Portland Noir - Kevin Sampsell [90]
Retraced her steps and turned on a side street across from Ed’s House of Gems, pine and concrete glorified shack fashioned to resemble a barn, complete with the Wild West white mural and dusty windows. Thought about going in, run her eyes over the Fool’s Gold or maybe some onyx and hematite, but a sour middle-aged man in a flannel shirt stretched over a belly made huge from years of cheap beer was standing by the door, glaring at nothing.
Instead turned left, down one of the residential side streets. Liked how nothing matched, everything shabby around the edges and thrown together, moss growing in between the sidewalk cracks and roof shingles. Even in the chill, front lawns were teeming with green.
Kara zigzagged around corners and up avenues, streets looked identical in their individuality, until she realized she was halfway to the airport; continued past houses progressively more run-down, a mini-mart that was filthy, cement lots.
Another strip club ahead, couldn’t miss the neon sign with letters burned out so it read, Th_ La_d_ng St_ _p; nothing beyond that but hotels and car rentals. Much bigger than the other place, though no less decrepit, parking lot half-full. Perfect.
Kara swung open the flimsy glass doors and into the dark, stopping on the carpeted ramp to adjust her eyes. Nose hit full force with the harsh odor of baby lotion, cheap powder makeup, and desperation; same as any other strip club she went into. Main illumination were strings of lights in plastic tubing that hung on the stage, bar, crisscrossed the walls; popular in the ’70s and hadn’t been updated since. Black plastic tables, indiscriminately placed violet plush seats.
Blue-collar guys and businessmen on layovers sat next to each other drinking Buds in front of the main stage, laying dollar bills at the edges; definitely not the A team performing at this time of the day. Lots of things jiggling where they shouldn’t.
Kara stood at the bar until a dim-looking guy in his early forties waddled over. “What can I getcha?”
“Stella.”
“We just ran out.”
“Red Stripe?”
“Don’t carry it.”
“Corona.”
“Waiting on the delivery. Should be here later.”
“What do you have?”
“Session, Bud, Bud Light, Coors Light.”
Other choices nauseated her. “Session.”
Surprise when she sipped it, the local beer wasn’t bad. Kara sat at one of the tables and drank, half-looking at the tired peroxide blonde who had surpassed the acceptable age limit of her profession when the place was in its heyday.
Her song was finished and so was Kara’s drink. She caught the eye of the waitress, who looked away, preferring to chat with the bartender. Only when she couldn’t ignore Kara’s waving bottle did she begrudgingly grab a fresh one.
Turned back from the small irritation and Kara’s heart stopped for one, two beats. It was her. Body a little more toned than Kara’s, hair stuffed hastily under the cheap pink wig that the lights made look cheaper. But it was her legs, her hands, her breasts, her face.
“Two-fifty.”
Didn’t hear the waitress until she impatiently repeated herself. Kara handed her a wrinkled bill from her pocket, palms so wet the paper was soft, no idea what denomination. The girl laid the change on the table, tapping her foot for the dollar tip Kara threw at her.
She watched herself half-heartedly twirl on the pole, backbend near the guy eating cheese fries. She’s alive. Kara bit her bottom lip until she tasted blood to keep emotion from boiling over, muscles tensed still. Of course it would be now, here, when she least expected it. Chain-smoked through the two songs, over too soon, watched Kaya grab her clothes and tips, disappear (still naked, ass extra white in the dark) into a room behind the stage.
Kara was too lightheaded to trip up to the bar until midway through the next act. “The last girl who was on, where is she?”
Bartender