Under the Tiger's Paw

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A man falls for a reluctant dancer at a strip club.
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I never knew her real name. The first time we met – after she stumbled off the stage – she told me it was Lisa. The next time she said Sage, then Starr... ridiculous stripper names that mocked her half-hearted attempt at dancing. She signed her release forms with different names still, and I never did get a good look at her driver's license.

She had 'It', as my boss would say. 'It' was the way she walked; the way she looked; the way she talked; and that self-conscious way she brushed strands of hair from her forehead whenever she felt nervous – which in her profession was constantly.

She was a creature from a different planet, as far as I could tell. She didn't belong in this world, but somehow that pothole-infested road carried her up to the club and deposited her right under my nose. I wanted to consign her to some corner of my brain and shut her out until the next distraction arrived, but instead she stayed there - right in the center of my existence. And even after she left without a trace - simply missing one scheduled night, and the next, and the next into infinity - she stays right there, always in my thoughts.

Now, when business slows to a crawl, which is often, I sit on that same barstool where I first talked to her and twiddle cocktail straws around my fingers and wonder which of the half-dozen names she gave me fit her best, and what I'd say to her differently if I ever got the chance to see her again.

I might be driving some two-lane blacktop, concentrating on keeping my car on the road with that awful Wyoming wind trying to force me into a barbwire fence, and suddenly there she is in my mind. I see her as I last saw her. Her eyes are nearly closed in some sort of delirium, and her lipstick is smeared around her lips and onto her cheeks. I've pushed her legs apart - and to pin her beneath me - my arms are hung around the inside of her knees, which are now nearly to her ears. I grab a fistful of that crazy-sexy red hair just to feel it in my hands.

And as my eyes take all of her in, I smile as I see that her little wispy top has finally been removed. I've pulled it up past her breasts, and she's pushed it back down to cover herself a few times now. I know this well: she doesn't want me to see. But I can't help myself, and so somehow – perhaps due to simple doggedness – I've won against her modesty and mystery. I've cajoled her top off, and it finally lays disused somewhere on the bedroom floor.

Now when I look down I see those stunning, mouth watering breasts that landed her the job in the first place, and yet more importantly I see the mark – her signature - running like a zipper down the middle of her chest.

It's a scar. It's the strangest thing I've ever seen. I've pondered over it from a distance and up close these many months - a cruel, long scar from some surgeon's knife - and even healed these years later the scalpel's cut still looks fresh. It runs from near her collarbone to a point just above her bellybutton and seems to split her ribcage in half. And I wonder – as I always have – if she ever understood just what that little disfigurement meant to me.

*********

My boss liked girls with 'It', as he constantly reminded me. He wanted girls that had It - and he wanted them on the stage, serving drinks, or milling around in the back by his office as much as possible. Over the years I learned and adopted his view of It: I used it to fill the club, to keep his private dance card full, and to earn my modest - but safe - income. I learned that It varied considerably, and went far beyond mere looks or conventional notions of attraction. It was certainly different than a number/letter combination on the back of a bra, a dress size, or a girl's measurements - no matter how much men obsessed boobs and female statistics.

My one big triumph in the world of It was creating Fresh Talent Nite - a so called 'open-pole' night every week, which brought in new girls and provided the perfect opportunity to search and find those few female souls that possessed those special characteristics....

Every Thursday night was the same. The girls stood around, or they nervously went backstage and looked in the mirror. They engaged in time-wasting conversations among their group and avoided eye contact with everyone else. When their names were called – a stage name only, of course – they either bounded or slinked up on the stage. They did their thing. They twirled on the stage; they gyrated; they kicked their legs in the air and adopted provocative pose after pose.

It worked. The sad-sack men called-out; they clapped; they unanimously approved. There was something illicit and deeply sexual about ordinary yet attractive girls coming to a place like this and taking off their clothes. The unspoken suggestion was that these girls were innocent: last night at the grocery store they might have bagged your food or run your canned noodle soup under the scanner - or maybe in Casper last year one of them got you a great deal on your car insurance.

Now look at them. They were done up and ready to take you places you could barely imagine.

Yet the truth was usually less glib. Many had done this before, and it showed in their calculated moves and artificial flirtations. It was an act they learned once and never forgot, even if it had been a few years and several pounds ago. Others craved the attention. They got a thrill being lusted over, and as soon as they got home, took a shower, it was straight to the nightstand by the bed, where they pulled out a vibrator waiting on yellow alert and indulged their fantasies.

I sat in judgment and followed my instinct on the topic of It. Some girls were returned to the big world outside. Some were kept for regular dancing at the club. And others... Well, they needed to be primed for the boss-man, and his dance card was all that really mattered.

*********

The club was dark, as always. In the day, you walked in from the blinding light of a blizzard that sent snow sideways and twisted around you and then stepped into a blackness that made you stumble on the frayed carpet. Anyone over six feet walked bent over for the first few minutes, as if an invisible weight was pressing down. As your eyes adjusted the room always seemed wider than it should, and the ceiling lower; then there were the bodies; the girls; the abstract splotches of color that moved and flowed and suddenly became obvious as garter belts, pantyhose, shoes, and skin.

My Thursday conversations with the boss-man on the topic of It remained oddly consistent from one Nite to the next. There he would sit, surveying the room like a gargoyle. His table was near the back, just by the door to his office and up a few feet on small rise; the location gave an unobstructed view of his domain.

"Nick," he'd bellow – his voice cutting through the din of the room - and then gesture me over to his table with a nod of the head. After I made my way over to his side he would gesture the direction he wanted me to look, recognizing that a flat-out point with the finger was a touch indiscrete.

I'd follow his gaze and then he'd murmur, "See that little lass standing in the corner? She's got that cute outfit on...", or some variation of the same.

As usual, I'd look across the darkened room to find a woman standing by herself on the fringes of the herd of girls, waiting and semi-dreading the inevitable moment on stage. Most of the time his girl of choice was attractive yet non-descript - except of course, for the fact that she was in a strip club and donning a barely-there outfit. It was a combination of qualities that always gave a sort of power and star quality I doubted she'd ever recognize.

On some occasions it might be a blonde in a ridiculously sexy bottomless white nurse's ensemble. Other nights it might be a brunet, her hair up in a bun, just like a naughty librarian before she lets her hair down and scolds you for an overdue book. The girls either wore the clothes with obvious disdain or a sense of utility for their job. I knew, however, that each girl wondered the same thing as she stood in that corner waiting to launch her new stop-gap career: 'What in the hell have I done to end up here?'

There they stood, waiting to put on a show for a handful of wage-slave men. It was asking a lot to get up on that stage just for a few measly dollars; at the end of a slow night they might pocket just enough to cover the gas to drive the distance to the club and get back home.

And so after following my boss's gaze to the girl in the corner with my cat's eye, I'd answer back with my usual: "Yup, I see her clear as day." I'd know too, exactly what his next words would be. He would paw his greedy gaze over her one last time and then exude his proclamation: "Why don't you ask her to come back to my office after a little while?" He'd sort of stretch and readjust at that point, knowing his bidding would be done and the world would go on as it always had.

"Sure thing," I'd say, and that would be the start of something else altogether.

*********

Inadvertently, the boss-man once laid out his shtick - his method.

"Hey, Nick. You know how to get the best looking girl in a place to follow you around all night?"

His question was a sure trap, so I thought for a moment before I answered. "Tell her she's beautiful and follow it up with a claim that you're a talent scout for MGM?"

He barely cracked a smile; I didn't have the answer. My retort was a time-worn version of a pathetic seduction technique; it didn't even rate a courtesy laugh.

"No," he rolled his eyes in exasperation. "You tell her she's NOT beautiful."

My expression of doubt goaded him on. He wanted to teach me. I was a protégée. "You say something like: 'You know honey, you'd be a very attractive girl if you'd just change the way you wore your hair.' Something like that. Take her down a peg. Play on her vanity, because if she's beautiful and she knows it, she's vain."

He thought about it for a while and let his words sink in: take away what she thinks is special about herself. "Hell... she'll follow you around all night trying to convince you she IS beautiful."

I smiled at his guile; at his cynicism. The boss-man had an eye for human weakness and wasn't afraid to use it.

When the recession really hit - and hit hard - I could tell. The weakness he courted was everywhere, waiting to be exploited and capitalized on. The crumbling economy took all kinds down. The newly unemployed showed up to both watch and to perform. It wasn't long before the boss-man was telling me the club had hit its golden age. He started reading the newspaper, just so he could gloat over layoffs, which inevitably created more meat for his grinder.

I didn't begrudge either side. Five dollars got you in the door and if you were miserly with your beer tab, it probably beat sticking around the house watching reruns. As they say, at least it was social.

The girls too, changed. It wasn't difficult to see that many of them were from a different place in the world. I always wondered what they thought on their first trip here, especially when they turned onto that final stretch of potholed road that dead-ended at the club. You drove past the refinery; past a rail yard; and then there you were. I wondered what bargain the girls made with themselves when they drew their car to a halt in a parking place, opened their door and breathed in that air laced with oil fumes.

Just one mile away you could see the plant's chimneys and from their top the petroleum flames, which were as bright as a welder's torch. That was the refinery burning off byproduct; on an overcast day it was both beautiful and sickening. The girls knew this paid better than waitressing. It was simple math - they needed the money – and this place promised nothing else.

*********

I'd always let her finish her dances and make sure none of the audience wanted her for a private session before I'd approach. Usually I'd offer to buy her a drink or two – standard protocol – to loosen her up as I laid out the spiel. It was an odious versions of the boss-man's 'you'd be beautiful only if...' gambit, but that was my job, and so I did it.

"You've got great talent," I would start. I'd be enthusiastic. I'd be positive and hopeful, as if dancing at this place was the start of a new and better life. And then I'd hit her with the ugliness. "You're just what we're looking for, but..."

For some girls, the 'but' landed hard, while others barely noticed, or more likely didn't care. Those were the girls that had my number and this whole scene figured out from the moment they walked in the door. For others - the innocents – I saw that it was crushing. I'd heap praise on their enthusiasm, their effort, their zeal.

And then in a cruel twist, I'd destroy what had been built up. "But, I'm afraid," I would say, "you're too awkward up there...not sexy." It was a lie and a cheat.

The routine depended on my read of the girl, and as such her 'problem' always varied. 'Inexperience' worked. 'Old' worked. Sometimes she was too heavy, too plain, too thin, or too tall. The secret was to find something that she couldn't change - an insurmountable problem and something out of her control. I presented the girl with a non-negotiable deal breaker, as they say. She was wonderful in every other way, except this one thing, and that one thing killed her. The possibilities to crush were endless, and it did crack my voice a little every time I said the words, but that was the job. We were all flawed, I told myself; I just delivered the coup de grace.

I remembered a blonde in a nurse outfit. She took my words especially hard; I could see it in her eyes. There she was. She had just finished her set. She had surmounted the shame and climbed on the stage, and she didn't even need to get drunk to do it. I imagined that she was telling herself that she was too good for this place. She was standing there afterwards, looking around, wondering how long she'd have to work in this dump before she could save enough money to leave. Maybe she was already spending the money in her head: rent, her kids' new clothes, maybe an alternator for her mom's dead car, or heat for her place – just to keep life bearable in the coldest months of the year.

And then, I sprung it on her. We don't want you.

In truth, she was wonderful - too wonderful, for this or any other place. That's what made it bad. That's what made it stick right inside the chest.

Her face just fell. Even here at this crummy little dive, where the smell from the refinery drifted in every time the doors were open, she was not wanted. It must have been heart breaking. Her whole life - whenever she was under the tiger's paw - she had told herself that, 'Well... at least I've got looks!' But then that too was taken away from her.

That was when I'd offer her a chance to go in and see the boss. That was her chance at redemption; her only chance. His dance card happened to be open, if she was interested.

If she really wanted to, I was sure he'd see what he could do for her. Maybe he'd let her dance a few nights and see how it went. Maybe she could convince him that she was sexy in whatever way she was capable.

When I saw the boss-man's door open, the brighter light of his office shine into the darkness of the club and her silhouette framed by the doorway, I'd turn around and finish my own drink. His night was just getting started, but I was just about done with every last bit of mine.

*********

At first, I didn't even notice her. Like the nurse and like all of the others, she was standing back in the corner, marking her time, waiting and gathering her courage. My boss made his wishes known. "Hey, Nick." He motioned me over towards his table. "See that little number over there? The red head, you see her there?"

Yes, I saw her. I followed his gaze. She didn't belong here. She didn't belong anywhere within a hundred miles of this place.

"After she's done dancing, why don't you send her back to my office?"

I saw how she stood nervously in the darkest part of the room and I wondered how she'd manage to actually convince herself to go on. It was a house rule that all the girls were either topless or bottomless at all times. Already, she was covering up as best she could with her hands. She had, for some reason, chosen bottomless. The pervy side of me wondered if she was a real red head, as I couldn't quite make out subtle shades at that distance. I looked back at my boss. "Sure thing, I'll send her back after she gets off the stage."

For once I turned around and watched as a girl danced. She was drunk, I could tell. She struggled with the poll, having little idea of what to do with it. The stage was unexpectedly smooth and slick and she fought with it. She spun like she had probably seen the girl who was on before her do. She kept her full-length top on, a corset-like piece of lingerie, but spilled her voluptuous breasts over and around its edges.

She tried to seem together. She tried not to step awkwardly in her high heels. She goofed on her height. I saw how her fair skin seemed cold in the light. I saw how her red hair made a perfect pubic triangle; she was too new at this to know that all of the women shaved their hair back in a ridiculous affectation of erotic protocol. She was lustily built, and despite, or perhaps because of her gracelessness the sad-sack men catcalled, clapped, and shouted at a new level when she stepped off the stage.

This time I didn't need to get the girl a drink. She was sitting next to me, talking, and she was slurring her speech. She had covered her breasts immediately, and I could tell she was thankful to be sitting on the barstool rather than standing out in view. Her skin showed goose bumps along her arms, and I asked if she was cold. It was then that I noticed the scar peaking from the top of her corset. There was just about half an inch of scared skin visible, about as wide a pinkie finger. The scar was raised and rough, almost like a zipper right in the center of her chest. She had covered it with makeup as best she could, but there it was.

She saw me see it, and pulled up her top to hide it. I knew I had found her insurmountable problem.

*********

She said her name was Lisa. Her dad was in the Air Force and they always traveled around; she had lived in a dozen states by the time she was in high school. She ordered another drink and stirred it with the little straw and avoided looking into my eyes. She talked like she was trying to fill the space and keep me from asking questions. She didn't graduate, she said. Years later she felt like a cheat and got her GED, although no one ever seemed to care. She married the first guy that she thought she could live with the rest of her life. She said matter-of-factly, "it didn't work out that way."

She was, she said, a stupid rebellious girl with big tits and she paid the price. She laughed. She brushed the hair from her forehead. It was a drunken laugh, unaware of her affect. The world, she said - looking around and gesturing as if taking in the entire universe - treated stupid rebellious boys better. I smiled. There was no way I could argue with that.

"What went wrong?" I asked this, not really wanting to hear a simple answer to a complex problem yet again, especially from her.

She knew what I was really asking was this: 'Why is a girl like you in a place like this?' She considered the question for a moment, and then pulled her top back down to where it was before. An inch of the scar – the zipper - on her skin showed again.

"They took me in to see a doctor," she said. "I had a heart problem when I was a kid. It was just a little flub when a valve closed, but he heard it with the stethoscope."

"Oh," I said.