Do I Know You?

DO I KNOW YOU?

“No! No! No!” I pounded the steering wheel of my car in anger and frustration. It was Friday afternoon and nothing was going right. 

I had recently been promoted in my job and my company had a training facility on this side of the city, an area I was not familiar with. This was a high crime area and I avoided coming here unless I had to. I had a list of required classes to take in my first three months and I had attended one today. Normally Friday classes let out early because there is a toll bridge nearby, which greatly slows up the traffic. Since some high ranking management occasionally attend these classes, they try to accommodate the Friday classes. But this day’s instructor was both dull and slow speaking. Thus we were released later than expected, right in the midst of the rush hour traffic. A vice president who sat behind me was cursing profanely as he exited. His tee time was adversely affected and my arrival home would also be delayed.Then it started to rain which would quickly worsen the situation because invariably, cars would soon collide. And as expected, the disc jockey on the radio announced there were three automobile accidents on my route home. One on the top of the bridge. Traffic, she announced, was mostly at a standstill.

Damn.

I didn’t want to sit in traffic so I decided to find a place to ”hole up” for an hour or so in order to let the traffic thin out enough that I was willing to proceed. But where to stay? This was one of the poorer areas of the city and there were very few businesses or places to safely kill some time. So far, I’d only encountered gas stations, convenience and tire stores, a psychic and a Christian book store. Every place had thick burglar bars over the windows to thwart thieves. It was very depressing.

Then on a trash littered corner, I saw the neon sign that read, THE 

J NG E RO M. I stared at the weak pink lighted sign before realizing it said THE JUNGLE ROOM. Several of the neon letters were burned out. The single story concrete block building was painted a horrible shade of mustard yellow and had a peeling mural depicting trees with monkeys in them and a long slinky looking creature of unknown species lying at the feet of a sad looking image of a woman wearing a leopard skin bikini. I wondered about the person who had painted this. Obviously not a trained artist. The woman resembled something a fourth grade student might produce.

The rest of the wall was covered with a variety of poorly painted and misspelled messages: 50 Lovly Ladies! 4pm to 2am! Miltary Welcome! Cold Beer! Always Hiring Beatiful Laddies!

On the roof was a massive gold lettered neon sign that simply stated: TOPLESS. That beacon could be seen for at least a mile in all directions. I had often seen the sign while driving on the expressway, three blocks away. I sometimes wondered what kind of a place it was. 

I decided to go in and kill an hour or so and “watch them jiggle”. This was the code phrase my friends used to describe topless bars. Later when fully nude bars were legalized, the label changed to “shoe show”. So named because the ladies wore nothing but shoes. 

I parked my car where there seemed to be less broken glass on the ground, in the hopes of sparing my tires. Because of the nature of the surrounding neighborhood, I made sure all of my doors were locked and quickly walked past the rusty worn out cars parked on the lot. 

I entered the poorly lit lobby where a very fat black woman wearing a Tina Turner style wig sat in a plexiglass booth guarding the entrance into the show area. She muttered “Two dolla,” through a thick mass of Juicy Fruit gum. I gave her a five dollar bill and she gave me my change and then looked pointedly at the pickle jar that had the word: TIPS written in Magic Marker. There were four pennies, a nickel and a bottle cap resting in the jar. I dropped a dollar in and she grunted in response.

 I stepped into the show area and nearly gagged on the combined aroma of cigarettes, cigars, stale beer, cheap perfume, sweat, farts and semen. Then the sound wave blasted me. Massive four foot tall speakers surrounded the room. There were two dozen speakers, set up with one stacked on another. Four more sat on the twelve foot wide stage and since at least two woofers were torn, the combined sound was painful to hear. Sly and the Family Stone’s “LISTEN TO THE MUSIC” was playing. It was distorted, but recognizable. I took a napkin and tore off pieces and stuffed it into my ears to muffle the sound. 

The room was dark but I could see a number of tiny tables, each with two chairs spread around the room. Three tables had two men sitting there and two tables had single spectators. There was a haze of cigar smoke drifting overhead and I got a good whiff of a burning joint but the owner was hiding its presence well. I selected a table close to the exit, hoping some fresh air might reach me.

Each table had an ashtray but none were empty and several were overflowing with ash and butts. More extinguished butts littered the floor along with gum and candy wrappers, pull tabs and bottle caps. “It must be the cleaning lady’s day off!” I muttered.

The walls were decorated with neon signs promoting various beers, whiskeys and a solitary vodka. There were also numerous paper posters with women in various stages of dress. A blacklight in the corner illuminated several black light posters with pictures ranging from Jimi Hendrix to unicorns. “An unusual mix!”, I thought.

A bewigged waitress with an exaggerated swing of her hips approached the table. She was wearing a fake tiger skin bikini and her beehive wig was aglow with glitter. She had more makeup on her face than a troupe of circus clowns. I was shocked to realize she was at least seventy years old. “Wan’ chu wan?” she croaked, the results of a lifetime of heavy smoking. Overcoming my shock, I asked for a ginger ale with a double twist of lime. She gave me an unfriendly look. “I’m driving!” I explained. She shook her head as she wriggled away. Five minutes later she brought me my drink. I examined the glass but was happily surprised it apparently was clean. “Five dollars.” I gave her a ten dollar bill and she immediately vanished. She avoided me and my table after that. Oh well. She probably needed the money more than me.

Two men were quietly talking at one table across the room but otherwise there was no conversation. Just drinking and staring at the tiny stage with a brass pole, placed in the middle. 

And then a recorded trumpet fanfare blasted over the speakers, making me jump in my chair. It was followed by a booming voice that shouted out “HAPPY FRIDAY, GENTLEMEN! WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE ROOM! THIS IS WHERE THE BIG CATS STAY AND THE BIG CATS PLAY!” Then his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper “But if you just want a little pussy, we have that too!’ A few chuckles came from the audience.

Then an explosion of twirling red and blue lights burst forth from the ceiling along with a massive blast of smoke. An air raid siren shook the room as the DJ screamed into his microphone, “LET ME HAVE THE PLEASURE OF INTRODUCING THE FIRST WAVE OF OUR BEAU-U-U-UTIFUL LADIES!”  And four women came from behind a heavy canvas curtain and strutted their way onto the small stage and danced back and forth. 

Apparently the DJ and I had different opinions of the term "beautiful” because three of the four were not within the realm of the wordl. No, far from it. I’m not being judgemental. I’m being honest. I’m at the opposite end of the handsome spectrum from Brad Pitt or George Clooney. But I’m not walking around nearly nude for money either. 

The first three were cut from the same mold. Short, chunky, greasy hair, bad teeth, worse complexions. Sort of like Danny DeVito in a G-string. On a scale of one to ten, these women would score around a three. Maybe a four. It’s always a bad sign when a woman’s belly protrudes further out than her tits do. Throw in a few poorly done tattoos and a mustache and the result is not Venus de Milo. 

But beauty is in the eye of the beholder because the other patrons in the bar were cheering and applauding the ladies with true enthusiasm. They were calling them by their names and the ladies were waving back, winking and blowing kisses. I chuckled. 

But the fourth dancer was different. Very different. On the one to ten scale she would be an eight and a half. Maybe higher. The DJ introduced her as Robin and she was tall, slender and very graceful. Robin had long blond hair and a nice looking face. She had a wholesome girl-next door look. She had dancer’s legs and a very cute butt. She could easily appear in many men’s magazines. 

But she looked very familiar. I had a nagging suspicion I knew her. But from where? Who was she?

Robin and two of the women disappeared behind the curtain and one of the ladies remained. Donna Summer’s SHE WORKS HARD FOR THE MONEY  boomed out of the speakers as the dancer gyrated wildly around the stage. I rose from my chair and walked to the stage and slipped a couple of dollars into her garter which earned me a broken toothed smile and a whiff of body odor. I am a big believer in tipping for services rendered and I respect what the women who work in places like this endure. Despite their smiles and laughter, few of them enjoy this way of earning a living. I’ve known a few dancers well and was very good friends with Lara, the highest paid prostitute in this city. Lara was the best friend of a girl I dated and I found her to be witty, intelligent and a wonderful person. We became close friends and I held her hand while her daughter was born. She eventually found the right man and they married. He adopted her daughter and she became a Sunday School teacher. She had saved most of her money and she helped him start a business and together they became very very wealthy. But she occasionally described to me what her “professional life” was like and I was shocked by the various hardships and personal dangers she endured.

 My tip broke the dam and a stream of men approached to give her money. Then Heart’s BARRACUDA started to play and halfway through, she slipped off her bikini top. The audience cheered and applauded.

And I found myself feeling sympathy for the dancer. I realized that this may not be the life she wanted but she was bravely doing what was necessary to survive. She might be a single mother doing this to care for her child. Or trapped in a relationship of abuse and forced into this situation. I began to admire her courage and strength, rather than pity her. She was doing what she could, with what she had. Once I had lived in an apartment complex and two dancers lived next door to me. These two young girls were the antithesis of what people often thought of strippers. They were not only young and beautiful, but also very intelligent and industrious. One was saving her money to start a business and the second was working her way through school to become a CPA. We once discussed their choice of employment. They explained they saw what they did as being no different than being a professional athlete. They had certain physical attributes that could earn them a living. They asked what was the difference between watching Derek Henry zip down a football field or watching them remove their clothing?    

One of the pair even confessed: it was her mother’s suggestion that she strip. Her mother was an entrepreneur and owned several successful businesses. Mom had said there was no shame in earning an honest dollar and if she looked like her daughter did, she’d learn how to do pole dancing! 

When the song ended, the first dancer slipped her top back on and ventured out among the tables, hustling drinks and table side private dances. 

The second and third women did their stint as well. Then Robin took the stage. And everybody sat up and paid attention. 

Robin entered to the music of FLASHDANCE and the girl had some moves! She twirled and skipped across the stage to the music. I love the song and she enhanced my joy in hearing it. She wore a pale blue bikini and it complemented her fair complexion and blond hair. And to my delight she was barefooted. I think barefoot women are very sexy and it especially worked for her. I upped her appraisal rating to a nine. 

But it was still nagging me. Where did I know her from? Who was she?

I saw an unusually shaped mole on her left bicep and it was vaguely familiar. Now I am positive I have known her. I began reviewing possible past associations. School? College? Mutual friends? CHURCH? Nothing solved the mystery. Maybe I would never know. 

Another song started up and then she reached back and undid her top. As it fell to the floor, our eyes locked and instantly we both recognized each other. And I remembered a stream of memories.

WE HAD BEEN IN BOY SCOUTS TOGETHER!

 As her nicely formed breasts came into view I thought, “Wow! He didn’t have those when we shared a pup tent together!”

At that time her name was Robert. Robert was twelve years old, skinny and shy. I was his patrol leader and I recalled teaching him how to properly put up a tent, chop firewood and make a cooking fire. He was a good cook too and the patrol decided to let him do the cooking on our monthly camping trips. He didn’t mind at all. His mother would bring him to the patrol and troop meetings. My mother tried to enlist her in helping with the troop Christmas party but she begged off. His father was an officer in the Army and was rarely around. But I remembered the one time he came to pick Robert up from a troop meeting. It was one of the few times I remember seeing him laugh. We were playing football and he caught a pass for a touchdown and he was beaming. But then he saw his father who was talking to my dad and the smile vanished. Head down, he walked away from the game and went and sat in his father’s car and his father got in and drove away.

I never saw him again. Until now.

It’s hard to decide which of us was the most embarrassed. We both averted our eyes and Robin spent the majority of her time at the other end of the stage. 

And I had a dilemma to face. Anytime I had visited an adult establishment like this, I always tipped the performers. After all, the dancers are working and deserve to be paid. I knew a fellow who would go to a nudie bar early to avoid paying the entrance fee. He would order a coke and nurse it all night. He’d stiff the waitress a tip and sit by the stage and ogle the dancers without ever slipping them a buck. The women soon caught on to his antics and ignored him. He would become offended by their indifference towards him.

I had slipped several bills to the first three ladies and felt obligated to recompense Robin for her performance but how to do it tactfully?

I didn’t feel that slipping her tip into her garter while proclaiming “Nice tits, Robert!” was appropriate. Nor was the playful slap on her ass, as many tippers felt entitled to do. Actually, I never did that because I felt it was beyond the limits of acceptable behavior. I didn’t want to embarrass her or myself and since I was sure she had recognized me, I was in a quandary about what I should do.

Hesitantly, I stood and approached the stage. I stood patiently as she remained on the opposite side, no doubt avoiding me. But nobody was approaching her over there and I was holding a tip in my hand. And since a tip in the hand beat none in the bush (so to speak…), she decided to accept my offering. 

Slowly she approached me and I stared at the floor to avoid looking at her face. She thrust her left leg in front of me and I noticed a faint cut from a dull razor above the garter. She pulled the garter a couple of inches away from her rather shapely leg and I slid the bills through and she snapped the garter in place, trapping the money. Then she quickly retreated to the other side of the stage again. 

I decided to leave and I headed towards the door. But at the last second I paused and looked back. Robin was staring at me and I gave her a brief wave. She smiled shyly and returned the wave. Then I left the building and returned to my car. The sun had set, the rain had stopped, traffic had cleared and I headed home.