Kill Whitey

Sondra was an enigma, too, but in a different way than her boss. Her performances were limited and I sometimes wondered why she didn’t dance more. She only stripped twice a night, fifteen minutes at a time, and when she was on stage, she owned the joint. She interacted with the crowd without ever really getting involved with them. Unlike most of the girls, Sondra didn’t do lap dances or work the crowd when she wasn’t dancing. In fact, you never saw her at all in between sets. She’d disappear backstage and she didn’t appear again until her second set came around. I wondered what she did back there. There was no way I could get backstage to meet her. Two bouncers guarded that area at all times.

Maybe she didn’t need to work the crowd in between her time on stage. She sure as hell made a killing while she danced. Every night, guys (and sometimes women) would rush the stage, crowding around as soon as she came on. They reached for her and she floated just out of reach—an endless ritual. Trying to touch Sondra was like trying to hold gossamer or a cloud. Her admirers were always grasping, never quite touching, fists clenching ones and tens and twenties and more. They’d put them in her g-string. She’d pick them up with her mouth or push her breasts together and collect the bills with her cleavage. And at least once during every set, one lucky individual would get an extra special treat—he’d roll the bill into a tube and hold it upright, and Sondra would squat over it and pick it up that way—not using her hands. The crowd always went nuts when she did this, even though they’d seen her do it before. I didn’t blame them. I totally understood. I went nuts every time, too. I imagined what it would be like to be that dollar bill. I imagined a lot of things.

Was I obsessed? I don’t know. Maybe. Fuck it. Yeah, maybe I was. But if you’d seen her, you wouldn’t blame me. You’d know why.

I sat there, night after night, and watched her. Sometimes she looked at me. Other times she didn’t. When our eyes did meet, no matter how fleetingly, I always wondered if Sondra recognized me or not. Was my face familiar? Did she think, ‘Oh, there’s that nice guy who’s in here watching me every night’? When she did look my way, she always smiled, but she fucking smiled at everyone. Was her smile different for me? Special? Did it hold some hidden meaning or message? No, of course it didn’t, but sometimes it was fun to trick myself into believing so. What else did I have going on in life?

Shit.

So I’d leave the Odessa and think about Sondra. At work. At home. Out with the guys. Even at my parent’s house on Sunday afternoons. Mom asked me if I was seeing anyone. I told her yes and didn’t elaborate. I thought of Sondra when I was in the shower and when I was doing laundry and while I ate and when I laid down to go to sleep.

But my fantasies never became reality.

Infatuated, I remained alone—except for my cat. Wanting Sondra somehow made my loneliness worse. But I was okay with that, because at least I finally had some fucking excitement in my life.

I never spoke to Sondra, until the night she spoke to me first—and then I had all the fucking excitement I could ever want.

Be careful what you wish for and all that.

Here’s how it happened.

seven

Darryl and Jesse were with me. I’m sorry about that. Of all the things I regret in this whole fucking mess, that’s one of the big ones. If they hadn’t been with me, then maybe none of this shit would have ever happened. They wouldn’t have been involved. If they hadn’t been with me, maybe I wouldn’t have even gone to the Odessa that night.

Oh, who the hell am I kidding? Of course I would have gone. Sondra was working, like every other night. So I was there, like every other night.

And things got fucked.