to downshift.

The high pitched buzzing from the neon tormented him only slightly less than the garish text now shouting out at him in their electric blaze. That sign was a big titted, loud and inviting shriek into that sweltering muggy night. The invitation was clear. It was right there, glowing in the Pepto-Bismol colored script above the low building with the blacked out windows. It was mocking him, daring him, seducing him. It screamed, 'Girls, Girls, Girls'.

His eyes were bloodshot as he stared at those pink glowing letters, sweat pouring down his face like he was walking in a rainstorm. He could feel the moisture suck from his eyes as he could not avert his gaze. It was horrific! This can't go on like this.

It had been a hard few days, hard. Sleep, merciful sweet restorative slumber, continued to elude him. How long had it been? Two days? Three? He had lost count, but he knew something would have to give..., and soon. He read somewhere once that after four days the mind starts to hallucinate; dreams battling their way forward into your waking state, deciding that adult supervision obviously is required. When that happens, your subconscious grabs the wheel of your ego and starts to drive that big old bus that is you. After five days, the need to sleep passes, replaced by a more terrifying sensation. The fear of never being able to sleep again. Thank God he wasn't at that point..., yet. I have got to get my shit together!

Taking a long swig from the bottle of Wild Turkey between his legs, he closed his eyes again and exhaled. A soft sigh slithered out of his lips as he felt his gears lubricated by that familiar burn drizzling down his throat. That fucking click click click needed to stop, and usually bourbon helped, at least temporarily. When the liquor hit his empty stomach, his gut boiled, churning and gurgling like baking soda dropped into vinegar; but, he was hopeful now. The clicks were muffled, like they were covered in velvet; sweet, soft, supple velvet.

His stomach growled and he wasn't surprised. He hadn't eaten in days. He couldn't. Everything tasted too sharp, too intense, like chewing glass and nails covered in tabasco. Only his friend Wild Turkey could pass his lips now. Wild Wild Turkey, his old reliable buddy. It sure as shit wasn't a cure, but it was a respite, even if it was like using a squirt gun to battle a forest fire. Day and night, day and night that clicking was fucking relentless and he needed peace. A grin crawled over his face as the torment abated, but..., thirty seconds later, he sighed. Click click click. He winced as he mouthed "Fuck it!"

An hour went by, maybe two, who could tell anymore. It was darker now, the sun lingering long in the Kentucky sky in August. The parking lot was full. For a weeknight, The Dollhouse was doing a fine business. Maybe I can just look this time. Maybe..., maybe if I just take a peek, it can work. The clicking was deafening. Tim knew he was going inside, there was no sense fighting it anymore. He was making progress, though. It had been six months before he had to come here, but now..., he had to move.

He pulled down the sun visor and flipped up the cover to the mirror. The tiny lights filled the cab of his truck with a soft, yellow light. Looking at his reflection, Tim grimaced. He looked like a sack of shit. Dark circles hung under his yellow eyes making him look like he had been stabbed in the face with a red hot poker and scorch marks had been left on his skin. His flesh hung loose on his face; like a piece of wet Kleenex stretched across a bleached skull. His hair; long and greasy was pulled back sharply and did not help soften his features. He was all hard edges and sharp angles; like you could cut yourself on his face like a knife. "No use putting this off any longer," he thought to himself as he flipped the visor back up and started walking across the lot.

The crunch of his boots on the gravel shot into his ears like ice picks. Damnit, why is everything so fucking loud! Just a few more minutes. This will help, it has too. Just a quick peek, and then, home and sleep. I know this will work this time! I know it!

Tim pushed open the door to The Dollhouse and Fred, the owner was tending bar and smiled as he saw him walk inside.

"Timmy boy," Fred cried. "Been a while. I was wondering where you had been."

"Oh, you know me, Fred," Tim said, his voice crackling and hoarse. He had not spoken a word in over a month and his tongue stretched and strained as it suddenly was exercised. "You can't keep me away."

"The usual?" Fred said.

"You know it," Tim nodded.

"Shit man," Fred said, "I am so glad you showed up tonight. Most of these fuckers here are beer drinkers and I thought all of those fifths of Wild Turkey I bought would never be sold."

Tim grinned, his thin lips curling back over his tiny, yellowed teeth. "I am glad you kept my stock ready. I will make sure to help reduce your excess inventory."

"Well, we like to keep our regulars happy. For you, Tim, only the best," Fred said as he poured him a glass and passed it across the bar. When Fred saw the face of Ben Franklin staring up at him from the bill his customer passed to him, his face erupted into a huge big toothed grin.

Tim downed the drink in one gulp, the hot burn sliding down his throat easy, muting the clicks on its descent. He opened his eyes, and glanced over at the bartender and forced a smile on his face. I have to keep it together. I have to look normal.

Studying the bartender, he was pleased he had not changed. Good old Fred, same as always. Dressed in that same red flannel shirt he wore since Moses was in high school, his grey bearded ZZ top face looked blue under the pulsing disco lights.

"Aren't you hot in that shirt?" Tim asked, his mind boiling in his futile efforts to try and participate in normal human casual conversation. "It is scorching outside."

"That it is," Fred said, "but I don't have a lot of variety in my wardrobe. Makes shit easier when I get up in the morning."

Lucky fucker. At least he can sleep.

"You look well, Tim," Fred said. "Things good out at your place?"

Tim nodded, and croaked out, "Yeah. Couldn't be better." He caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the mirror over the bar and smirked. Fred was such a liar, but he did try. Triers are always the best liars. He didn't look well. This was no opinion, but an indisputable fact. His complexion was green, and it was not just the garish lights flashing in the dark, dank club that created the effect. That didn't help of course, but it was not the cause. His whole being oozed illness, as if sickness itself rose from the depths of hell and took on a human form and decided to name itself Tim.

"Who's headlining tonight?" Tim said. "Darla again?"

"As always, but, we do have some new girls in the lineup," Fred said. "And Man, they are just your type. Fresh..., if you know what I mean."

"Oh? I do like fresh."

"And hopefully a few of these Hotties will stick around for a while, as a couple of them are really fucking smokin," Fred said. "But, somehow I doubt it. There is always such churn in this business. It seems as soon as some really stacked girl comes in here and whips up the clientele into a froth, she is gone the next day."

"There never seems to be a shortage of new supply, though," Tim said. "There have been quite a few girls dancing here over the decades I have visited."

Fred grinned, and nodded, "That's for fucking sure. As long as there are girls with few options, and perves willing to pay to see them take off their clothes, the cycle shall continue." Holding his hand up in the air, he joked as he affected a dramatic tone. "And thus, the lord sayeth, on the eighth day 'Let there be pussy. And there was, and it was good'."

Tim laughed at the stupid joke. It was hollow and fake, but, it was what people did. Normal people. He wanted to be normal, if only for one night.

Fred pointed at the stage and said, "Hey, one of the new gals is dancing next. You are going to love her. Jesus, the jugs on that skank are the best I have seen in years, and trust me, I have seen em all."

Tim felt his heart race in his chest, like a plane sitting on the edge of the runway as he froze in his seat. Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Please fasten your seatbelt and place your trays in their upright position as we prepare for takeoff. He didn't want to turn towards the stage. He didn't want to look. Fresh was good..., and bad. The clicks were growing louder now.

He couldn't resist and slowly swiveled on the bar stool to face the stage. His knuckles went white as he gripped the cracked vinyl of his chair beneath his yellowed fingernails. The pulsing lights and the loud, thump thump thump of the bass was almost too much to take. His head was already throbbing and felt as if it was slowly being crushed beneath the tires of his truck. He downed another shot of Wild Turkey and focused on the stage. Click click click.

Fred, the liar, was for once, telling the truth. The girl was beautiful. Her long silky legs, and equally silky blonde hair pressed every button in Tim's control box. She was natural too. No fake titties for her, no. Those babies, barely covered by the purple pasties stretched over her areolae, were all real. Big and saggy, just like he liked. That silicone was no good. Too messy, and when it congeals, it causes problems. So many problems.

She was working it hard. Around the stage, twenty men sat silently and reverentially as she danced before them. Some nights at the strip club were rowdy. Groups of male friends out for a bachelor party, or a night out after work, without wives or girlfriends, they egg each other on to hoot and holler and carry on. Morons. Tonight however, was not for them. Tonight the regulars were here, and despite the garish lighting, and the loud booming music, and the overpriced drinks and terrible food, these guys acted like worshippers in church. Each sitting alone, eyes glued to the erotic vision dancing before them, their minds awash in an erotic haze of their imagination.

Fred caught the eye of the bouncer, and pointed over to one of the seats in the front of the stage. It was occupied, but not for long. That seat needed to be filled by someone better. Someone not nursing their PBRs for two hours as they snaked single ones into the G-Strings of the dancers. No, Fred wanted an upgrade to that place of honor. A good strip club owner wants his girls to make money, and, with Tim in the house, there was money to be had by all.

The girl finished her set and went backstage as the bouncer asked the confused patron to move. He thought to argue, but, one glance at the bouncer's fists the size of canned hams had him rethink. No point getting your ass kicked to keep your seat. The booth would be just fine, thank you.

Tim was escorted over to the chair at the foot of the stage, and Darla spotted him at once from behind the curtain.

"Holy fuck," Darla said. "Tonight is going to be a good night. My horoscope was right about today after all. A good day for Leos today."

"Well, I hope mine gets better, I am a Scorpio," Tammy, the newest dancer who had just finished her set, said. "And I have made all of eight bucks in tips all night. Hell, I did better back at Burger King, and there, I also got to eat the leftover fries."

"Well," Darla said as she pointed out into the audience at Tim. "You see that guy?"

"That weird looking guy sitting right out front?"

"Yeah, him. You know who he is?"

"I haven't a fucking clue, but sheesh, something about him gives me the willies. He looks like fucking Skeletor."

"Yeah, Tim never was a big eater," Darla laughed. "But seeing him here tonight, is like winning the lottery and not realizing you bought a ticket. That guy is your car payment, girl. Skeletor is your rent check, your grocery bill and a new cellphone all rolled into one."

"Who? Him?"

"Yeah, him," Darla said. "That withered up, bony old fucker is richer than God. Hell, one night a few years ago, I gave him a private dance and made so much fucking money I paid off my Honda in one big payment."

"Hmmm," Tammy said. "You know, he is starting to look better to me already, but I don't know. He is just too fucking creepy."

Darla laughed. "You know, girl, you might just make a good exotic dancer, you have the figure no doubt. But you need to learn some harsh truths." She paused as she said, "How old are you anyway?"

"Twenty..., well, in three months. I am still nineteen."

Darla laughed again, "Ah, twenty! I remember twenty. You are just cute as a button. I can see why Fred hired you. Enjoy the days when you have the urge to round your age up, girl. They don't last."

"Oh? Well, it's not like you are old, Darla," Tammy said. "Hell, you are the most gorgeous woman I have ever seen. What are you, twenty-five?"

"Oh, you are adorable!" Darla said. "Exchange that two for a three in that number, and you are closer, give or take a couple of years. But, back to your situation. Yeah, Fred definitely has an eye for talent."

"And here I thought it was because of my boobs," Tammy said as she cupped her hands under her enormous melons and bounced them up and down.

Darla winked, and said, "Well..., he has an eye for that too. But hey, this is your first stripping gig, right? You are new to the business."

"Well..., yeah," Tammy said as she looked down. "I am sorry. I have been watching you dance and trying to pick up on your moves. I will get better, I promise."

"Don't misinterpret what I am saying, Tammy," Darla said. She took her hand and swept a lock of Tammy's hair out of her face, and added, "You are a beautiful girl, and could really make a go at this. You could do it. I have seen them come and go over the years, so I know what I am talking about. So many girls like you start strong, stay a few days and then..., poof. One day they disappear and no one ever hears from them again. I don't want that to happen to you."

"No, I have been practicing. I am sure if I get better, I can start making some real money. My cousin is a stripper in Lexington and makes a good living. I am sure my dance moves will get better with practice."

"Moves you can learn, and you have some good technique already. No, what you need to learn is how to work the system. Now, Skeletor, as you so indelicately put it, should have your panties gushing right now."

"Are you kidding me?" Tammy said. "There ain't enough weed in the world that could make me wet for—"

"—You don't learn too fast, do you?" Darla said. "Why are you here? Why did you take this job?"

"Well, I heard the money was good, and it looked like it might be kind of fun, and—"

"—If you are a smart girl, and with you being beautiful like you are, the money can be real good. And knowing that, seeing a guy like Tim come in here, on a fucking hot ass Tuesday night, when all we have had is cheap motherfuckers in here for days, your pussy should be gushing out like a river. He is a wet dream, girl! He is the man of your dreams! You should think of nothing but giving that withered up old cock a long luscious lick! He needs to think you want him."

Tammy winced, but then sighed as she nodded.

Darla said, "And if you work it right, and wiggle those gorgeous tits of yours in his face, and rub that tight young ass over his crotch, you could score big. Now, isn't that better than wasting your time dancing for that boy over in the corner for, what did you say you got? Eight dollars?"

Tammy blushed as she looked down at the floor.

Darla continued, "Remember Tammy, this isn't just about dancing. In fact, none of these guys in here give a shit whether you have the right 'moves' or not. This is fantasy. This is an acting job. In fact, it is one of the hardest acting jobs in the world, since it is usually done for an audience of one, and they are a participant in the drama."

"Yeah," Tammy said.

"Hey, look, I get it," Darla said. Peeking through the curtain again at the handsome guy sitting in the booth, she added, "And I will tell you, I wouldn't kick that boy you were dancing for out of my bed, so I understand the appeal. But you gotta let your head do the thinking now, and not your pussy. Cash, girl. Cash is what this is all about!"

"You are right," Tammy said. "I just..., I guess I just can't fake it as well as you can."

"Oh, you will learn. Trust me, once you have a couple Benjamins shoved down in your G-string, you won't be faking it anymore! And I will tell you another thing, good old Ben Franklin gives me the best toe curlers any day," Darla said. She paused and smiled, as she saw the stricken look on Tammy's face. She was so young, but, she wanted to learn and was listening. That was good. That was half of the battle.

Cupping her hand under Tammy's chin, Darla said, "Hey, despite me having the reputation of being the world's grabbiest, greedy bitch around here; I am going to do you a big favor tonight."

"Oh? What kind of favor?"

"I am going to give you a gift. I am going to let you take my set, which was supposed to be next. But don't waste my present. I want you to go work your charms on Tim. I think once you see some good cash flowing your way, the light is going to turn on in that beautiful head of yours." She laughed as she said, "I know you are blonde, but you don't have to act like one, you know."

Tammy laughed and said, "That was uncalled for. Plus, I am not really blonde anyway."

Darla giggled. "Carpet doesn't match the drapes, eh? Well, I am one to talk. I am a redhead, at least I think I am. I have actually forgotten what color my hair is supposed to be."

"Thank you, Darla," Tammy said. "I know you are trying to help me out. I really appreciate it."

"Think nothing of it," Darla said. "It is just my way of giving back. Hell, there were some gorgeous ladies that helped me out years ago when I was just starting, so, I guess it is my turn to pass it on. So, do you want to make some REAL money tonight? I bet you have all kinds of bills to pay. God knows I did when I was your age."

"Yeah...," Tammy said. "I need to get the alternator on my Chevette fixed. I had to walk to work tonight as I don't have the eighteen hundred dollars it is going to cost to get it repaired."

"Not yet, at least," Darla said with a wink. "Let's reassess your situation at the end of the night. I think it might be dramatically improved." She took Tammy by the hand, and walked over to a small refrigerator. Opening it, she pulled out a bottle of Andre's pink champagne. "Sometimes, you need to pull out the big guns, and this is one of those times. Now, break is almost over, so when you go back on stage, I want you to..."

Tim sat in complete silence as the DJ ran through the playlist of old eighties tunes. Even though he was several decades older than Fred, and about as far removed from popular culture as one could get, even he knew that Duran Duran had not had a hit in thirty years. It didn't matter though. The customers at The Dollhouse weren't there for the music.