Six Bad Things Part 30

I let the pill into my mouth and swallow. It chases the scream back down into my belly, and, almost instantly, long before it can possibly be taking effect, I feel better.

--I don't know what to do, T.

He picks something up from the floor and hands it to me. It's one of Tim's pot boxes.

--I think I know someone who can help us.

T DRIVES us to the North Strip. We park the car, leave Hitler inside, and walk down Fremont Street. A few blocks of Fremont have been converted to a pedestrian mall and covered by a canopy about two stories high, its underside lined with lights. Christmas carols are blaring from a PA system as the lights flash, creating a variety of holiday-themed images that flicker across the canopy. A crowd of tourists fills the mall, their heads dropped back to gape at the spectacle as candy canes, Christmas trees, stockings, and Santa and his reindeer all twinkle overhead. T nudges me and points ahead.

--It gets better inside.

In front of us is a strip club; a huge neon cowgirl in white boots, a bikini, and a cowboy hat hangs above the door. A long line of cowboys waits underneath her to get in.

--No way, T.

He looks at me.

--What?

--We can't go in there.

--Why not?

--Way too many people.

--So what? They're all drunk and they're all dressed like you.

--No.

He reaches inside his jacket, takes out a pair of big black Wayfarer sungla.s.ses, and puts them on my face.

--There. Now you look even more like every other rube in town.

I take the sungla.s.ses off and start to head back to the car. He grabs me.

--Look, man, this place is my office, right? I kick back to the house and they give me the franchise in there to deal speed to the strippers.

--So?

--I have the speed franchise. Someone else handles all the pot.

He shows me the little plastic box Tim's pot came packaged in.

--And last time I checked, it came in these.

I put the sungla.s.ses back on.

WE JUMP the line. The bouncer gives T a hug and we're inside. On one side of the bar is a long runway with a pole every few feet. Each pole is being worked by a G-stringed former aerobics instructor who realized she could make ten times as much money by taking her clothes off. Screaming cowboys waving dollar bills in the air fill every square inch of floor s.p.a.ce. On the other side of the bar is a row of smaller stages. Each has a single pole and a dancer. Banquettes line the walls, occupied by a rail of cowboys being lap danced in the shadows. At the back of the club is a separate room, Champagne Lounge spelled out in pink neon above the door. Flecks of red and green light spray from a Christmas-colored dis...o...b..ll and bounce off the mirrored walls that have been flocked with fake snow. T puts his mouth next to my ear so I can hear him over the Divinyls' "I Touch Myself."

--Merry Christmas.

The bartender comes over, a woman with dark skin and a pile of curly black hair. She's in a red tube top and jeans cut so low you can see her hipbones sticking up over the waistband. Anywhere else, she'd have all eyes locked on her. Here, she is seriously overdressed.

--Hey, T, what's up?

T points at me.

--This guy's my friend. Keep an eye on him, OK?

She shrugs.

--Sure.

T puts his mouth next to my ear again.

--You hang here, I'm gonna go set something up with the pot franchise.

He squeezes into the mob of denim. I turn back to the bar just as the bartender sets a beer in front of me.

--First one's on me.

--Ya know, I don't.

But she's already gone to take care of the service bar.

I look at the beer.

The Percocet has smoothed the edges of the pain in my leg and ankle. The scream is still there, but has been drawn away into the distance where I can contemplate it without feeling it. I like this. I like feeling like this. Feeling so little.

I look around the club. When was the last time I was around so many people, all crammed together, music blaring, that smell of beer and sweat soaked into the floor and the upholstery? Years.

I look at the beer.

I slide my finger through the drops of condensation on its side.

Drinking this beer would be a bad idea.

Something soft and smooth presses against my back. Hot breath hits my ear.

--Can I have some of that, cowboy?

I turn and look at the stripper standing behind me. Her face is inches from mine. Too much makeup, too much hairspray. I look at her hand, set lightly on my thigh. A woman's hand touching me. I take in her body in its translucent sheath of pink Lycra. b.r.e.a.s.t.s patently fake, booth-perfect tan, a.s.s and legs stair-machined to some ultimate balance of muscle tone and body fat. She leans into me, reaching for the beer, and her superhero b.r.e.a.s.t.s graze my upper arm. She holds up the beer in front of my face.

--You mind?

I shake my head and she takes a long sip, then hands me the bottle. She's so close.

--Thanks. Dancing makes me thirsty. Hot and thirsty.

I look at one of the solo stages. A stripper has one knee c.o.c.ked around the pole and is spinning like an ice skater.

--I guess it would.

--What about you? Dancing make you hot?

She's so close. She's silly and fake, but she's so close. And I don't feel the panic, the visions that grabbed me when I scared the smiling Spanish girl on the beach.

She scratches a fingernail against the nape of my neck.

--You wanna dance with me?

I remember my last time with a woman. I was still drunk. Once I stopped drinking, I started thinking. That was it for women and me. I don't say anything.

She smiles, mock sadly.

--Your loss, cowboy.

She turns and starts to leave, her hand slipping from my thigh. I grab her wrist. She turns to face me.

--Is that a yes?

I nod.

--Well, come on then.

She takes my hand and starts to pull me from the bar.

--Hang on.

She stops.

I shouldn't be doing this, I shouldn't be doing any of this. I know that.

I put the beer to my lips, turn the bottle upside down, and empty it.

--OK, let's go.

And she leads me to the banquettes in the darkness against the far wall. She sits me down and the dress slides off. Wearing only a G-string and high heels, she takes my hat from my head and waves it in the air and rides my lap slowly, while "Sweet Emotion" plays.

I FEEL great. Honestly, I can't remember the last time I felt this good, this great. It makes me wonder why I haven't had a drink in so long. I mean, it's been at least five minutes since I had my last beer.

--Hey, yo, 'nother Bud down here.

The bartender nods in my direction as she sets a couple drinks on a c.o.c.ktail waitress's tray.

--Comin' up.

A guy with a buzz cut, wearing tight Levis and a PBR Tour T-s.h.i.+rt, shoves into the s.p.a.ce next to my stool.

--Sorry, been tryin' ta get myself a beer for 'bout a half hour.

I smile.

--h.e.l.l, no problem.

The bartender comes over with my beer and sets it in front of me.

--Eight bucks.

I pull out a twenty and hand it to her and point at the guy in the PBR s.h.i.+rt.

--Here, get this guy one too and keep the change.

She takes the money and looks at the guy.

--What ya having, cowboy?

--Burt Light.

She slides open a cooler, pulls out a bottle of Coors Light, yanks an opener from the back pocket of her low-rider jeans, pops the cap, and puts the beer on the bar.

--Thanks, fellas.

Me and the PBR guy watch her a.s.s as she walks back to the service bar to take care of another c.o.c.ktail waitress. PBR shakes his head.

--d.a.m.n. That was one of the s.e.xiest things I've ever seen.

A dancer in a formfitting green slip dress presses herself up against PBR's back. Her hand slithers through his buzzed hair.

--Cowboy, if that's the s.e.xiest thing you've ever seen, you need a dance with me.

PBR looks her up and down.

--Honey, you are d.a.m.n right about that.

--Well c'mon, Hoss, I'll give you the rest of this song and all of the next.

She walks away with him trailing behind like a dazed child. He looks back at me.

--See, ya 'round, pal. Thanks for the Burt Light.

He hoists his beer in the air. I stand up on the foot rail of my stool to keep him in sight.

--Hey, why ya call them that?

But he's gone.

--That's what they call them in Oklahoma. 'Cause Burt Reynolds drinks Coors.