Unfolding curled slightly damp, American Dollar Bills.
These are for me.
A plastic red heart shaped basket is passed around by Azita who chimes,
“I’ll do your basket!” when David Bowie’s song Heroes kicks in from the jukebox,
in a room with no DJ but a phenomenally stocked jukebox that you punched in your own songs.
In a room with n
o windows she weaves her way around the tables asking the men,
“Would you like
to tip the dancer onstage?”
They reach for their wallet – coat pocket – inside of jacket – side jean pocket to get a few one, five, sometimes ten dollar bills.
Her brown ringlets bob up and down after thanking them leaning in close in their laps close, so
It’s only later on I learn that:
Azita offers to do the girl’s baskets because the new customers will get
a Closer look
At her
All the while my high kicks to Bowie are ignored.
I trundle back into the change-room, black g-string in hand. My glass of ice in the other.
She puts the red, plastic, heart-shaped basket on the counter where I scoop up the bills- tip her some.
I do this quickly so nobody will watch how much I made. So Devon can’t ask me for money for smokes.All the bills are shoved into my purple furry monster ristlet.
Later on I will count them, peel them back, fold them.
My luck, my pride and joy.