Below is an excerpt from my book — a mostly true story about my days as a strip club bartender in Austin, Texas where I mostly broke shit, drank a ton of booze, sometimes poured drinks, and always hit on my favorite manager.
We swerved into the parking lot at the concubine, did a donut, and Tokyo drifted into the front parking space, only knocking over a few orange cones the valet guy had put out.
As soon as we strolled through the front doors, we were greeted by Richard who proceeded to lecture us about being late.
Arriving at 6:27PM for a 6:30PM shift wasn’t tardy last time I checked, yet here we were. Not to mention, I was doing him a favor for covering the night shift.
I stared at him blankly and noticed the door girl was fuckin’ wasted with white powder all over her nostrils and general schnoz region. I heard the other day she got caught on the cameras doing cocaine behind the front desk while she was working.
But hey, excuse me for being three minutes early. Clearly, I should step my game up.
“Haaayyyy!” the drunk door girl sang to us as she knocked over the beer bottle she was drinking and it shattered on the tile floor.
“Don’t touch it!” Richard instinctively spat out even though she was already crouched down picking up the shards of glass.
She insisted on cleaning up her mess, saying it was fine and she could do it. Richard again told her to stop and radioed for a bar back to come sweep it up.
“Ahhhhh!” Door Girl suddenly shrieked as blood trickled down her hand.
She began to panic and cry. Pounds of makeup ran down her face. Wasted, bloody, coked-up chicks with mascara running down their face were on their own level of beautiful — Cover of Vogue material!
I dramatically whipped my head to the left to look over at Morgan and saw she had done the exact same thing. As we locked eyes, we cracked up.
“Ahhh! Hepatitis!” I yelled my monotone yell as I grabbed Morgan’s hand and nobly guided the way to safety, leaving Richard to deal with his star employee.
Morgan stopped to catch up with one of her regulars and I wandered to the back office to obtain necessary supplies for my shift, like money for the cash register and a baby doll with a bottle of bourbon duck taped to its hands.
“Hey, baby.” Sulley sighed, looking up at me from the desk. “Did you see Richard up there?”
“He’s at the front door dealing with a catastrophe. He tried to radio for help but I don’t think anyone has one on yet,” I explained.
“I don’t have mine on,” Sulley paused and a shit grin formed on his face, “You know what that means, Forest?”
“What?” I smiled back curiously.
“Richard’s just talking to himself.” After cracking the fuck up for a moment, Sulley asked me to tell Richard he’d be right there to clean it up before he went back to doing fancy manager paperwork stuff.
“What? Is he too good to clean it up? Man …” I shook my head. “Dick is such a friggin’ dick!”
Sulley chuckled. “You need to be careful,” he warned. “One of these days you’re gonna slip up and accidentally call him that to his face.”
I highly doubted I’d be the first one.
I offered a grand proposition. “How ‘bout I just bring him a broom and he can sink down to our peasant level and clean up the mess?”
Sulley held back a laugh and I knew it was my time to depart. He was not trying to get involved.
When I returned to the scene, the glass and beer remained in their previous positions and dipshit was hysterically crying and yelling for someone to call an ambulance.
I examined the cut on her finger. There was blood everywhere. A huge pool all over the counter began to drip onto the floor. Her bone was showing. Although, you could hardly see it through the gushing blood. She probably needed her finger amputated, maybe her whole hand. It was tragic.
I’m just kidding, she barely pricked her finger. I set down the broom in front of Richard and stepped behind the front desk next to the door girl, kneeled down, and retrieved the first aid kit that was in plain sight.
A little baggy containing white powder was laying next to it on the shelf, also in plain sight. I cannot confirm the actual contents of the bag and she most likely couldn’t either.
You know when Forrest Gump’s mom is all like, “Life is like a box of chocolates, never know what you’re gonna get?” The same applies to drugs obtained in the strip club.
For all intents and purposes, we’ll just presume it’s mostly cocaine.
“Chill out, dude. Let me put Neosporin on it and then wrap it up with a Band Aid. You’re fine. Don’t look at it anymore if it’s freaking you out.” It was like talking to a child. I twisted the cap off the Neosporin, promising her it wouldn’t hurt, as she hesitantly held out her hand.
A dancer ran up to us, seemingly out of nowhere, and crashed into the counter holding a bottle of Patron.
She ripped the cork off and proceeded to dump tequila all over the door girl’s wound, which led to incredibly loud, ear piercing shrieks and ultimately, the demise of my hearing.
The dancer was clearly in the wrong field. With brains like that, she should obviously retire from dancing and become a nurse. She wouldn’t even have to go to school, she would automatically be hired due to her expert knowledge.
“I need to go to the hospital!” The door girl grabs the tele next to her and begins to dial 911. Truth be told, I didn’t physically see what numbers she pushed but I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt and assume she knows the number to 911.
“No! Forest! Grab the phone from her!” Richard pleaded in desperation.
I pushed past her and held down the button to the receiver, ending the phone call and once again saving the day.
She had absolutely no idea the call was no longer connected and began sobbing into the phone claiming she was dying.
I tried to calm her down when an all too familiar look appeared on her face. She was about to puke.
I searched my surroundings in fear of getting covered with whatever the hell contents were in her stomach. Who knew what she carried in that vessel?
The dancer caught on and frantically held up the door girl’s tip jar moments before the door girl violently puked into it. I glanced down at the glass jar that was now full of money and fresh vomit.
“My money! You fucking bitch!” the door girl cried out as a customer walked in and then immediately turned around and left.
Door girl snatched the jar and chucked her puke all over the dancer. If one of us had to get vomit all over us, I’m glad the universe chose her. Not because of the obvious, but it logically made more sense for her to be the one, seeing how she was already half naked.
There was a shower in the dressing room anyway, so chicks could rinse off jizz, urine, and period blood and now, apparently, vomit. Learn something new everyday.
Richard began to squeal into the radio for help but no one responded because he was still talking to himself.
This was my cue to leave, due to the fact that the dancer had now walked around behind the counter and was in the door girl’s face threatening to crack the bottle of tequila on the door girl’s “ho ass” as Dick helplessly stood there like a fucking sloth.
I did a ninja somersault and relocated to safety.
Thomas was behind the front bar closing out the day time bartender. “Are you working night shift?” he asked me, cocking his head to the side. Cock. Ha ha.
“Are you wearing your tight pants?”
“Maybe.” He blushed.
“Well the pair of tits with legs walked out in the middle of her shift last night. So, I’m covering. Oh by the way, dumb and dumber are about to kill each other at the front. Dick keeps radioing for help but no one cares,” I informed him.
“I don’t have a radio on.”
Thomas patted down his front pockets, looking for a walkie that he never wore during our shifts — probably because he knew I’d be a real fucker if we both wore walkie talkies.
If the man needed assistance searching for something in his pants, I suppose I would bite the bullet and help him out. You know, be a good Samaritan, get some good karma, random acts of kindness … that type thing.
“I knooooow! No one does. That’s why it’s sooo funny!” I laughed my ass off.
Seriously, my butt cheeks fell on the dirty, dirty disco carpet floor. I think it’s some unspoken rule that all strip clubs have to have the same shitty carpet.
Thomas shook his head at me and asked the bartender if she would assist me.
The universe required greater duties from him right now and, unfortunately, picking up my butt cheeks off the floor was less time sensitive than the attempted murder currently taking place at the entrance of the titty dungeon.