Strippers

A Story by GwenValentine

Lee and Mich are two college girls trying to get through life. At least, that's the persona they give off to the world. The question is, who or what are they really?

Square One is packed with people. As usual. Cars are zipping in and out of parking spots, endless honking, angry people. It is Christmas time for God’s sake. And everyone is hell bent on shopping their hearts out apparently. I turned down Prince of Wales Drive and pulled into the P5 parking garage. I tapped my hands noisily against the steering wheel to the song blaring from the radio while I looked for any open spots. My roommate Michele is also looking for me.

“Check it out! We got one right next that Lambo!”

I put my signal on, safe driving people, and pull in. Michele jumps out of the car and begins to stare longingly at the car, cooing like it was some baby.

“Mich, can we get a move on? The line is going to be f*****g insane.”

“Oh, fine. If you insist.”

We make our way into the shopping centre. I’ve been here so many times I know exactly where the post office is. Level 1. Next to Sport Check, and D HL, and across from Hearing Solutions. As we walk towards the post office, I can already see the line forming outside the door. Canada Post, bright red, blares in our faces.

“Mich, since it’s Christmas and all, let’s try to act like civilised people please? I want Santa to think I’m a good girl so I get my presents.”

“Lee, I don’t know what you’re talking about, I am the picture of civilisation. And Santa knows I am a naughty naughty girl.”

Which is true. Though I’m partly to blame for this rebellious Mich. Walking further towards the post office I can already see the swarms of people burrowing around the hallways. I don’t like crowded spaces, and I really don’t like being surrounded by judgemental old people. Now in line I spend my attention looking ahead of us, and to ruin my day, I can see its mainly old people. I sigh, and take out my phone, absently scrolling past BuzzFeed articles and Food Network recipes on Pinterest. A pop up demands my attention, “Tattoo tolerance: older generation must embrace body art”.

“You know what really bites my a*s?”

“Watch your language, Mich.” Scroll. 40% of people between 18 years old and 29 years old have at least one tattoo? Awesome.

She ignored me. “I…hate…paying for things.” She spoke between applying layers of lip gloss to her puffy lips. The ‘p’ in paying popping from her lips like bubble gum. Her reflection fragmented on a window display.

“Welcome to capitalism” I look around the people crowding to get inside the post office.

The line hasn’t moved an inch.

“All I’m saying is that this whole system is just fucked up to the max.”

“Mich. Language.”

“What? I know you don’t like buying s**t. If we could just get it for free, man, that would be the life.”

A woman a few people ahead of us glances back. I look at my roommate.

“Mich. We are in public. Could you please not swear so much? Remember our deal on civility?” I beg her to listen to reason. She looks at me, her eyes half closed and clearly not happy. Her lips tighten into a snarl.

“Fine.”

Someone ahead leaves the office, the line quickly moves to devour the empty void their body left. We shuffle forward, officially inside the office rather than at the door. There is two minutes of blessed silence between us. Just the sounds of scanning, and the repetitive “would you like insurance on this?” I gaze at the rows of empty packing boxes, priority, first class, overnight, ground. The dual language ads, Buy now, ship anytime// Achetez maintente, expédiez n’importe à moment.

“If I had a sugar daddy I could get all I wanted.”

I sigh in frustration. “Damn it, Mich.”

She grins at me, a wolf delighting in my swear. “Ha.”

Contrary to my mounting frustration the music in the small room is a smooth jazz.

“See, all I’d have to do is dance all slow to music like this for some old rich guy and he’d give me money.” She began to move in a circle, miming a partner dancing with her.

“Stop moving, you’re disrupting the people around you.”

“Good. They can stop crawling up my a*s then, we’re not going anywhere faster.”

“Woman. For god’s sake just shut up for five minutes.”

Theres a break in the song. The line still hasn’t moved.

“You know, I think old guys might get a little handsy, what if I became a stripper? Ooh, yeah, I’ve already got the body for it.” She flicks her dyed blonde hair over her shoulder, promptly smacking my face with it. I give up trying to censor her.

“Mich, if you’re a stripper then everyone will get handsy with you.”

“So? I don’t mind if they’re young and cute.” She wiggles her eyebrows and grins her wolfish grin.

“See, now you sound like a prostitute.”

The same woman from before clears her throat loudly. I look back at her, she looks away.

“Do you even know what is needed to be a stripper in the first place Mich?”

“I know you do miss always reading! Oh, Lee you have to tell me! Please, please, please, please, please??” She begs.

“Will you keep your damn mouth shut then?”
“I won’t say a word.” She mimes locking her mouth shut with a key and throwing it away.

I tell her. That she’s going to be facing rude people, rude coworkers, that she’s going to have be strong, and willing to spend money to get her own outfits and shoes. That everyone will judge her. The lady from before keeps looking at us. The last thing I expected her to do was to cut in.

“I’ve got to warn you, the shoes will be more expensive than the outfit. And you’ll need a license and pay fees to the club.”

Mich and I look at her. She just looks like a normal housewife.

“And how do you know that?”

“I used to strip obviously. What are your names? If you’re interested, I can send you to my old club?”

Michele doesn’t hesitate. I look at this seemingly normal woman.

“Call me Lee.”

It turns out the lady’s name is Cherry, but that’s Cherry with a SH, not a CH, so it sounds like Sherry. Why she didn’t just get named Sherry, is f*****g retarded but whatever, I didn’t name her. We walk towards a seemingly normal looking building. Red bricks, old windows, black painted door. Is this supposed to be some sort of industrial strip club? This doesn’t seem profitable to me. Cherry with a SH breaks my thinking.

“The entrance is around back, come on.”

We follow her, footsteps dulled in our sneakers against the sharp click of her heels. A metal door looms under a bright neon sign: Paradise yeah, okay. Inside the building are various couches, love seats, no pun intended, and so. Many. Poles.

“Oh my god! Just look at this place! The atmosphere is just so sensual and look at those poles!” Mich runs over to one, stroking it seductively.

“If by sensual you mean date-rape then sure! This place is just swell.” Seriously, what is the deal with this low lighting. I sit on a nearby chair, who the hell knows when the couches were cleaned last? No thank you. Cherry comes over to where I’m perched.

“So, how long have you been friends with Michele?” she asks me.

“Since we both started university last year. We were roomies when we first started and now we’re roomies again. Why?” I ask her. Miss stripper-turned-housewife just shrugs, and mutters a small “oh, its nothing”. Yeah, sure it is, nothing my a*s.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, all I’m saying, is that you and Mich seem like two different people. I can’t imagine someone as wild as Mich and someone as reserved as you getting along.”

Mich, who had been eavesdropping apparently, chimes in with a snort. “Ha, you think Lee is reserved?? Oh man, you’re funny.” I also can’t help but snicker at Cherry’s off base assumption. Cherry just quietly smiles, as a plump man in his thirties walks towards us.

“Show me what you’ve got ladies. Blondie is first.”

I thought that was the last time I would see that man. We talked, Michele flaunted herself and wanted attention, mewling over him; the wolf from before now a simpering kitten. But apparently, I couldn’t be more wrong. I wasn’t interested in showing off my body for that slimy middle-aged man to slobber all over. My body, is meant for more sacred things. In the room I share with Mich, I grab my kit. Gloves. Wraps. Mouth guard. Helmet. Tape. What else? Chalk. Towel. Water bottle. Time to head to the gym. I leave the room, lock it behind me, and walk out of the building.

“Hello, miss. It’s good to see you again.”

F**k. Just keep walking.

“Hello? Miss? I was talking to you.”

Wont he ever leave? I walk faster. What a creep.

“Fine then, walk away. We’ll be seeing each other soon enough, dear.” The man from the club’s voice drips with venom. I hear the sound of a car door closing and the screech of tire against asphalt. Only then do I stop walking. I take my phone out and call Mich. Ring. Ring. Ring. Come on, Mich, pick up. Ring. Ring. Ring. Hey, you’ve reached Michele! Leave a message and your number and I’ll give you a call later! Kisses!!

“Damn it, pick up your phone. I’ll be at the usual spot tonight. Bets are high, so I wanna see you cheering me on. You better not be with that creep of a club owner. Call me. Kisses.” I hang up.

The sound of my punches against the punching bag echo throughout the empty room. In about an hour, this place will be filled to the brim with people raring to see someone’s a*s get kicked. Will it be mine? Or his? Bets are always high when it’s a girl against a guy. Still no Mich. I know she’ll come. I know it. Right hook, left cross, right roundhouse. Choke. Routine. Over. And over. And over. A door slams shut. Right hook, left cross, right roundhouse. “Hey b***h, nice a*s, can I get your autograph?” Punch. F**k.
“Mitch, damn it you fucked up my routine. And you’re late.” She stands, leaning on the ropes, grinning her wolfish grin.

“hey, at least I’m here. I can’t wait to see you kick this dude’s a*s, he won’t see what’s coming. I got money on you girl.” She taps her bright red acrylic nails on the rope, timing her taps to my punches.

“Why wear gloves? Punching people full on must be more satisfying.”

“Well one reason,” punch “is that it’s illegal. And another would be that I don’t want to f**k my hands up.” Punch.

Mich doesn’t reply, just watches. Soon, the room begins to fill. I stop my punching, rolling my arms and my shoulders. Breathing deeply and drinking water. 30 minutes pass. The room is full, and my opponent comes through the door. He’s large, not even trying to hide his face under a hoodie like everyone else before him. His dark hair hangs in his face, the hood of his sweatshirt frames his massive shoulders. His hands are in his pockets. He gets to the ring, the crowd roars with excitement. He pulls his hands from his hoodie, aims, and pulls the trigger of a gun. Bang!

“You were lucky it wasn’t a direct hit.” The doctor explains. F**k that, I need drugs. My shoulder is on fire, and the damn cops showed up to my ring. My sacred place. My territory.

“Get me something for this pain.”

“Okay, I’ll get a nurse in here. Just to let you know, you have to stay here overnight.”

F**k. “Fine. Just get my damn drugs.”

“Aleeah.”

I slowly open my eyes. What is it now? The first thing I notice is the full moon outside. Bright. No clouds in sight. The next thing I notice is Mich, sitting next to me.

“I thought visitor hours were over?” I ask.

“Oh, they are hon, but I wanted to see you. So I snuck in.”

“Oh, how naughty.” I smirk. “Michele. I want to kill that b*****d.” For real. Nobody shoots me and walks away without a scratch.

“Oh, I know. I saved him for you. But his buddy wasn’t off limits.” Mich leans forward, her eyes glowing with glee, her wolfish grin wider and more sinister than ever. “Don’t worry, we won’t be bothered again. I’ll let the others know to get everything ready when you recover, and we can go after the gunman.”

The newspaper comes out the next morning:

Sam Chrysler, owner of PARADISE strip club, found dead in establishment. Coroner on scene describes his body naked, parts of his skin stripped away, bite marks, and his heart missing. Suspected victim of national serial killer nicknamed Wolfsbane. Any information on the perpetrator should be reported to the police immediately.

“Too bad they didn’t have any silver bullets, eh?”