Passing time in the Back Room - Halloween

In this series, I am presenting slices of life as a strip dancer in Portland, Oregon, pretty much as I hear it or see it or experience it, but it is through the eyes of a fictitious dancer named LemonDrop. LemonDrop does not exist. LemonDrop is silent, invisible, the wraith in the pervasive smoke of every club I worked in. She observes me and every other dancer equally. She tries to make sense of the barrage of stimulus coming through each day or night on shift. Her role is to help us see life inside the walls of the dressing rooms, or the view from the stage, or hear the interactions with the customers at the rack or at the bar. And she never uses real names, not even real stage names. Sometimes she tells the story; other times she is a silent character in the story.

Passing time in the Back Room - Halloween

It was the first weekend after Halloween. The dressing room was busy. Several dancers were preparing to go out onto the floor, and one was just coming back in from her set. Two were putting on makeup, perched on rickety stools and leaning into the grimy mirror flanked by a single incandescent bulb. LemonDrop hovered in a corner and peered through a haze of cigarette smoke, listening to the chatter in the room.

LemonDrop marveled at how so many dancers could fit into such a small space. There were six or seven dancers packed into the tiny dressing room. Suitcases were spread all over the floor, with dancers in every conceivable stage of undress picking their way through the maze. Locker doors were flung open and clothes spilled out onto the dusty floor. Cigarettes clouded the air, and the unforgiving glare of industrial-white fluorescent bulbs gave it all a harsh, one-dimensional feel.

A dancer rummaged through a duffle bag laid open on a stack of beer cases that were waiting to be put into the cooler. She was looking for her next costume, having just returned from the stage. She was naked but for her shoes. She listened sympathetically to another dancer talking about something stupid her boyfriend said to her when he dropped her off for work. The other dancer’s voice was high and tense with righteous indignation. “Can you believe that shit? He isn’t working, I’m paying all the bills, and he’s pissed because I strip.” It didn’t seem very fair to the dancer, and LemonDrop had to agree.

Another dancer burst into the dressing room, late for her shift. She plopped a plastic grocery bag on the counter and pulled out a plateful of Halloween cupcakes. The other dancers began to pass the plate around, ooo-ing and ah-ing over the little candied pumpkins and frosting faces decorating the cupcakes.

LemonDrop couldn’t help but be amused at the scene: half a dozen dancers picking the candied pumpkins from the cupcakes, chattering and laughing and socializing, most of them butt-naked but for their platform stripper-heels. One dancer was dusting her crotch with baby powder. Another was talking to her boyfriend on the phone. The one on the phone with her boyfriend backed up to the mirror built into the door and bent over, examining her crotch for lint or toilet paper. She wedged her cell phone in her shoulder and pulled her butt cheeks apart, then her labial lips, spreading them wide. She muted her phone and asked for a baby wipe from anyone who would listen. Someone set her cupcake down to pass her a wipe. She cleaned herself, then tossed the used wipe into the trash can next to her. She unmuted her phone just in time to respond to her boyfriend. LemonDrop was impressed that she never lost a beat talking to her boyfriend. Did he have any idea what his girlfriend was doing while he talked to her? Probably not.

The mood in the room was energized; everybody was in a good mood. Someone pointed out how many dancers were on, and someone else pointed out how busy the bar was. They all agreed it should be a good night. One of the bartenders popped her head in through the curtain and yelled for the next dancer. “What’s the rotation?” asked one of the dancers. “I don’t know. Just hurry up get out here. It’s on the board,” replied the bartender, withdrawing to the bar. The dancers looked at each other and giggled. She was a no-nonsense bartender, but all the dancers loved working under her. One of the dancers called to another, “Glossy, are you about ready? I still have to do my makeup” “Yeah, I can go. I just need to get dressed.” Another dancer volunteered that she was almost ready, too. The two dancers hurriedly pulled on short dresses, stepped their platform heels through their g-strings, checked their straps in the mirrors, crammed down the last of their cupcakes, swished their teeth with their drinks, and left the dressing room.

It was going to be a good night.

May 25, 2008