Nonsensical Nostalgia, part 2

… Much to my amazement and surprise, the gentleman’s club known as Dames ‘n’ Games was exactly as described by Turk: one half sports bar, one half strip club. After having our IDs checked at the front door, we made our way through the cavernous interior, lit only by orange and violet neon lights. An elevated runway stage was in the middle of the room, with two highly polished brass poles jutting up towards the ceiling, and there were enough rolling comfy chairs around the stage to host two professional football teams; several black and white lithographs of provocatively posing, semi-nude women were posted around the main room.

            The second half of the club, however, was a stark counterpart. A long, onyx-polymer bar top ran the length of the room with corresponding stools perched before it. After the bar, there were three rows of countertops and seats, all facing towards the bar. Ten enormous flat screen televisions were hung around the bar, offering a view of sports from anywhere in the room. The only way you could tell you weren’t in a traditional sports bar was the DJ/MC calling the dancers up to the stage.

            As Turk and I walked towards the bar, we were surprised to find the stage area empty. Sure, it might have been early on a Saturday afternoon… but still. Once in the bar section, the scene became even weirder: there were about a dozen other patrons, split up into small groups of twos and threes, spread around the room. Each one of these packs were accompanied by a pair of dancers, scantily clad and beyond conversational. From the look of familiarity between patrons and professionals… most of these guys were regular customers.

            I lead the way to the bar with Turk in tow, his attention clearly elsewhere. The bartender, a short blonde-haired woman with an exasperated disposition, looked up at us, turning her attention away from a copy of Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast.

            “Afternoon fellas,” she said nonchalantly, her eyes seeming somewhat tired. “Welcome to Dames and Games. What can I get for you?”

            “I’ll take a Bud,” said Turk as he meticulously surveyed the room.

            “Could I get a Corona,” I said.

            “Bud and Corona,” the bartender parroted. “Just so you know, we actually have a special going on right now. It’s a burger and a small beer for $3.”

            “Damn,” I replied. “That’s not bad. In fact, I’ll take one of those.”

            “Alright. That’ll be out in a few minutes, and I’ll be right back with your beers.”

            “What do you mean right back,” Turk asked, actually looking at the bartender for the first time. “This is the bar, right?”

            “Yes, this is the main bar,” she retorted, “but our keg tap is at the smaller bar in the other room.”

            “That seems horribly inefficient,” I chimed.

            “Oh… I am well aware.” The bartender slung a dishtowel over her shoulder and rolled her eyes as she walked out from behind the bar. “You guys can take a seat… I’ll bring your beers right over.”

            “Thanks,” I tried to say but it fell on deaf ears as she walked away.

            “Cheerful gal,” Turk murmured as we found a seat at the end of the bar; I chose the spot in order to watch the Harvard game.

            “Can you blame her? This place is like an even more sordid Buffalo Wild Wings that reeks of brass polish and sweat. And that’s not even taking the clientele into account.”

            “It’s not that bad,” replied Turk. “However, I gotta say bro… I’m surprised you’re eating food at a strip club.”

            “Two points: first, I’m in the sports bar side. Second, it’s a burger… so it’s not that easy to completely fail. And I’m starving, damn it. I’m not used to just sitting around drinking all day anymore.”

            “That sucks, bro. Honestly, you seem like you don’t have as much fun anymore Strat.”

            “I have plenty of fun,” I countered. “But guess what… sitting around boozing can only do so much. These days I’d rather actually do something instead of just wasting time.”

            “Jesus Christ. When did you become such a prude?”

            “I’m at a strip club in the middle of the day waiting for a beer. How is that the behavior of a prude?”

            “Eh,” Turk grunted, turning his attention back to the strippers, “it’s still up in the air.”

           

            An hour later, I found myself sitting alone at the bar watching college football. The minute my food had arrived, Turk sprinted into the other room, taking a seat in front of the stage. He had started talking to a group of rowdy Texans who had sat nearby. Within a matter of minutes, he had joined their group… downing drinks faster than a brick sinks.

            Frustrated and, admittedly, annoyed, I had opened my notebook and was doing a bit of work when I noticed someone take a seat right next to me at the bar. I found this a bit perplexing as there were plenty of open spots available and yet this stranger had to crowd my space. I glowered at him from the corner of my eye for a moment before finishing my beer and going back to writing.

            “You believe this shit? Goddamn UCLA is screwin’ me over again!” The stranger nudged my arm then motioned up at one of the tv screens. I looked up, gunpowder and battery acid coursing through my veins, and surveyed him. He was a lean, gangly fellow with long, dark brown hair and a matching beard. He was wearing a pair of knock off Ray Bans, white Tommy Bahama shorts, and a lime green tank top; a pair of dilapidated flip-flops dangled off his feet. I was furious and was about to explode when the bartender came by.

            “Need another,” she asked, more cheerfully than earlier.

            “Sure,” I grumbled.

            “Corona, right?” I nodded affirmative. She then turned her attention to my intrusive neighbor. “Hey Patrick! What are you doing in today?”

            “What else do I have to do?”

“How are you, sweetie?”

            “You know me Lisa,” he replied with a lackluster shrug. “Everything’s always pretty groovy. Just livin’ life, you know?”

            “Honestly I’m not too sure. What are you drinking today?”

            “Just pour me a cold one,” he replied. “And throw this guy’s beer on my tab. I think I disturbed him and ought to make amends!”

            “Sure thing,” the bartender Lisa replied with a smile as she headed towards the poorly placed beer tap.

            “Thanks,” I apprehensively said. “But it’s not necessary.”

            “Hey man… I know I bumped your arm and I noticed the look I got for it. So this is my peace offering.”

            “You noticed that, huh?”

            “It was actually pretty hard to miss,” the guy replied with a chuckle. “But I dig it. I tend to bother folks involuntarily so I try to make up for it as much as I can.”

            “Honestly,” I said, leaning back in my chair and backing up at an angle, “it really wasn’t that big of a deal. I was just sort of in a rhythm with something so losing focus annoyed me. And frankly, I don’t even want to be here right now.”

            “Then how come you’re here?”

            “Because an old friend showed up abruptly and conned me into joining him.”

            “Hmmm,” the guy mused, pulling at his beard theatrically. “There are worse places a friend could take you, that’s for sure. But I guess you don’t seem the type to be at a strip club in the middle of the day. What with the writing in a notebook and all… plus your general isolation from everyone else.”

            “I guess so. But anyways, thanks for the beer but don’t worry about it.”

            “Come on, man… lighten up. It’s not gonna cost a thing.”

            “How’s that? Do you work here or something?”

            “Me work here,” the guy said with a chuckle, “no no. I just live across the street and this is the closest bar to me. Nah… I’m an actor.”

            “I see,” I replied coolly. “Anything major?”

            “Not really. I’m more like a specialty actor. I’m a Jesus impersonator for film.”

            “I beg your pardon?”

            “A Jesus impersonator,” he replied matter-of-factly. “You know, the dude from the Bible… did miracles and shit? Water to wine and what have you?”

            “Yeah, I’m familiar with him. I guess I’m just surprised: I didn’t think there’d be much work as a Jesus impersonator.”

            “Man you’ve got no idea,” the mock messiah replied with a smile. “Sometimes its simple gigs like church plays and whatnot. But most of my work comes from crazy fundamentalists doing bible movies. Christ you should see how crazy these people are! But they have shit loads of money and pay up the wazoo, so who am I to complain?”

            The bartender returned with the beers and planted them on the counter before us, the glasses frothing and dripping with condensation. She then grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels and two shot glasses. She filled them and handed one to Patrick the Jesus Impersonator.

            “One for this guy too,” he said with an authoritative nod. The bartender Lisa complied, pouring out another shot and sliding it down to me. She raised her glass, clinked it against ours, and downed it before heading to the other end of the bar.

            “Cheers,” I said. I threw back the contents, feeling fire and kerosene sliding down my esophagus, flooding my stomach and diffusing into my bloodstream.

            “Hey man,” Patrick murmured after taking his shot. “Mind if I ask you something?”           

            “Why not?”

            “You said you were here with your buddy, right?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Well where is he? And how come you’re up here brooding instead of hangin’ with him?”

            “See that group by the stage,” I asked, pointed towards the other room. “He’s the guy in the Mets cap.”

            “The one doing the belly dance on the chair?”

            “Yup… that’s him.”

            “I take it the other folks ain’t with ya,” Patrick inquired.

            “Nope.”

            “Okay then. So back to my question: why are you over here?”

            “Honestly,” I said with a sigh, “we used to be friends years ago in New York. I moved out here and we lost touch. All day he’s talked about things happening back in the city which I have no frame of reference to. It’s like he’s telling me an inside joke when I’m not in on it. And I’ve also changed a lot: I’ve calmed down, whereas he seems like the same degenerate I knew in college. I think our friendship has dwindled to mere acquaintanceship at this point.”

            “Whoa… that’s a bummer, man.”

            “You can say that again.”

            “But what about your buddy? How does he feel?”           

            “He hasn’t changed a bit,” I said, glancing over my shoulder.

            “How can you be so sure,” asked Patrick. This drew my attention. “Maybe he’s just pullin’ the same old routine because he doesn’t know how to act. You’ve changed, but he probably has too. He’s probably just resorting to familiar behavior in an attempt to act like no time has passed and keep the friendship kicking.” Patrick picked up his beer and began chugging.

            “That’s a shockingly insightful bit of psychology,” I stammered, shocked by the statement. Patrick finished his beer without interruption, then slammed the glass on the bar and belched deeply.

            “Fuckin’ right, man. But unfortunately, it’s time for me to bail.”

            “More advice to distribute at another strip club,” I asked sarcastically.

            “Hell no,” he replied as he waved to the bartender. “That was my quota for the month. Nah… I’m heading home to smoke a blunt and watch Loony Toons. Lates, man.” And without a word, Patrick the Jesus Impersonator got up and sauntered off towards the exit. I was left speechless, dumbfounded by the interactions with the bizarre philosopher. The bartender approached and cleared his glass.

            “Did he forget to pay his tab,” I inquired tentatively.

            “Oh no, Patrick’s got an open-ended tab,” she replied. “I think the owner knows him or something, because no one else has that privilege. Plus he’ll most likely be back in later tonight with no memory of being here just now.” She shrugged and wandered off once again.

            “Where the hell am I,” I asked myself. I pondered the events of the past few hours for a moment, thinking about what Patrick had to say. After a moment of contemplation, I ordered two more beers and walked into the stage room. Turk was, much to my surprise, alone… the Texans nowhere to be seen.

            “What happened to your impromptu entourage,” I asked, taking a seat beside him and handing him one of the beers.
            “Oh they’re still here. Some of them are getting dances, the rest are probably out smoking. I tell ya, bro… those guys are nuts! Turns out they’re a bunch of professional rodeo clowns! You believe that shit?”

            “How does a group of Texan rodeo clowns end up at a sports bar strip club south of downtown Los Angeles?”

            “The mysteries of the universe, bro!” We both went silent as an iconic Def Leppard song began blasting from the speakers.

            “And now, fellas,” the MC announced from an unseen vantage point, “I’d like to welcome Olivia to the stage. Lovely Olivia to the stage. Guys, welcome Olivia to the stage!”

            A long-legged, voluptuous woman climbed aboard the walkway. Her raven black hair fell against her shoulders gracefully, delicately, and her coffee colored skin shimmered under the neon lights. Turk and I both froze in place, jaws agape. He looked at me after gaining composure and grinned.

            “Houston, we have lift off.”

            “Christ you’re messed up in the head, Turk.”

            “I’ll give you that one,” he chuckled dementedly, “but can you blame me? This woman is beyond gorgeous!”

            “Yeah… you’re right about that.”

            “And tell you what,” said Turk, throwing his arm around my shoulders in comradeship, “I’m buying you a dance, bro!”

            “Okay, what have you done with Turk,” I jokingly asked. “You bought breakfast, offering to pay for a lap dance? Clearly you’re a doppelganger who’s trying to execute some nefarious plan!”

            “I gotta say, Strat. Your illogical, delusional rants and conspiracy theories have been missed back east.”

            “Hopefully it won’t be too long before the prodigal son returns.”

            “We’ve all missed that, too.”

            “Missed what,” I inquired.

            “That inflated sense of importance and the absence of self-doubt, professionally at least.” Turk grinned, clearly trying to goad me into frustration. But that is a game I had long since learned to play.

            “Someone needs to come back and teach you filthy BK kids how to read.”

            “Whatever, bro.” By now, the dancer Olivia had descended from the stage and was making her way round when Turk did all but jump up and down to get her attention.

            “Hi guys,” she said, her voice mellifluous and lilting. “Welcome! My name is Olivia.”

            “Hey Olivia,” said Turk, taking her hand gently in his as if he were Don Juan. “I’m Turk, and this wretched lout here is Stratton.”

            “A pleasure,” I chirped, standing and nodding slightly. Hell, even strippers deserve chivalry!

            “A pleasure indeed,” she replied with a wink. Turning to Turk, she said, “I’m sorry Turk but I don’t see the whole wretched lout thing. Your friend seems like a proper gentleman.”

            “Ehh, that’s debatable,” I admitted. “But I try.”

            “That’s all you can do, right?”

            “Well, despite his cynical state of being,” Turk said, fishing for his wallet, “I’m buying my friend here a dance. Hopefully you can cheer him up.” He handed her two $20 bills.

            “That’s my specialty, sweetie,” replied Olivia with a wink. “Looks like you have a really nice friend here,” she said to me.

            “Looks can be deceiving,” I retorted. She smiled and took my hand, guiding me off to the nearest corner where, obscured behind a curtain, were three leather wall booths. I dropped down, tossing my notebook to my side and sighing loudly; Cherry Pie began playing.

            “Long week,” asked Olivia, her arms raised above her head and her hips gyrating like a merry-go-round.

            “I guess you could say that,” I mumbled, my head spinning in synchronicity with her pelvis. “More of a long, unexpected day.”

            “Well how bad can it possibly be,” she whispered, her full, pouting lips beside my ear, while straddling my leg.

            “Okay, not that much. Suffice it to say, I don’t know how to be friends again with a former buddy who I lost touch with.” She moved from my left leg to my right, her back now rubbing against me. “We’re both different now and it seems forced. Like we don’t get along anymore but still try to act like pals.”

            “You’re thinking about it too much,” Olivia replied nonchalantly, grinding her ass into my lap. “Of course you’ve changed: everybody does! Just stop trying to be anything. You were friends before, so you’ve got the groundwork. Now just catch up, exchange stories that neither of you will understand, and then go crazy and have fun. That way you’re not clinging to the past, because you’re causing trouble in the present!”

            “Mmmmmhmahmm… hmmmmrmrmmm,” I mumbled, mostly because my face was muffled by her breasts. Not that I was inclined to complain…

           

            “You know, I think that was really good advice,” I said to her as we walked back to the stage. Turk, now reunited with his Texan rodeo clown compatriots, was standing on his chair with a $5 bill between his teeth. A lithe, tattooed Asian woman in hot-rod red lace plucked it away and caressed his chin for a moment.

            “It’s my pleasure sweetie,” replied Olivia as she clung to my arm. It was almost a scene from a high school prom… save for her being ¾ naked and having dollar bills dangling from her G-string. “As I said, I’m all about cheering folks up!”

            “In that you were a roaring success,” I said with a grin.
            “Well, my shift is about to end, sweetie,” said Olivia. She leaned in, planted a friendly peck of a kiss on my cheek, and winked again. “Remember what I said: don’t over think it. Friends that last are hard to come by, and besides… he seems like a character.”

            “You can say that again” I replied, looking at my buddy with a mixture of amusement and constant shock. “Thanks again.”

            “Anytime, sweetie. Come back soon!” And just like that she strode off, her intoxicating legs slicing their way through the room. I stood there for a moment, a pubescent grin on my face, as I pondered the joys of the strip club: in my experience, they’ve always proven to be a combination of psychiatry, sexual frustration, and an entire culture of pure, unrepentant lunatic characters. Characters exactly like my wayward friend Turk. Despite their flaws and inadequacies and social deficiencies… they are the graceful animals that make life interesting. They are the people who jump first and then completely forget to even ask questions later… spontaneous bhikku-monks that they be. And that mindset, the unrestricted freedom and disregard for societal standards… isn’t that the life I’ve chased after for so long?

            “Hey Strat! Shake a leg!” I shook my head, trying to collect my thoughts. I then realized I’d been standing still for a few minutes, most likely a disconcerting sight to the rest of the establishment. I then looked towards the door: moving at the rear of a human herd, Turk was waving towards me. “The Texans got a party bus and we’re invited!”

            So that’s how it’s gonna go, I thought to myself. Then I realized something: maybe Olivia the stripper was right. Turk and I had been as thick as thieves in the past, and all that had really changed was the date on the calendar and my address. Screw being too mature for the idiot, I thought strongly. Time inevitably brings change, which can be a good thing. But just because we’re always moving forward… doesn’t mean we can’t look back now and then.

            “Wait up you degenerate fool,” I hollered, jogging after him and stepping out into the waking night…