Served With Ice

Meeting men when I worked as a stripper was not a problem. Sorting out the good ones from the bad was my problem. There could be at least a dozen men in the audience begging for attention. I’d end up meeting the worst creep in the club and taking him home with me. Then, he’d never want to leave. Sometimes I would call upon a large friend of mine to come to my apartment and pretend to be my long lost husband just to get rid of the guy. The persistent losers had to be escaped by calling my dance agent and getting booked out of town until they got the message.

Huh? Where’d she go? Duh.

Mostly, I was more interested in where I would be dancing next, working on new costumes, and how to perform better than finding a boyfriend. Men only messed with my mind and distracted me from my dancing. I tried to avoid anything more than casual relationships that were quickly forgotten. But, even after all these years I still remember Fred. Fred was a construction worker who struck up a conversation with me one night at La Florina, one of the first clubs I’d ever stripped at in Rochester, New York. He was tall, blond, and good looking. I enjoyed his company and was curious as to what kind of muscles he was hiding behind his leather jacket.

After work we went to my favorite all-night breakfast joint, ‘The Toddle House’, which was a few blocks away from the club. Breakfast after work was a tradition, especially after dancing all evening. This was the biggest meal of the day for most dancers. There was a local legend working the grill there, named Elmer, who put on a show that rivaled anything we dancers had done earlier in the evening; flipping pancakes high into the air, tossing multiple omelets around in their pans one after the other, chopping fresh ingredients with flying knives like a sushi chef, and balancing dishes up and down his arms to serve the counter munchers. He was incredible to watch, and the food was delicious.

Fred was fun to hang out with and I was having too good a time to call it a night, so I ended up at his apartment. Fortunately, it was dark when we arrived, so I unwittingly stayed over. In the morning light, I woke up alone to see a note telling me to ‘make myself at home and maybe do the dishes and he’d be home at four.’ Yeah, No. What is this- a tryout for wife of the year? That’s not how this works, pal. You weren’t all that good.

Do the dishes, indeed. Then, I got up and looked around. His place needed much more than dishes washed. It needed to be condemned by the Board of Health and hosed down by the Fire Department. I picked my way carefully back to my pile of clothes, got dressed without further contaminating myself, and searched high and low for a phone. While searching for the phone through the detritus of a sloppy single man’s apartment I found a letter from his wife, telling him the kids really missed him and she hoped he’d finish this job soon and come back home. Hmmm. How very interesting.

Now I definitely wasn’t going to wash his damned dishes. Kiss my ass, Freddy-boy. Finally locating the phone under a pile of take-out containers and pizza boxes I quickly dialed the cab company and after they answered I realized that I had no idea where, exactly, I was. I had to hang up and call again, once I got my bearings. OK, the front door didn’t have a house number on it. At least not one I could see. There was a mailbox in the back of the house though, which was weird. But I found his address on the mail and called the cab company again, reciting the address I had found.

Ten minutes later I heard a car horn honk, and I searched the street out front for a cab. Nothing. More honks. No cab. I went around to the back and scanned the street- nothing. I called the cab company again and they claimed the cab had been and left. So, I gave them the address again and waited patiently. In another five minutes or so there was another car horn sounding somewhere nearby. I raced to the front door and looked out to the road below a terraced sidewalk- no cab. The address must be where the mailbox is, so I headed around to the back and again- no cab.

Now I was really frustrated. One more time I dialed the cab company and the operator said, “Look, lady, next time you go home with your john, make sure you know where the hell he lives. We ain’t sending another cab.” Click. Ouch! I won’t be calling them anymore for rides and I sure as hell wasn’t going to end up at Fred’s garbage dump of an apartment with no address again. Maybe his wife will visit and wash his dishes for him.

I never saw Fred again until just before I quit dancing, thirteen years later. He wandered into a club I was working at and poured on the Southern charm. Apparently, he had been living down South since I saw him last.

“You just disappeared! Where did you go? I looked all over and couldn’t find you. I missed you so much.”

“And, you are??”

“Don’t tell me you don’t remember me?”

I did, but why give him the satisfaction of thinking he was Memorable.

“Nope. The face doesn’t ring a bell”

“We met at La Florina, went out for breakfast, had a rocking good time at my place. Then you just disappeared. I tried and tried to find you, but you left town or something.”

“Gee, I didn’t go anywhere. Are you sure you were looking in Rochester for me? It couldn’t have been that hard to find me if you had really wanted to.”

Behind his back my friend, Dianna was making his drink. Having pegged him for the phony asshole he was she prepared a special cocktail for him. One part watered down, well vodka, two parts ice-cubes tossed by hand into his glass, after they made the rounds of her gigantic brassiere, and, topped off with orange juice, freshly spat into his glass with love.

“Enjoy!”

Karma is best served on ice.