We Lost a Dancer Last Night

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.

We Lost a Dancer Last Night

It was a warm spring day and the club was slow. LemonDrop dozed in her smoky corner above the dressing room mirror. Two dancers chatted aimlessly while a third dancer performed onstage for the lone customer at the rack. During a lull in the conversation, the door swung open and Spice entered, dragging her suitcase of costumes. She was quiet, and hardly responded to the cheery hellos from the two dancers. LemonDrop wondered what was wrong. She was usually pretty happy.

The dancers noticed it too. When Spice stepped back out to get a drink, one of them observed to the other about her quietness. The other dancer agreed. Something was not right.

The dancer on stage ended her set, and eventually all the dancers cycled through a set. The dressing room grew hazy with smoke as they all lit up, coming and going with drinks. LemonDrop wondered how they could smoke so much in such a small space. The air was thick and grey with smoke in the cramped room. Finally Spice was ready to go on and take her place in the rotation. Just before she was to go on, she showed Dakota her new flask. “What’s in it?” asked Dakota.

“Vodka,” she replied proudly.

“Oh! Here. Drink this then. I’m leaving and I’m just going to toss it when I get home! It’s my leftover vodka and OJ.” Spice looked warily at it, then popped the lid and downed it.

“Umm that’s good! That’s the GOOD orange juice!”

“Yeah, it’s that Odwalla stuff. It’s supposed to be all organic and shit.”

Spice slipped through the curtain and onto the stage, and Dakota finished gathering her costumes and shoes and lotions and things. She left the dressing room with her suitcase and cashed out with the bartender. The bartender mentioned having to work late because someone that the relief bartender knew had OD-ed, and she might be late getting in to work. Dakota left with a friend to get something to eat and some cigarettes.

Later Dakota and her friend came back to the club. Dakota had something to give to a dancer who was supposed to be coming in later, and she was hoping to catch her there. Sure enough, the dancer was there, dancing a set onstage. “Hey you! I have your stuff! I’ll leave it in the dressing room for you!” Dakota called out to her.

“Oh! Yes! Thank you!” the dancer replied from the stage with a big smile, throwing her a kiss.

Dakota entered the dressing room, and Spice followed her in. Spice asked Dakota if she was coming back to dance. “No, why?”

“’Cause I have to leave. I can’t work this shit anymore tonight.”

Dakota looked closely at Spice and realized she was not well. She stood in a grey shift, staring at herself in the mirror, a handful of dollar bills clutched in one fist, her face twisted into a grimace. Dakota couldn’t tell if it was a smile or if she was about to cry. She looked at the dancer’s eyes. They were dry. Spice suddenly slammed at the air with her fists. “I can’t do nothin’! Nothin’!” Her voice was a high-pitched squeal of pain. Her face twisted more, but still her eyes were dry. Dakota watched her silently, sitting down next to her at the table.

“Honey, what’s wrong?”

“I can’t do nothin’! Nothin’ at all! I can’t stand this! It’s all over!”

“Sweetie, what is wrong? What are you talking about?”

“She’s just gone. There’s nothing I can do! I saw her last night, and now she’s just gone!”

From her corner, LemonDrop watched Dakota slowly piece it together. The OD… the overdose friend of the relief bartender. The dancer who OD-ed was a friend of Spice’s too. She was a friend of the relief bartender, and a friend of friends of the bartender and of other dancers. Spice had partied with her the night before. And when dawn broke this Portland-grey Sunday morning, she lay dead on the floor next to her bed. LemonDrop wondered who had found her.

Spice began to cry softly. She didn’t want to cry; it is a sign of weakness, and dancers can’t be weak. With a physical effort she swallowed her sobs deep into her chest and dried her eyes.

“I am so sorry, Spice. So very sorry! It’s OK to cry, though. It’s just you and me.”

“No, I can’t cry. I’m sorry for crying.” She dried her eyes again, still staring sightlessly into the mirror.

A heavy-set woman stuck her head in the door and yelled at Spice. She had a hard face, her hair pulled back straight and severe, and she was extremely agitated. LemonDrop wondered if she was going to get violent. “Hurry up Spice! I can’t take this shit no more. Lannie is out there raising all kinds of shit, and I’m ready to lose it. You better hurry up ‘cause I’m leaving in exactly one minute!”

Spice apologized to her, promising her that she would be right out. She turned back to the mirror and tried to count out her cash again. She paused and Dakota could see the tears streaming off her face and into the pile of ones. She looked up again and her voice rose to a pained squeal again. “I saw her and now I can’t! I can’t see her! I can’t help her! She’s just gone!” Dakota stood and tried to give her a comforting hug. Spice sank into the hug for just a second, then remembered that she had to be strong and pulled away again. She dried her eyes again, apologized again. Dakota watched her sympathetically.

“Whatchou lookin’ at me like that for, hunh? Shit!”

“I’m just watching you, Spice. I feel so sad for you and for your pain. I want to help, and to just be here for you and listen to you talk and cry. That’s all.” Dakota knew the pain too well.

Spice’s friend poked her head back in the door. “Hurry up, dammit!” she yelled at Spice.

“Shit,” said Spice. She wadded up her ones without counting them and stuffed them into her purse. “At least I had a good evening. I got a few lap dances, so I can pay rent tonight. I gotta go. I’m sorry for crying.” She stopped and looked at Dakota. “Thank you though.” She gave Dakota a quick hug, then turned and hurried from the room. Dakota sat for a moment longer, thinking of the losses in her own life, then rose slowly to follow her out into the bar.

Several women—dancers and friends of dancers—crowded the bar. They were all red-eyed, including the relief bartender, and some were crying. These women all knew and loved that dancer. And now she was gone. And they couldn’t help her anymore. They were frustrated, angry, sad, stunned, grieving. Some were drunk, some were stoned, and some were stone-cold sober. They left the bar in a group, voices rising and falling as they pushed through the door and into the evening and slowly faded into silence.

LemonDrop drifted through the bar. It was quiet now. The jukebox was off and only three customers remained. The sole remaining dancer was finished with her set and was back in the dressing room. The bartender stood with red, teary eyes and stared at the empty stage. “Shit!” she said quietly. “Shit, shit, SHIT.” She turned to the sink and started washing dirty glasses, alone with her thoughts, alone with her memories.

May 5, 2008