"Hi, I'm Sharon; I'm here for an interview with Danny?"
The Electric Lady is situated down an alleyway decorated with the debris of the morning after the night before. The pavement is being swept by a guy in council overalls who looks at her with interest when she navigates bin bags and the steps to a door between a cafe and a cheap travel agent.
Inside the gaudy red door with the neon sign, there's a man perched on a stool who must be as tall as he is broad, his head and neck like a football with worn skin. A bulldog tag declares his name as 'Rusty'.
She offers an easy smile. Rusty grunts and reveals another foot of his height as he gets to his feet and indicates she should follow him. They pass down a corridor, arriving at a lopsided sign that delcares 'office.'
Rusty knocks and announces her in a deep baritone with estuary Essex tones.
"Come on in." A woman she can only describe as bouncy invites into the space. Her curled hair scatters around her shoulders, and her eyes are flinty blue. She flops down into a chair, adjusting her denim dress. "I'm Faith, and this is Danny."
The man beside her has dressed like a grungy lumberjack, and his hair flops over his eyes, and he adjusts the dark frame glasses on his nose.
"Welcome, Sharon."
The chat is stilted as they ask about her and her reason for turning up. "I'm divorced and need the extra cash to pay my way."
"Have you danced before? Or tended a bar?" Danny enquires.
"No, not professionally for the dancing, but I've worked on a bar; I'm used to handling blokes with wandering hands." She plays along; she needs the job.
"All true that." Danny says. He has a cat that caught a canary smile as he tells her about his club.
It's nothing she didn't know. "No kink or S&M. Customers can't touch first; if they do, then Rusty will deal with them. It's topless only. We don't do routines; you dance whatever makes you feel sexy, cos that's the way to be beautiful, ain't that right Faith?"
"Dammed right." Faith grins. Sharon wonders if they are a couple, their rapport is very well honed.
"We've got many different dancers to appeal to the customers. And.." He leans forward, ".. we lost the blonde a few weeks ago, so there's an opening if you want it."
She really doesn't; this isn't where she wants to be, "Okay."
"Good." He gets up from his chair, "You okay with showing us what you got?"
She holds back the sigh, unzips her dress, and tells herself this will mean nothing in a few weeks.
"I don't care if you drink or smoke a little pot, no hard stuff here though, and we don't do drunk dancing." Danny flips through his desk, seemingly disinterested, for which she's vaguely grateful.
"Wow, you've got amazing tits." Faith exclaims as if they're in a shoe shop. It's clear it's a business transaction for them, but she feels sad that its the first time she's undressed in front of anyone for years.
"Arms out, please." Danny is efficient. "Good legs, no tan lines, and great ass."
"Do you work out?" Faith asks.
Sharon nods. "I have weights at home, and I like that new yoga stuff."
"You can get dressed honey; you've got yourself a job." Danny turns to Faith as Sharon dresses, "The big guns are gonna love Sharon. They'll spend like money is going out of fashion."
"I'll give you a tour and fill you in on the details." Faith's smile is wide and Sharon thinks they could be friends in any life, maybe not this one.
Faith leads the way from the pokey, windowless office and down the corridor, pointing out some doors and avoiding the mention of others, explaining the location of the customer's toilets, the staff entrance, and the changing rooms. Finally, she pushes open a door with a gold star on it, and they walk into a large room with walls painted in gunmetal gray and a wooden floor.
To one side is a long bar, and a stage with low metal railings is right opposite. In the centre is a gold pole and a row of chairs neatly arranged beyond the stage. Along the far wall, set higher in a circle, are other rows of chairs, set out like a theatre. As she follows Faith, Sharon finds several rooms with a chaise and a table to the far side. The doorways comprise velvet curtains, and she swallows down the fear.
"This is Sharon; she's just been hired. Meet Betty; she runs the bar."
Faith waves her hand at a large woman with vibrant black skin who smiles at her. "Hey Sharon, good to meet you."
Her New York accent catches her off guard.
"What's your stage name?" Betty enquires, and Sharon shrugs; it's the oddest sensation to be rechristened again.
Faith rests an arm on the bar and looks over, studying her new recruit. "You'll make good friends with Betty whilst you're waitressing; we'll start on the tables first. She can make any drink you like, and you'll tip her twenty percent of what you earn."
Sharon wishes she could write this down, it feels suddenly a bit overwhelming; if Faith notices her alarm, she makes no mention of it. Instead she saunters over to the stage and climbs up to explain the workings of the pole.
"I didn't know the pole rotates." Sharon feels suddenly stupid.
"Everyone makes that mistake." Faith reassures with a smile. "You don't want to put any cream or oil on yourself; you need a bit more grip. Come up if you like."
Sharon takes the offered hand and swings up, listening as Faith points out the spaces where men loiter and watch but never come to the tip rail, but encourages her to get money from them for drinks.
"Tip rail?" Sharon hesitates, unwilling to make herself seem more naive than she is.
"These seats are the tip rail seats. You can dance up close, and if you want to stick your arse into their face, they can tuck in the notes. They can't touch unless you ask them too. For the real big tips, you can ask them to undo your bra." Faith pauses. "You can't do a lap dance without touching, but you control it. They touch your tits; Rusty will see them to the alley."
She's impressed by the talk, but it's nothing like the strip club she once went into with..
"… these seats at the middle row. This is where big money is. They're too posh or uptight about getting close, but they can get a good view." Her guide leads her off the stage and then points to a booth she's not seen before. "Up there usually is Jez. He's the DJ; it's early for him. I swear the guy doesn't do daylight."
The dancers' room has a long row of benches and mirrors, several wardrobes and make-up kits. Rails are stacked with sequinned clothes, and the air dances with perfume.
"So this is the door to the stage, that one is direct to the loos. These ones aren't used by use and usually locked." Finally, there's a sparse but functional kitchen.
"Marilyn." Faith announces as they back out. "That's what you remind me of with your cheekbones."
Sharon accepts the compliment and then realises they're onto stage names. She considers it.
"Usually, we'd go with a name that's close to your real name, but we've got a Starlight here already, and you've got a polish about you. A bit of old-school glamour." Faith explains her reasons, sitting down in a well-worn velvet chair.
"Is Faith your real name?"
"Nope, but it's close enough. Betty is really Betina. There's no secret; all the girls prefer a stage name they can leave at the door."
"Okay, let's go with Marilyn then," Sharon agrees.
They return to the bar, where Betty pours them a glass of soda.
"How did you end up here?" Sharon asks, swirling the ice cubes in her glass. "Are you working on getting somewhere else?"
"I could ask the same of you." Faith tests her, and she realises her question overstepped a boundary and apologises.
"You'll be asked it a lot,and it gets tiresome. Some of us like the job, and it pays well. Rita is getting a degree, and Magic is a therapist during the day. You'll met them tomorrow. Me, I like it here."
"Why, what's good about here?" Sharon picks her words with care.
"My parents wanted me to be a boy. I'm the youngest. I was always a bit conscious of my body until a group of friends took me to a strip club in the City. I was blown away by the power of the women, and I wanted a bit of it. Here I am."
Sharon thinks about this, it wasn't the answer she was expecting to receive, but she knows that feeling of shame and guilt over being a woman.
"What about you? Was it a tough divorce?" Faith interrupts her thoughts with a sympathetic question.
"Oh! Yes, he was a cheater and I guess that kicked my confidence. I need money but I want a bit of confidence too."
Faith nods and becomes business-like. "These are the VIP rooms. This is where you can take a client if you want to. Your choice, not theirs. You'll get Rusty or one of his guys making sure they behave. It's not a place for sex; we don't do that here. No blow jobs or extras or kissing."
Sharon nods."So, the no touching then is the client popping a note into my knickers at the waist; no groping?"
Faith nods."Why don't you swing by at 9, and we'll get you on doing the drinks until close. Tomorrow afternoon we can train on the stage and get some outfit ideas sorted out."
Sharon agrees. If her day began dull, then by midnight, she's exhausted, unable to recognise herself in the mirror with tired, glitter-lined eyes and her hair piled on her head, and her body encased in a skimpy blue dress that sparkles in the disco lights. It's been a night, but she's found a rhythm and a method in the madness. Girls she hasn't met properly take to the stage, and it surprises her how they become part of the background noise despite the horny men who seem to largely ignore waitresses. There's a few questions about being new in town and shady backhanded compliments, and one guy tries it on and is promptly removed.
A punky riff from a track she has heard on the radio, pours from the speaker as Faith takes to the stage with a brazen air. She spins fast on the pole, taking a confident leap, and hangs herself upside down, slipping off her clothes with a swagger perfectly timed to the music. She is completely in control of her audience who throw money at her feet.
When 2am arrives, it's not soon enough. Sharon's apron is filled with notes that she counts out, dividing tips. Outside in the rainy street, she gets into the waiting cab and pays with cash from her wallet. She fingers the bank card with Sharon Johnson written on it and knows she'll be Marilyn tomorrow.
In her small apartment with its utilitarian furnishing, she picks up the phone and makes a call.
