… The Party Will Come to You

Content: Most of the story takes place in an adult establishment, and includes some non-explicit descriptions and defense of such. Also descriptions of past underage drinking and repressed sexuality.

Author's Note: This is my third story—not just in general, but this week—exploring the Joan Dark character. All three are, in my opinion, stand-alones that may be read in any order. Written Order: "… Not as I Do," "… So Grows the Tree," and "… The Party Will Come to You." Chronological: "Grows," "Party," "Not."

* * * * *

Joan had gone almost twenty-one years without friends. True friends. Real friends. The best she ever had were associates—people she went to school with, people she went to work with. She also had her family, but… that was complicated. Though her brother was probably the person who knew the most about her.

But he definitely didn’t know everything.

She dreamed, for almost nine years exactly, of becoming a police officer. Not the sheriff’s department, either watching courtrooms or monitoring jails; her brother did the former, her father the latter. Her mother managed the family farm, but her father often overruled her or took outright control. Steven worked the overnight shift at the jail, so he would spend a few hours before and after making sure that Deborah wasn’t screwing things up. The sooner Joan could get out of that situation, the better off she would be.

Unfortunately, she had one major obstacle: statewide rules required all officers to be twenty-one before they could be hired. Applicants didn’t need to have a college degree, but they did have to have a clean record and pass all the training including physical fitness tests.

To that end, Joan had spent those long years getting ready. She had a lean and mean figure; she also had excellent aim with both rifle and pistol. She worked loss prevention for K-Mart, depositing half her check into the bank and giving the other half to her father. She didn’t need to spend money, as she had access to her father’s beers when she wanted one (which she usually did, to relax after work), and she drove one of his trucks, so she had a decent savings built up.

She felt indifferent about having to work Halloween weekend in 2004. Her birthday was Saturday—Devil’s Night, as her father was fond of reminding her. Being Pentecostal, her family didn’t do much of anything regarding either birthdays or Halloween. She and Junior, her brother, had a tradition on their natal days of competing against each other target shooting, using brown-glass empties as if they were skeet and firing lever-actions or handguns. Sometimes they’d drink the beer in the process to make things interesting. She couldn’t recall the last time Junior outshot her.

She had to close the store on Friday night. If she had any luck, she would be done by quarter after ten, ready to come back after lunch the following day. Unfortunately, a doctor’s wife decided that she didn’t feel like paying for a dozen pairs of high-end lingerie—as high-end as one can get in a K-Mart, anyway—which meant police, pictures, and paperwork.

She was finishing up the last little bit around eleven when the store’s manager, Bob, peeked in. “Why didn’t you ask for your birthday off? You know we would have been happy to cover for you.”

She shrugged, closing the last of her file cabinet drawers. “No real reason, boss. I don’t really celebrate.”

“That’s a shame, young lady such as yourself. How old are you going to be?”

She knew she shouldn’t say it, but she tried to be honest when she could, at least with her bosses. “Twenty-one.”

He laughed. “You turn twenty-one in an hour?” He started shouting to some of the other shift leaders. “Tom! Dave! Guess which little lady’s able to drink in an hour?”

Joan didn’t want to disappoint him, to let him know she’d been drinking regularly since she was ten. “It’s no big deal, really.” Really. Nothing new except the legality of it.

But the guys wouldn’t stop. It was the idea of Dave—customer service assistant manager—to take her out to celebrate. All three men were single, and had learned over the past three years that Joan had no interest in them. Her excuse to them was that she didn’t want to mix her butter with her bread; they accepted it without question.

So as the minute hand approached midnight, she found herself jammed into the back seat an old-but-running Gremlin which belonged to Tom—electronics department manager—as he drove the four of them to Greensboro, at the other end of the Triad. They had consulted—without her, of course—on the best bar to take her for her birthday drinks. And they settled on some hole-in-the-wall called The Mint, on Market Street.

When they pulled up to the place, their survival concerned her more than anything else. The bar sat on its own in an industrial district, lit with neon signs which only announced the bar’s name. Over a dozen other vehicles, mostly late model sedans, were parked in the surrounding lot. The signboard out front only indicated that Ladies’ Nights were Wednesdays, whatever that meant. Faint thumping could be felt in the air and pavement, coming from somewhere.

The guys were excited and amused. “What do you want to try first?” Bob asked her.

“I don’t know. What do you suggest?”

Dave started chuckling, “A Slow Comfortable Screw Against the Wall.”

Joan blinked. “Guys, do I need to pepper spray you?”

Tom laughed. “No, no, Dark. Honestly, it’s a real drink. Screwdriver with some extras. At least he didn’t suggest a Screaming Orgasm.”

She glared at the three of them. “Y’all can enjoy my birthday just fine without me, if y’all keep this up.”

Bob patted her shoulder. “Sorry, Joan, sorry. You know we consider you just one of the guys.” This sent the other two into spasms of laughter. And they’re not even drunk yet.

“Fine. Let’s get this over with. I still have to work tomorrow, as do you Dave.”

The first door—heavy, thick, with only a peephole—led to a small half-lit room with neon signs. A handwritten sign asked for a ten dollar cover, which Tom happily paid for all four. Loud hip-hop reverberated from the other side of a blackout curtain. Joan suddenly realized there weren’t any windows. “On second thought, y’all—” Three pairs of hands grabbed her arms, just as her watch beeped that she had turned the legal age.

Inside, Joan froze. The air was filled with a light haze of cheap perfume, a moderate fog of cigarette smoke, and a heavy storm of rhythmic dance music. There were two stages, with mirrors lined up the wall behind them, and metal poles prominent in the middle. A decent crowd of men were gathered around the stages, bundles of money in their hands like rice at a wedding.

But Joan’s full attention focused exclusively on the two women, one on each stage, dancing in maybe ten square inches of satin between them.

When Joan first entered the 6th grade, she had her first experience of seeing other females up close and personal in the locker room. It was an eye-opening experience for her. She’d already had a crush on Sally Field, watching Gidget and Flying Nun reruns on the UHF channels, but having it put right in front of her face had given her the absolute and positive realization that she had no interest whatsoever in men.

In the nine years since, Joan had done little to act on that desire. Shame, fear, and denial were strong incentives to avoid active, physical, and public behavior in any way, shape, or form. Right now her memory relived all of those feelings at once, both positive and negative. The cognitive overload left her too stunned. Her brain shut down.

The guys, amused by their own prank, not realizing the true reasons behind her reaction, pulled her over to the bar, sat her on a stool, and left her there to join the masses up at the stages. This left Joan alone with the bartender.

“First time?” the woman asked, grinning.

“Ummm… yeah. My co-workers….” She turned, and realized the young lady she faced worked without any upper torso garments whatsoever. Joan’s mouth shut down. Her eyes didn’t.

The bartender laughed. “It’s OK. Perfectly natural. Deep breath. Relax.” She took each of Joan’s hands into hers, gently massaging the palms with her thumbs. She helped to bring Joan through the brief panic attack, then smiled in a sincere sort of way. “I’m Nova. You got your ID, hon?”

Joan pulled it out from her pocket, from within the wallet attached to her pants with a chain. “Here.”

Nova compared faces, then grinned again. “You’re legal now, eh? No wonder they….” She glanced over and nodded toward the other three, who had completely forgotten Joan, mesmerized by the sirens on the stages. As she returned the card, the women’s fingertips touched, shocking Joan. “Men. Typical. Your guy Tom’s a regular. I think he’s got ‘jungle fever.’”

Joan nodded, looking around, her brain finally catching up to reality. At which point the other, slightly less mind-blowing but still important bit of information, caught her attention: she and her co-workers were the only white people in the entire place. Everyone else—customers, bouncers, DJ, dancers, waitresses, and Nova—were a plethora of shades from caramel to ebony. Mocksville and Davie County, where Joan spent her entire life, were mostly white, and those who weren’t kept to themselves. She’d gone to school with a handful of black kids, but this was the most she’d ever seen in a single place, the first time in her life that she’d ever felt “out-numbered.” She felt the blood draining from her face, from the combination of embarrassment, fear, and, again, shame.

The bartender—her upper body a smooth shade of milk chocolate—smiled again, comforting. “It’s okay, hon. Perfectly fine. We don’t discriminate here. Everyone’s money is green.” Joan laughed loudly at that. “So, Miss Joan, what would you like for your first legal drink?” Nova brushed her arm lightly with a fingertip. Joan felt electricity flow through her.

“I’ll have a rum and coke, please.”

After the first drink had gone down, and she started on the second, Joan built up the courage to ask, “Isn’t this all… exploitation?”

Nova smiled. “Hey, if the guys want to be exploited into giving us their money, who are we to stop them?” Joan laughed, again put at ease. The woman behind the bar leaned closer, her voice dropping. “Yes, there’s bad situations. Yes, some of the girls take a wrong path.” She glanced at the stage, and Joan’s eyes followed, seeing a woman on stage, her not quite focused. Nova continued: “But you know what? I’m putting myself through school doing this. I make three times as much money doing half as much work as some other waitress or retail job. As long as I keep my nose clean, I’ll be working as a nurse in no time.”

Joan raised her eyebrows. “You’re a dancer? Why aren’t you up there?”

The dark-skinned woman pointed down; Joan leaned over, enough to see a walking cast. “Sprained ankle. Heels and poles don’t always mix well.” Another smile. Another brief contact of fingertip to arm. Joan could feel goosebumps rising to Himalayan heights.

Before she finished her current drink, Bob interrupted. “Having fun?”

Joan blushed and nodded. “I think so?”

Bob grinned, and glanced at Nova. “Her next drink’s on me. I think she needs a Screaming Orgasm.”

Joan blushed all the more, whereas Nova arched an eyebrow. “Don’t think I haven’t been trying,” the bartender teased, which made the store manager laugh all the more.

Over the next hour, the two women continued to chat. Joan kept blushing and trying to look away, but the Nova was always right there in front of her: smiling, grinning, happy, joyful. Amusing quips and comebacks, soft and gentle touches. Joan wished she could be as outgoing and sociable, even a tiny bit as much. On occasion, one of the guys would swing through to make sure that Joan had a fresh drink, and didn’t feel left out. Far from it. She’d experienced the most interaction with anyone over her previous twenty-one years.

At a quarter to two, the lights flashed for last call. Bob, Tom, and Dave were all settling their tabs with a waitress near the front. Meanwhile, Joan’s companion for the past two hours gave her yet another smile, another touch on the arm. “Anything else you want, before we have to shut down?”

Joan had, to that point, finished off a total of six rums and Coke. Perhaps a faster rate than she would handle beers, but not by much. She didn’t feel drunk, but she had a decent buzz going, leading her to feel brave and uninhibited. “Your phone number, Nova.”

The bartender passed her a napkin, already written on. “Thought you’d never ask, darling. Nova’s my dancer name. You can call me Cynthia.”

In spite of the headache that lasted all through the next day’s shift, it was the best birthday of Joan Dark’s life.