This story got me in trouble at work. I think it was the word "vaginae". I wrote this for a writing contest for Juice, but it didn't win. I again blame it on "vaginae".
She started her routine by disinfecting the pole. She didn't really do it in a way that was particularly sexy, and obviously the phallic potential existed. She sprayed something onto a rag, and wiped down the pole like she was polishing an old coat rack. Then, she turned to the crowd and began her gyrations. She went from the world's most scantily clad custodian to sex kitten in a blink. I wasn't sure if I should be pleased at the level of concern “Nevaeh” (actually named Betty, which I thought would be a very cute name for a stripper) had for cleanliness or disturbed by the fact that the genitals of the women working in this place warranted such vigilant destruction of bacteria. Regardless, it was nice to know that she didn't let a fear of germs stop her from her chosen career and was willing to labor enough to keep her workspace tidy.
Beach Girls is an odd name for a strip club in Iowa, since Iowa obviously lacks beaches in a traditional, oceanic sense. Sure, the area was called Clearwater Beach, but just because you dumped a bunch of sand on the banks of the Raccoon River, that doesn't actually make it a beach. The place is laid out like most hole-in-the-wall joints. One long stage greets you as you walk in the doors. Chairs line the stage, for those who need a close-up view of glittered skin (and possibly a brief touch for a dollar). The back, pool tables are set up for those bored of nudity and want to take in some light recreation. Restrooms are plastered with old centerfolds, some I remember seeing as a child in the old suitcase where my dad hid his porn. Normally, I wouldn’t be caught dead here, but this was where my job required me to be.
The man to my right was a complete stranger, but he was whispering into my ear and slapping me on the shoulder like we were bros. Being alone in a strip club means you are one of three things: bored, lonely, or pathetic. The bored and the lonely will sometimes reach out to the likeminded and they sometimes bond over their shared love of vaginae. The pathetic tend to just creep on one specific dancer and, honestly, no one really likes the pathetic. They make everyone sad. They are also the ones who are least happy to pass on, which I think would surprise most people.
He was older than I, probably in his late fifties. He wore a work shirt with the name Frank sewn on. Frank didn't really look like the type who would go to a strip club by himself on a Wednesday evening. His hair was neatly cropped and his teeth were impeccable, and other than some oil still staining his right arm, he actually seemed rather clean. His left ring finger had an indention probably from a wedding ring that was now missing. While he assumed he was tickling my funny bone, the reality was I couldn’t hear a word he said due to years of amateur wrestling and Nevaeh’s soundtrack. I laughed and nodded every time he said something that was likely hilarious, but was really just hot breath in my cauliflower ear.
Nevaeh was mid-motorboat with a youngster in a backward hat when I finally spotted Destiny. Destiny was a stripper, although she danced as Jody, which seemed backwards. She had on a white robe, but still had her hair up and her stripper shoes on. She stepped out to smoke, which seemed like the perfect time to finish this and still be home in time for Tosh.0. I patted Frank on the shoulder and walked out the door, knowing I wouldn't see him again unless it was his time and I somehow got his paperwork.
I walked out the door to a small smoking patio and Destiny was standing by herself. She had just pulled out a cigarette, so I leaned in with an expertly timed flick of my Bic.
“Thanks, baby,” she cooed, “How are you tonight?”
“I'm doing pretty well, Destiny. How are you doing tonight?”
“How do you know my real name?” The cigarette dropped from her lips. I picked it up and took a drag.
“My name is Roger, and I'm here to escort you to the afterlife.”
“What?”
“I’m your guide to the great beyond. I’m your reaper.”
“You're my reaper? Are there personal reapers for everyone?”
“Kinda. I get a list of people to do each day. I'm your personal reaper like someone would be your personal shopper.”
“Where is your cloak?”
“That ain’t for me. Some get into it, though. Chester (he works out of the Tacoma office) he still carries the scythe, like he's on the cover of a Judas Priest album. He’s a joke and a kiss-ass. Me, this is just a job, just like anyone else. I do it with just enough passion not to piss off my boss. Anyway, if we could please get this over with...”
“No, I'm not ready to go,” she said, tears welling.
“C'mon, you're my last transport and I'm off for the day, so let's just get this over with.”
“No.”
“Ugh. Come on, it’s your time. If you run, I will find you.”
She stuck out her trembling hand and I put on my glove. The glove would take her soul and transport us to her final judgment, and I could take the next shuttle back to this plain of existence, hop in my car and get home. We were inches from contact when I felt a slap on my back. I turned around to see Frank.
“I think I lost my phone. You seen it?”
“No, I have not. Now will you leave us alone? I have work to do.” I turned back to Destiny, but she wasn't there. I removed my glove and punched Frank in the face. I hate when they run.
