Jailbait

An Excerpt from Searching for Suzi Cooper

Forthcoming in Fast Forward: Vol 2


“You want a job, huh?” the big man with the swollen gut says to me. His dark tan contrasts with his white pompadour. “How old are you?”

“Twenty,” I lie.

“Twenty, huh?” he says, looking me over. “Well then no drinking. Have you ever danced before?”

“No, but I’m a model.”

He smiles, chewing on a toothpick. “You’re a model, huh?” He says it like he doesn’t believe me but doesn’t care. “Let’s get you upstairs and into a costume.” He grabs a cocktail napkin and a pen from his coat pocket. “What’s your name?” I think of something and he writes it down, chuckling. “Follow me.”

A mirrored ball spins white teardrops of light across a two-tiered stage where a dancer is sliding around a pole. A movie screen covers one whole wall. On the screen two women are rubbing shaving cream on each other’s breasts. The boss elbows open a set of saloon-style swinging doors. “Joe, this is,” he looks again at the napkin, “Natalie. Can you get her into a costume?”

The dressing room is fluorescent-lit and filled with lockers. A mirror traverses the length of one wall, reflecting abandoned curling irons coated with layers of crusted brown hairspray, tangled cords, and broken compact mirrors scattered across the makeup table. Chunks of eyeshadow and blush are ground into the formica.

Joe unlocks a storage closet and holds up a handful of brightly colored strings and strips of cloth. I separate the rhinestones, tassels and lace. I’m going to follow through, this time.

Now adorned in burgundy sparkles. Cleavage deep and white, virginal, rub red lips together, comb through hair with shaky fingers, lips buzzing, adjust the g-string between butt cheeks, air conditioning goosebumps on exposed skin, ignore the baby fat still clinging to thighs, hips.

She is not me.

Natalie parts the beaded curtain.

Click, click, click up the stairs. It’s lunchtime, so the club is empty except for one guy. The opening drum beats of “Sharp Dressed Man.” Her hands are clammy against the brass pole as she tries to spin, almost flinging herself off the stage. All those pageant routines, all her perfect three-point catwalk turns—fucking useless. Mirrors are positioned around the stage in triplicate like in the changing rooms of big department stores—Natalie on Natalie on Natalie on Natalie looks jerky and embarrassed, pasty white, six different Natalies snap their fingers to every girl’s crazy ’bout a sharp dressed man like fragmented pieces of herself bisecting, trisecting, severing from the original until it is no longer clear which is the original and which is the copy.

The lone customer stands and approaches the stage. Natalie kneels, thinking he’s going to tell her she looks ridiculous, but instead he loops a bill through her shoulder strap.

It’s a ten. Ten dollars just like that.