Twirl
by Alexandria Prosperie
First Place Albert Davis Fiction Award
Growing up, Charlotte never knew she鈥檇 have such an affinity for lights. Not for how they
worked, or for aiding her vision. She appreciated lights for their ability to blind her. When lights change color and flash and follow you around stage, you can鈥檛 see the lingering eyes. The slack mouths. The tight fists on the top of the sleek bar. She can鈥檛 see a damn thing. For all she knows, she鈥檚 alone, dancing because she has something to celebrate. Dancing because she likes to. Because she鈥檚 happy.
An electronic cat鈥檚 meow vibrates through the speakers and wakes her from her daydream. Who really knows if they鈥檙e happy? One day you鈥檙e fine鈥攖he next you鈥檙e convincing yourself that you only have to pull this G-string up your ass a few more times to get where you want to be.
Her leg slides up the pole. Even though the lights have shined on it for hours, it still leaves a chill on her skin. She鈥檚 flying now. That鈥檚 what it feels like the moment she starts twirling.
Flying. She pulls herself up, twists her body around the pole, opens her legs, then slides down. Her whole night consumed by variations of these moves. Over and over. Pull, twist, open, slide, pull, twist, open, slide. Everything around her one blur of light.
鈥淭ake it off already!鈥� someone yells. Probably a frat boy, or maybe a husband whose wife started saying no a while back, or maybe it鈥檚 the guy who always cries when he hires her for private dances. Maybe it actually is a woman. It鈥檚 hard to tell.
She leaves her pole alone and bare and starts her promenade toward the voice. As she unclasps her bra and throws it, the cheers begin. She finds her gentleman caller鈥攁 new face鈥� playing with a wad of cash, sitting at the only chair in front of the blood-red booth. His cronies are cheering for the other girls on stage, telling them where they can sit鈥攊t鈥檚 not on a chair鈥攁nd yelling for more beer.
The sound of glass shattering doesn鈥檛 stop her from forcing his legs open with her ass. She continues on, but when she turns toward him she sees the chaos at the bar. Some drunk roid-rager is following the bartender, shoving the liquor bottles off of their pristine mirrored shelves and yelling about being ripped off. In seconds, Rooney鈥檚 there, bat in hand. He grabs the dumbass by his neck and pins him to the chrome bar until he stops fighting back.
Her bachelor didn鈥檛 even turn around to look, but then again, why would he when her tits were so close to his face?
鈥�
She sits on her back porch鈥攊f you could call it that, it鈥檚 just a small slab of cement with plastic chairs鈥揳nd finishes her imaginary cigarette. A real cigarette has never made it to her lips because she refuses to get more wrinkles than necessary, but she needs one now. She can鈥檛 sleep and her stress proves itself every time she looks in the mirror and is welcomed by dark craters around her eyes. She鈥檚 tried everything the internet has told her. Yoga, meditation, massage, sex, masturbate, eat apples. No, eat ginger. The list goes on and on, but nothing works. So she鈥檚 left to her imagination and inhaling her joe seems to be working.
The orchestra of crickets puts her mind at ease as she looks toward the rows of sugar cane. Even though the leaves are as sharp as blades, she鈥檚 always had the strangest desire to run through the field. Far and deep. Just to see if she could find her way out. She鈥檚 pretty sure she could. But what would she do if she couldn鈥檛?
She flicks her faux cigarette on the ground and starts to get ready for her nightshift.
鈥�
The dressing room is a megawatted hub for beauty. They can鈥檛 get their contours perfect if they don鈥檛 have the right lighting. The floor is covered in glitter, sequins, and feathers.
鈥淭onight never wanted to end, huh?鈥� Chasity wiped off her makeup in her mirror, already changed into her leggings and tank top. She looks like she鈥檚 going to a yoga class instead of straight to bed.
鈥淕od, I know. How many guys did Rooney have to kick out tonight?鈥�
鈥淚 don鈥檛 keep track anymore,鈥� she says. 鈥淎nyway I鈥檓 sure you didn鈥檛 hear about this in your 鈥渟cience鈥� classes, but I saw Kaku鈥檚 tweet about new evidence that could possibly tie string theory and loop quantum gravity together. They don鈥檛 know much about it yet but they鈥檙e saying…鈥�
She goes on a five year story about string theory. When Chasity goes on these rampages鈥揳nd she does often鈥搃t鈥檚 best to just sit and nod your head until she says everything she needs. If you ask her a question you鈥檒l be sitting for a ten year story instead.
鈥淚鈥檓 telling you. Someday soon I鈥檒l be the next Isaac Newton.鈥�
鈥淲ell, of course you will. I heard he was super boring too,鈥� Charlotte jokes.
鈥淲hatever, bitch. Don鈥檛 come crying to me when I鈥檓 on the cover of Science Today and you鈥檙e still talking to Joe Smith about how sad his life is. Have a good night.鈥�
鈥淏ye, asshole.鈥�
Call her small鈥搈inded but she thought that when she came here she鈥檇 find emotionally damaged strippers who would need Charlotte鈥檚 psychology skills. She鈥檇 be able to sit with them and help them sort out their feelings about their tortured lives. By redeeming their self-esteems, she would help each one of them, and they would appreciate her for it.
What she found instead were strong-willed women who were here because they chose to be. No underlying issues of confidence; they couldn鈥檛 care less what others thought. And not in a way that you could tell they were convincing themselves not to care, but in a truly indifferent way. They are who they are, if you don鈥檛 like it you still have to deal with it.
Most of them didn鈥檛 even need the money. Want it maybe, but need it, no. And she couldn鈥檛 really say that they were materialistic either. Chasity has two kids at home, who she eventually wants to send to private school. 鈥淭hey have my brains. I can鈥檛 have them going to the shit schools that I went to.鈥�
Fiona, one of the oldest at the club, is the chairmen and founder of so many non-profits no one could keep count.
If you ask Melissa why she does it, to her it鈥檚 simple. 鈥淚 know where I stand. I don鈥檛 have the brain for school. I don鈥檛 have the patience to deal with people in stores and I鈥檓 pretty fucking good at taking my clothes off.鈥�
All of these women have separate lives. Their club lives and their home lives, none of which consisted of a double-wide trailer or drugs or men in wife beaters. They were just normal lives. Buying groceries, taking care of family, going to events in the city. Normal.
Charlotte has separate lives too. School and club. She could lie to herself all she wants, but deep down she knows she isn鈥檛 here just to help her grades. Even though her psych professor was against it, she thought if she could get into a situation where being degraded wore on her psyche鈥攍ike it would with some of the patients she鈥檇 work with鈥攕he鈥檇 be able to understand better. But it was really the money. It all comes down to money. No student debt. No stress. New toys.
鈥�
Her new stilettos click as she struts up the white stone steps. The echoes of the piano and choir can be heard from outside the wooden door. She鈥檚 late. As she opens the door incense brandishes its scent in her nose and the cool air leaves bumps on her skin, her senses violated by a place that supposedly incites peace. The choir鈥檚 symphony of voices serenades her with some song about a precious hiding place.
She searches the glowing faces in the congregation and takes her seat next to Lanie. I was straying when Christ found me…
鈥淲ow.鈥� Lanie leans close, giving Charlotte a look as if she鈥檚 just left a nightclub then went to church.
鈥淲丑补迟?鈥�
鈥淣othing. I just really expected you to go up in flames when you walked in.鈥�
Charlotte closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. 鈥淚鈥檓 flipping you off right now.鈥�
Precious hiding place. Precious hiding place.
Who was she kidding? She thought the same thing, even felt her skin burn the moment she walked in. But she was feeling guilty lately. Not for stripping, but for not committing. Everyone is supposed to believe in something, right? It鈥檚 a yes or no situation, not the 鈥淚鈥檓 not sure about this or that鈥� bullshit she鈥檚 been thinking. Church was supposed to clear things up for the goer, not make them more complicated. Not make their stomachs churn with guilt because they are questioning God鈥檚 existence while sitting in a church pew.
That鈥檚 why she鈥檚 friends with Lanie, though Lord only knows why Lanie is friends with her. Lanie brings balance. An every Sunday church attendee, Lanie brings spiritual faith and optimism to the table. She鈥檚 one of the few true religious people Charlotte knows; the real true to Jesus people. The ones who don鈥檛 judge. The ones who try to help others. That could help Charlotte. God bless her.
The preacher talks about how rewarding it will feel to get where we are meant to be. Through happy times we should be grateful, and through hard times鈥攅ven if it鈥檚 difficult鈥攚e should still be grateful. Because we all go through these times and our Father is watching us. He is ready to accept us through anything.
At that very moment, a light above the altar flickers and goes out. Probably the works of the devil. It鈥檚 surprising that no one in the congregation passes out.
鈥淗ow much longer do you have?鈥� Lanie asks as they walk out of the church.
鈥淚 owe school a little more, then I鈥檓 done. Probably like a month.鈥�
The putrid smell is stronger than normal. The bayou that runs behind the church must be steaming. Nothing like the smell of mud stew.
鈥淎re you sure you鈥檙e okay?鈥�
鈥淥f course I am.鈥� Charlotte focuses on the swaying flag in the front yard.
鈥淲hat happened to your cheek?鈥�
Charlotte has to swallow down the bile that builds up in her throat.
Four children are having a rock throwing contest in the gravel parking lot while waiting for their parents. A little boy throws his rock and screams in a younger girl鈥檚 face, 鈥淏eat that.鈥�
鈥淟anie, I鈥檓 a spastic woman who dances on a metal pole. Bruises everywhere.鈥�
The little girl winds up her throw with baseball player grace.
Lanie nods, but Charlotte knows she鈥檚 doesn鈥檛 believe the story. She should try to persuade her. The least she could do is put her friend鈥檚 mind at ease, but she won鈥檛 be able to convince her. Mustering the effort to make up a story seems like way too much today.
The rock flies through the parking lot and lands well past the boy鈥檚. The little girl looks surprised for a moment that she won, then she yells with joy and twirls around with her arms wide. The boy moves like a whip, sticking a foot behind hers as he pushes her down.
鈥淵ou probably aren鈥檛 even a girl. You鈥檙e a little boy.鈥� He stomps off.
Goddamn it hurt. The sting. The words. He smelled like nicotine and motor oil.
Charlotte helps the little girl to her feet, both of them hiding their watery eyes. 鈥淚t鈥檚 all right. You鈥檙e gonna be okay.鈥� Her eyes bore into the little girl. 鈥淏ut if that happens again, you need to push back.鈥�
No doubt or fear, since my Lord is near.
The girl nods, wipes her eyes, and runs to her mother.
She鈥檒l be okay.
She鈥檒l be okay.
鈥�
She drives through the city and parks behind the club. They have private parking, but there鈥檚 only one light and you have to walk through a small alleyway to the back door. Doesn鈥檛 help that Rooney never works on Thursdays, and the other bouncer is a jackass.
She thought she saw the guy鈥檚 face lurking in the shadows and she let out a small squeal. Just the light reflecting off the car in a strange way. If Rooney were here, he鈥檇 already be by her side, but mister doesn鈥檛giveashitaboutotherpeople is here instead, and she walks the rest of the way by herself.
Pull, twist, open, slide, but she鈥檚 not flying tonight. She鈥檚 too tense; her anxiety maximized by all the tricks her mind is playing on her. All the men at the club look like him. Now, almost every sound she hears makes her jump. Her chest is tight and she feels like if she takes a deep breath she might explode. Sounding like a sledgehammer inside her head, her heart can鈥檛 slow down. She can鈥檛 help but think that he鈥檚 hiding somewhere, waiting for her.
鈥淐ome on. Get into it, girl,鈥� someone in the audience screams.
No time for trauma right now. Don鈥檛 think about it. With her hand on the pole to steady herself, she takes a deep breath and forces the air out in a loud sigh. Putting on the seductive mask she鈥檚 never supposed to let slip, she pokes out her chest and arches her back. Strippers are put on this Earth for one thing, and if you disagree just talk to some of the people yelling at her.
Her shift is over鈥攆inally. As she saunters off stage to collect her things she knows she won鈥檛 last another month here. She鈥檚 leaving. Leaving and never coming back. No two weeks notice鈥攄o strippers even do that?鈥攏o talk, she鈥檒l just disappear.
Though it鈥檚 warm and bright, there is something sterile about the dressing room. How could she have missed that? The white walls. The tile floor that鈥檚 probably used in every hospital in the country. The smell, like a landfill for cheap Bath and Body Works products.
She鈥檚 done. She won鈥檛 have to deal with this shit anymore. The smells, the music, the people. She won鈥檛 be degraded anymore鈥攚ell, she won鈥檛 be degraded as much.
She sighs, slides into her car, and pulls the door closed. She鈥檒l be back tomorrow.