Is It Hot In Herre?
Iwalk east toward Culture.
It’s just a few blocks shy from the middle of Times Square. This area is busy at all hours of the day and night. It’s early February, so it’s still brisk and cold. I haven’t bought any new clothes or even reconnected my cell phone. I do have some money left over from when I sold my car. I gave half to Sean and my mother, and the other half went into an account I could access while in prison. I have always been good at balancing my finances. I know how to save and when to spend. The little money I do have won’t last me long, especially living in the city. I need this job, bad.
I walk up to a plain brick building with metal doors and one big, fat, roly-poly, Hispanic guy sucking on a cigarette. He would almost be intimidating if I didn’t find the look of him so amusing. He’s dressed in all black with a thick goatee and derby hat that looks miniature on his round head.
“Move along. The doors don’t open till eight,” he rumbles.
“I’m here to see Daniel,” I tell him as the wind whips around us.
He eyes me suspiciously, like he’s assessing me. Then he pulls out a walkie-talkie from his belt. “Boss, someone’s here to see you. Looks like fresh meat.”
He puts his finger to his ear like he’s listening to something. “What’s your name?”
“Ryan.”
He stares. “Got a last name or is it just Ryan?”
I cock my eyebrow. “Pierce.” I swear, club staff can be arrogant pricks sometimes.
“Ryan Pierce,” he repeats into the handset.
“Someone send you?” he asks randomly.
“Yeah, Mac Johnson.”
“Mac Johnson.”
A second later, Mr. Roly-Poly is opening the door for me. “Must have a golden ticket. Go on in. Take a left once you go through the curtains. There’s a set of stairs in the back. Go all the way up and follow the hallway to the door on the end. Daniel is in his office.”
I walk through the empty club. It looks pretty much like all the other clubs I’ve seen. Except this one is scattered with stripper poles and has ring thingies hanging from the ceiling.What the fuck are those for?
I follow the bouncer’s instructions explicitly.
I climb the stairs, find the door, and knock.
“Come in,” a man intones, so I enter. I walk into the small room to find a guy in a straw cowboy hat and loud printed button-up sitting behind a wooden desk. He looks up at me and smirks. “Ryan, I presume?”
“That would be me.”
“Take a seat.”
I sit in the chair directly across from Daniel’s desk.
“Mac told me you need a job,” he begins.
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Mmm hmmm,” he muses, like he’s trying to undress me with his eyes. It’s highly uncomfortable.
“Well. Stand up then and let me see the goods.”
“Excuse me?”
“This is a strip club, kid. You work half nude. I can’t just hire anybody. I have to inspect the merchandise.”
Three and a half years in jail, and I never felt this degraded. It’s like I’m a cow on an auctioning block.