Chapter Nine

Chapter 9
1999 – Complications

It had been the longest time she’d stayed clean: 5 years. In fact, she wasn’t totally clean, but she was mostly clean. And since Tisa had always maintained that she wasn’t a drug addict, mostly clean was fine. A little wine now and then was fine. A little pot. She didn’t take people’s pills any more nor did she bother with needles. She was clean enough.

She had not fared so well on housing. The court determined Domini would remain in the custody of Barbara until Tisa was in a stable living situation. Practically speaking, that meant she had to stay in one place for a period of 9 months and then she could file a petition that would be ruled on within 30 days. Barbara had promised Tisa that she would not oppose any custody bid of Domini and the judge said, pending successfully staying clean and being stable, the court would allow her to regain custody of the child, though such custody would be heavily supervised and she would have to submit to drug tests as a condition of keeping the child. It wasn’t fair. The judges knew it wasn’t fair. Every 8 months or so, she would do something that upset her usually racist or mean or useless landlord and he would kick her out. The court knew that something would happen, not just to her, but to anyone, just about every 9 months. It was another wedge driven between her and her daughter.

There was also the suggestion that Tisa get – and keep – a job. The Christian Hand Center’s program was open and always available to Tisa and all “alumni” but Tisa had issues with the types of jobs being offered to Center graduates and she preferred to go it on her own. Larry continued to offer his support in the form of phone calls and he always made it known that she could come down and work with him at the Center if she needed some training.

She was no longer 20, but Tisa was still beautiful. She didn’t have the dew of youth on her skin, but neither did she need it; she still turned the heads of all but the very youngest of men who passed her on the street. Her hips were narrow and still tight., her skin was smooth and her smile still white. Tisa knew, however, that her days were numbered. She had little time left to stabilize her living situation and milk whatever she could from her physical characteristics. Securing a good man would take work, but it was her best hope.

Domini, who was already 13, was mostly grown and in all likelihood would come out just fine. So Tisa was now Tisa’s concern. What about me, she wondered. It was either money or men. Maybe someday Domini would take care of her, but those days were still a ways off. She still kept her weekly dinners with her daughter, who despite having been raised primarily by Barbara, remained surprisingly loyal to her mother. They discussed Tisa’s next move.

“Maybe you could go back to school,” suggested Barbara, predictably. “Is there something that you thought you might like to do?” They were eating at King Tsin on Solano. The food wasn’t great but it was cheap, and affordable for Barbara, who was always the one who paid.

Now that Tisa was living outside the Center, they would have dinner twice a week at Barbara’s house, and once a week at a restaurant. Barbara always made it a point to refrain from correcting or disciplining Domini when Tisa was in the vicinity. It only created conflict. Tonight, they were having dinner at King Tsin, which was Domini’s choice. Tisa had suggested Fenton’s Creamery, but Barbara put the kibosh on that, much to Tisa’s consternation. Somewhat overprotective, Barbara worried about an ice cream parlour as a choice because the ice cream reminded Barbara that Tisa had a penchant for sugar when she was using. The desserts at Chinese restaurants were abominable. If Tisa was using again, Barbara would know quickly. They talked about school.

“I’m not gonna look like no asshole at 41 sitting in a classroom,” said Tisa. “That ship sailed. I’m sorry I can’t be no scholar like you, Barb,” said Tisa, her sarcasm showing.

“It’s never too late to learn,” said her daughter, now 13, smiling at her mother. Tisa rolled her eyes.

“OK, baby, what do you think I should do?”

“I don’t know, how about a teacher. Or a lawyer. Or a counselor.” Domini’s eyes brightened. “I bet you could really help people because you’ve been there.” Domini looked thoughtful and then added, “I want to be a veterinarian.”

“Why you talk like a white girl?” was her mother’s response. This quickly shut down her daughter and Domini kept her mouth shut for the rest of the evening. Tisa instantly regretted what she said, but she didn’t apologize. Domini needed to have a tougher skin.

“Well, Tisa, how ‘bout it?” ashed her sister. “Maybe you could enroll down there at Merritt or something; get started on a professional program.”

“Oh, like I can only get into a community even though you got into Cal? If you wanted, you could get me in to UC Berkeley.”

“Why is it always about me putting you down, Tisa. I didn’t mean anything by what I just said. If I could I would get you into Cal,” said Barbara. “But I can’t.. I don’t have any pull with Cal or any other college for that matter. And besides, it’s a lot more expensive than Merritt. If you do well there, then you can transfer to Cal after two years. By then, maybe you could save up enough money to go without loans.”

Tisa did not say it then, but she was getting desperate. It wasn’t the plan she had in mind, this going to school, but it was a plan that didn’t depend on her looks to make it work. It couldn’t hurt to check out the professional programs they had, especially if doing so would make her daughter feel good. She had more than ever felt the gap between them widening and it added to her general angst and paranoia. When juvenile promises were no longer effective in making her look good to Domini, she had switched to guilt tactics, calling her daughter a ‘white girl’ when she spoke like an educated young woman; accusing Domini of abandoning her when she had volleyball practice or some such other after school activity that meant she couldn’t come by her mother’s apartment (which invariably was her mother’s boyfriend’s apartment, which could mean anything).

As the months and years went on, these tactics also proved to be less effective, and Tisa felt Domini slipping further away. Tisa had to do something to bring them together, but the thought of spending the time and energy to get through and pay for school, all the while working in some menial job, was unappealing at best. Besides, in the end, she reasoned, what could she do with all that knowledge? Not only did she doubt she’d really learn anything useful, but would her job prospects be better than they were after spending 7 or so years working part time toward her diploma? Maybe, maybe she would make $30,000.00 a year, but even that was unlikely.

Tisa had tried to work in the various positions that were open to someone with her skill set and even at those where she had to fudge her credentials a little She first tried telemarketing, but got angry when people were nasty: she didn’t deserve to be treated like that. She did some time at a coffee house, but her managers, white girls freshly graduated from University of Something, wanted her to be cheerful – like an Uncle Tom – to the demanding customers who whined about their orders. She would never get ahead digging coffee grounds out of cappuccino machines and working for girls who had it cushy in life. The black managers were worse, cutting her no slcak and all and telling her she was lazy and nasty. One boyfriend had suggested she try working for a phone sex company, but she simply wasn’t very good at it, and spent more time watching television that she did moaning into the receiver. After awhile, no one asked for “Candy.”

Tisa had made a few trips across the bay to San Francisco, dressed in her Sunday finest, to find work. When she was not using and took the time, she could look professional. It was her hope that a pretty face might be just the ticket to get her into some hotel, and she inquired if they were looking for someone with her skills set to be a concierge. It was only her beauty that got her further than the front desk, but generally it didn’t get her much further. At one place, when she boasted proudly that she could get anything a guest wanted, including heroin and cocaine, she was asked to leave. One manager threw her out and screamed loudly that this hotel didn’t take prostitutes.

At Larry’s suggestion, Tisa had signed on with Kelly Services, a temporary agency, and fabricated experience with computers and a knowledge of typing, shorthand, filing, and collating. Her first assignment became her last, and she was asked not to return. No one had given her the skills she needed to operate in an office environment and if they had, it’s not likely she would have taken them.

The Val Strough Chevrolet dealerships advertised openings for car salesmen and saleswomen. All it took, they said, was a high school diploma, a desire to be a winner, and a brief training period, for which they would pay each trainee. The job was commission based, but new employees were paid for 90 days while they learned the ropes. A good salesperson could make $80,000.00 in a year, they said. According to the advertisement, you could work your own hours.

Borrowing a suit from her dowdy sister which was subsequently doctored using duct take to make it tighter, shorter, and more revealing, she rode the two busses it took to get to the dealership, and applied for the position. The sales managers on the floor pounced on her the minute she walked in. She was hired on the spot. With looks like that, they said, she could make a killing.

The second day of the training, she missed her first bus. When she arrived 30 minutes late, she was given a warning not to be late again. No one, it seemed, understood the difficulties of public transportation. The following week, she overslept and decided not to go in at all. To avoid trouble, she told them that her daughter was sick, and they gave her a reprieve. The next week, she left early so that she could make an earlier bus (she knew what they would be going over, anyway, so why stick around). A few days later, she stayed home, just because she was sick and tired of the grind. She didn’t call to let them know she wasn’t coming, and she didn’t pick up the phone when it rang at the apartment.

When they fired her, she had been late or absent a total of eleven times, 4 of them unexcused. She was incredulous that she had put in all that time and money coming to class and buying new clothes, only to be fired. She was further shocked to discover, when she tried to file a complaint with the EEOC, that the intake clerk did not buy her story that the dealership was racist, or in the alternative, sexist. Wasn’t she aware, the clerk asked her, that she was on probation and that unexcused absences were unacceptable? Did she understand what it meant to be employed? Didn’t she have any home training, the clerk wanted to know? The unemployment claim was also rejected.


With each failed job experience, she was moving further from the prize which made Tisa increasingly desperate for the quick fix. She was feeling more and more on the periphery of her own life, watching her family move further away from her.

Sitting with her daughter and her sister over Chinese food made her angry at who they were and who they were becoming to each other. She wanted in and she was running out of options. On the one hand, spending all that time at school sounded like the living hell she’d already lived through in high school. On the other hand, going to school would bring her close to her daughter. They might have more to talk about, something she desperately wanted. She might be able to close the gap she saw widening between her and the only thing about which she cared in this world. Domini was her life. Perhaps getting a low-wage job on the way to a college diploma was the only way to wrest her daughter away from her sister. She thought about going back to school. Instead, she went to be a stripper.

The Solid Gold Club was located just outside the downtown Oakland financial district, on Adeline, near 27th Street. It was far enough away from the corporate business offices to be out of the line of sight, but close enough to them to be a clandestine destination for the district’s inhabitants after work. The Gold, as it was known, served up watered-down cocktails and bar fare, and beginning at 12:30 pm, women. The prices were just high enough to keep out the bluest blue collar workers, but low enough that if a middle manager wanted to, he could frequent the place several times a week.

Police Officers were regularly in the area because of its proximity to the Greyhound Bus Station – where there was always some action. They were always allowed in for free. They were treated to as many sodas as they could drink. If he knew the code, a cop could even get his flask filled with Wild Turkey or Bacardi. The rule was, no drinking on the premises and BYO thermos.

There was nothing particularly special about The Gold, though neither was it a seedy dive. Like a new car without extra options, it did its job in a pleasant enough environment and got patrons where they wanted to go with enough comfort to keep them coming back. The perimeter of the ceiling was lined all around with blue and gold Christmas lights, There was an elevated runway in the center of the room, shaped like a T, that was lit from the bottom with blue lights. The bar wrapped around the runway strip. Except for the very front of the runway, where the bartenders stood, a patron could sit anywhere along the runway and enjoy the show. Or, if one preferred to have his lap dance or generally enjoy the show in private, The Gold had tables further away from the action, and booths lined against the wall. The booths had mirrored centerpieces on tables so a patron getting a lap dance could enjoy the view from both sides.

Cocktail waitresses served the table and booth patrons. Most of the cocktail staff were strippers who had given up the life by choice, or by circumstance, like age and pregnancy. Waitresses didn’t make a poor living, but the real money was made on the pole.

TC, the owner/manager at the Gold, had been selling cheap thrills since the late 70’s, when he bought it from its prior owner, who had operated the place as a disco. The mirror balls and fog machine were still used from time to time. Those first years, The Gold changed names every few months: Ladies’ Night, Big’Uns, The Electric Booty, until he landed on The Solid Gold Club in the early 80s. The name had stuck.

The Gold had a fairly loyal following of men and a few women, who came to drink and watch, and occasionally play pool in the back room. On weekends, it was home to a transient crowd of bachelor party-goers most of whom were first-timers, and holdover business trippers looking for disease-free thrills. A girl could make a good living if she got a weekend shift on the runway. The women were mostly congenial, and they worked together to split up the good shifts. TC didn’t meddle much with the schedule and he let them take care of things, unless he saw there was some money to be made switching the women around.

In addition to the main floor, the Gold had two private rooms, reserved for VIPs. In downtown Oakland, a VIP was anyone who could pony up the $300.00 cover to use the 12-seat room for 2 hours. If a guest made an advanced reservation, he could even select the girl or girls who he wanted dancing for him and his friends. Most men who ordered up a VIP room were celebrating something, and the management was happy to accommodate most any legal wish, from specially decorated walls to whipped cream canisters at each seat. Everything came at a price. The festive environment and the management’s willingness to make a VIP happy made the rooms particularly attractive to the strippers. Even though there were only a few men in the room, they often opened their wallets quicker and wider, because they were in a celebratory mood.

As strip clubs went, the place was clean, the management was straightforward, and the patrons were civilized. The Gold did not generally get the high-rolling Japanese businessmen that came through San Francisco and who craved black women and blonde hair, preferably on the same dancer. Still, it managed to bring in a respectable crowd of businessmen, attorneys, and office schlubs who wanted to relax as much as one can with a stentonia drumbeat pounding out pole-grinds. The police were rarely called.

The Gold’s proximity to the Port of Oakland brought in a sufficient number of salesmen and Asian importers with expense accounts to keep TC and his women comfortable and looking good. For these special patrons, TC always carried a stash of cigars in the back, which could be smoked in the private rooms, or given as a parting gifts and a reminder to come back soon. It was not a pedigreed night club, like 20-20 in the city, but neither was it a dump.

The Gold also was not a whorehouse. TC made it clear that any of his girls who hit it on the premises would be immediately fired. What they did on their own time was their business – he wanted no part of it and he didn’t want The Gold to be part of it. TC never touched his girls and didn’t allow the patrons to, either, at least not without their permission. A lap dance, sure, or a tucked bill here and there, but if a girl said no to a little extra feel, it meant no, and he made darn sure any infractions of that rule were swiftly dealt with. If a girl said, yes to more than a casual touch, she had to take it someplace else, far away.

Many of the women speculated over the years that TC was gay, because he wasn’t abusive and he didn’t bed down the women who came in for jobs. He was a businessman and he kept his paws to himself because it was good for business, pure and simple. TC had kept the place running for over 15 years without any problems from the vice squad, the Alcohol Beverage Control board, or any rape crisis centers. He aimed to keep it that way and the more goodwill he built up over the years, the less likely some rogue employee could take it away with a single accusation.

TC considered that he had genuine respect for the women in his club. He called them “girls,” he said, because he was older, like a favorite uncle, and he felt like their protector. He employed as many women who were career strippers as he did those who were single moms and students just trying to stay in the bay area. He hated to see his best earners go, but if they were moving on, he wished them well. He was genuinely proud of his girls for abritraging their bodies to wrestle some poor fat slob’s cash from his wallet.

TC wasn’t a savior and never claimed to be one; if one of his girls was strung out, or if she messed up at work, she was gone – he wasn’t running a church or mission, and he didn’t have time for any activities that were going adversely affect his bottom line. Fuck up? Get out. Swift dealings, TC said, made it possible for him never to hold a grudge. If she cleaned herself up and could otherwise do her work, she was welcome to return to work. Once, anyway.

Notwithstanding his proscription on prostitution, TC was less strict about drugs. He didn’t want to see his patrons or staff opening making deals, or testing product, and he had certainly kicked out his share of dealers – his was not a haven for druggies. That said, such activity was inevitable in life, and especially at a strip club (or Gentleman’s Club as they were becoming known). Moreover, for many of his patrons, a dab of coke or a bit of marijuana greatly enhanced their experience at The Gold. When they were high, they bought things: cigarettes to augment their coke, chicken wings to ward off the munchies, more alcohol to offset the bennies. It was good for business. Besides, cops and politicians had to go somewhere safe to get their contraband; having them pick up a little baggie now and again in his office was insurance against ever being shut down because some Carrie Nation style zealots wanted him out of the neighborhood.

The cleaning crew hit The Gold at 2pm and each night and the place was cleaned down with a bleach-and-water solution that aged the vinyl before its time, but kept away the health department. Before The Gold brought in a lavatory attendant two years ago, the bathrooms had to be cleaned every hour.

These things were less important to Tisa that the fact that The Gold was hiring. They were always hiring, so Tisa went in to check out the place. Larry often mentioned that, during his runner days, he would hop over to one of the local strip clubs to grab a girl for a guest at the hotel. Some were wanted to dance for in-room private parties to serve as cocktail waitresses, or to dance with the guests; other times, they were wanted for more intimate activities. Either way, Larry said, they always walked out with wads of cash. Even the one who were only dancers made good money. Back in the 70’s, said Larry, many of the women were pulling in $20,000.00 a year or more. Some, he said, were even putting themselves through school. Fast easy money, he said. Tisa had forgotten all the downsides of such a life that he talked about. She went in to speak with the manager.

“You got any experience on the pole?” he asked, after she’d completed her application.

“Well, how hard can it be?” she said. TC laughed, looking her up and down. He asked her to turn around so he could look at her.

“Too fat, too flat,” he said matter-of-factly. “Sorry, dear,” he smiled at Tisa and patted her hand. “I don’t think you’re cut out for this sort of work. How old are you, anyway? This is a young girl’s game.”

“I’m 28,” she lied. “And what do you mean too fat?” This was not what she expected to hear. Tisa had never been, and was not now, fat. But average-woman-fully-clothed-fat was not the same thing as stripper-fat, and TC explained that there was just too much dangling skin in areas that men wanted to see something tight.

“Don’t take it personal, but I can’t make any money on you, honey, and that means you can’t make any money.”

“Well, I can lose weight – that’s easy,” said Tisa. “How much do you pay?”

“How much do I pay?!” TC laughed again, “You really are new to this. He put down his cigar and swung around on his barstool to face her. “I don’t pay you, you pay me, brown sugar. That’s how this racket works. If you want to get paid for showing up, this is the wrong gig. Let me tell you how it works:

“For a weekday lunch, I get $50 bucks. You tip out the cocktailers if you get a lap dance, and you tip out the bartenders regardless of what you earn. Weekend lunches are $25.00.

“Friday and Saturday nights you pay $300.00. Other nights, it’s $125.00 with the same tip-out. You get $20.00 for a lap dance and $40.00 if you let them touch your tits. Some women allow these creeps to lick them for an extra $20.00, but that’s your business. I wouldn’t. No low-balling, either – we can’t have cat fights in here because you’re selling short, and I got a reputation to keep up – this is not a peep show. The price I give is the price you charge.

“Private parties’ll cost you $500.00,” he said, motioning to the private rooms. “It’s expensive, but generally, the money’s incredible, and I don’t make you tip out. They go for 2 hours. After that, you can work your way into the rotation here on the runway for free. Of course, a lot of the private parties take on a life of their own outside the club. Or sometimes you get two more hours. In that case, you give me $50.00 more, since I’m not going to turn over the room.” He took up his cigar and sucked some smoke into his cheeks. After a long moment he continued.

“No prostituting. None. Zip. I catch even a whiff of you suckin’ some guy off in the bathroom or spreadin’ it for one of these fat fucks in your car out back, your ass will be out on the street so fast, you won’t even have time to collect your costume. Oh, that reminds me, costumes are on your dime. But none of this matters, honey, because I’ve been in this business long enough to know that you’re not going to make it. You maybe could get by on that rack,” he said, pointing to her breasts, “but that ass is too big, and I’m guessing that stomach’s got some flab on it.”

“I could lose 10lbs in a week,” she said quickly, hoping to maintain his attention. She had already done the calculations: if women were willing to pay to dance here, the money must be phenomenal, and certainly better than anything she might make going to school and working at Top Dog between classes. With money like that, she didn’t need an education. She Could buy Domini that pony and see who was laughing then.

“Well, come back and see me when you think you’ve got what it takes,” he said. “We’re always looking for talent. No guarantees, of course, but you never know. Lose that junk in the trunk and you might make one fine dancer. You want to get up there now and show me something? I’m happy to look.” She didn’t move.

“Look, don’t take this personal. You seem like a nice girl. I just know what sells, honey. It’s all about business. Ask me, you should let this life go. You’re a nice girl. Go get yourself a job at Peet’s Coffee and go to secretarial school or something. That’s more your speed.”

“You want me to get up there and dance, I’ll dance. Put something on,” she said. She was not going to let her dream disappear that quickly.

“Sure, kid,” he said. TC waved and called out to his dj who was setting up for the afternoon shift. “Hey, Gordon, put up some music. I got an audition.”

Someone turned on the blue lights under the floor and Tisa stripped down to her panties and bra. The bartender lead her around to the runway stairs and she got up to dance. It wasn’t much different than dancing for boyfriends in high school, only the bedroom was nightclub. After a few minutes, she saw the bartender nod to TC, and he waved her down.

“Well, you got the moves, and you’re pretty good for a beginner. Like you said, how hard can it be, huh? Anyway, tell you what I’m gonna do cuz I like your spunk. We pay $3.53 an hour for cocktailers. You keep your tips and tip-out the bartenders. If you’re good to the girls, they’ll be good to you. The money’s OK, and you don’t have to take off your clothes. If you drop the weight, maybe get a boob job, I’ll let you work the floor. Sound good?”

“What are the tips like for cocktailers?” she said, putting her clothes back on. The question made TC laugh again.

“You cut to the chase, don’t you? Shit, I don’t know. Some do better than others. Your time’s not your own – you have to show up when we need someone. In the beginning, they money’s not so good, but if you sell a lot of lap dances and make your customers happy getting them drinks, then, I don’t know, probably could bring in $300.00 on a real good night, less most of the time.” He swung his legs around to the floor and hopped off the barstool.

“I got things to do, you want the position?”

“OK, when do I start?” she said. She could always quite later if she found something else.

“I dunno, talk to Randy,” he motioned to the bartender. “Randy – this is Tisa, our new cocktailer. Put something together for her, would’ja?” Then he turned back to Tisa and touched her shoulder. “Good to meet you, Tisa. Here’s a tip: best way to make friends with the girls is to sell those dances.” He disappeared in the back.


Tisa had never had female friends. She viewed them as competition; in the looks racket, you were as good looking as you were not merely based upon subjective criteria, but also on who was standing next to you. In high school, it was a slippery balance. You had to be part of the good looking crowd, but you wanted to be the best looking of them. And in high school, other things mattered, too. It was cool to be just a little rebellious. It was cool not to participate in the ra-ra acitivites, and it was cool to be just a little bit selfish. In some sense, high school was the perfect training ground for Tisa to hone her character. She was a mean girl, and mean girls didn’t have girlfriends, or if they did, they were only friends as long as the relationship was useful. Being nice to sluts who were ostensibly in the way of her making money was going to be difficult.


Tisa started on the day shift, which meant she had to be at work at 10:30. The bar opened at 11:00 and the first cocktailers were needed to help the bartender set-up, and to do side work. The dancers – they preferred not to be called strippers – were due in at 12, and generally went on stage at between 12:15 and 12:30, so they could get the noon crowd. The day-shifters pooled tips. This helped a girl out who was working the back tables; since customers could sit where they liked, the seating arrangement could get lopsided. Pooling tips insured that a cocktailer got something for her shift. It also created an incentive for the women to work together.

The day shift women spent their time serving cocktails to the “nooners” who needed to take the edge off after a long 3 hour stint at the office. This was not the celebratory crowd of pre-marriage bachelors, or deal-closing managers who flicked off dollar bills like they were lint; these were the workaday stiffs whose afternoon drinking habits made them prefer the companionship of strangers. Many of them were long-timers, the bartender told Tisa. They kept to themselves and were happy to tip you for not noticing how much they drank or what time it was. It could be depressing work, but since most of the cocktailers were not much better off than their clientele, it worked out.

“Most of ‘em are alcoholics, or at least real heavy drinkers,” said the bartender, wiping down his bar and handing Tisa a box of paper napkins to add to the dispensers on the table. “They’ll have a sandwich or some wings, but they’re here for the booze.”

“if they’re alcoholics, then why don’t they come every day?” asked Tisa, remembering her own habit.

“Well, you know, they put up lots of road blocks to their disease, to make sure they’re not found out. One of ‘em is not to go to the same place in a day. They all got their own circuit, know what I mean? We’re just one stop on the circuit. See that guy over there?” said the bartender, pointing to a man who had just slipped into small rounder in the back. “He comes in here 2 or 3 times a week. But my buddy Manny, a bartender who works down at the Blue Pelican on MacArthur, says that same guy comes into his place twice a week, too. He’s kidding himself that we don’t know.” The bartender shook his head, and ducked under the bat to pull out some Smirnoff, the house vodka and preferred spirit of those customers who had to go back to work.
Tisa enjoyed talking to the bartender. She felt comfortable around him – he didn’t judge her and he didn’t want anything from her. Even she had to admit that there were girls prettier than she in the place, so she didn’t try to compete for his affections, and if she had, he wasn’t buying. He had made that clear. “I don’t shit where I eat,” he told her on her first day. “And don’t give me any of that Hooker with a heart of gold bullshit either. I don’t care about your 7 kids or your sick mom. Let’s keep our personal lives to ourselves. You remember than and we’ll get along just fine.”

That was perfectly fine with Tisa. Besides, what would she say, she wondered, if she was asked to reveal her past? That she was a three-time unrecovered recovering drug addict who’d never had a job more than a week, had a child out of wedlock from guy who disappeared into the street; had a family who probably was responsible for putting her there, and a sister who was slowly trying to take her daughter? No, she was pleased that the bartender wanted to chat about work and the weather – anything by life stories.

The bartender had given her a small bag of red-and-white holiday mint candies. “Here. You first bag’s on me. Drop these when you drop your tab. Give a couple. That’ll help your customer mask his breath. Most of ‘em carry mints and gum and such, but they always appreciate a little something from the waitress. And be discreet about it; these guys want us to think they’re here for the women, not the booze.”

“Why would he even care what we think?” asked Tisa, eyeing the man as he removed his jacket and flipped open the menu and just as quickly closed it.

“We’re technically not supposed to serve people who are drunk or serve people who are habitual alcoholics. Could be he’s been kicked out of places before, or maybe he just doesn’t want us to think he’s a drunk. I dunno.” The bartender loaded some ice in his station as he talked. “as long as he pays his tab, what do I care. I don’t have to be his friend to serve him a drink, although, lemme tell you, some of these guys think I am their friend, cuz I keep my mouth shut and nod when they talk.” The bartender piled some barchecks on the counter for Tisa and the other cocktailer to use.

“He doesn’t look real bad off though, “said the bartender. “When they do get to lookin’ bad, we kick ‘em out. Not good for business to have some slobbery, smelly, bad-lookin’ guy crying in his beer. Besides, no girl’s gonna give some gutter-rat a lap dance and that means you and I don’t get tipped out,” he winked at her.

“Looks like he’s got a job somewhere. Judging from the short sleeved shirt, he’s either middle management, a salesman, or an engineer. Probably manager. Anyway, he hasn’t hit rock bottom yet. He’ll be around a few more years.”

“Then what?” Tisa asked, adjusting her short cocktail dress to accommodate the pen and drink slips she tucked in the back.

“Then I don’t know, “ said the bartender. “You know, some of them just get worse and worse until we kick ‘em out. Then they disappear. Some of them we know just end up on the street, I guess, like the winos you see out there sometimes.” He was thoughtful for a moment and then continued. “You know, most of these guys got family, so they get treatment, you know, like AA or some private place. Every so often we even get some angry wife or mother who blames us for the guy’s disease, like if we weren’t here, he’d be fine. Sometimes we even get some wife or other going after the dancers, you know, like them doin’ their thing up on stage makes them homewreckers.” He shook his head.

“So everyone in here’s an alcoholic?”

“Hardly,” said the bartender. “Nah, we get a lotta normal guys who come here to watch the dancers – they’re beautiful, why not? And also we get folks coming in from the port. Travelers and such and salesmen. They stop in and we never see them again. We get normal guys taking a break. Maybe they come in because it’s close to where they happen to be and they just want a beer. You know, there’s lots of construction in this neighborhood. Sometimes we just get crews celebrating a birthday, something like that. Really, it’s not so bad.

“But the day crowd is just less predictable in that way. At night, we get more folks who are just there to party and see the girls. Because, well, most folks wait until 5 to start their drinking. When you get a guy in here a few times a week or month who’s knockin’ ‘em back starting at 12, well, he’s probably got the bug.

“”He looks like a loser to me,” said Tisa, nodding to the man in her station.

“Well, honey, it’s your job – and frankly your tip – to make sure he doesn’t feel like a loser. That’s why he comes in here, so pretty gals like you can help him take the edge off. Go on, now, be nice to him.” The bartender moved away to serve a new customer at his bar.

Tisa put on her best smile and walked over to where the man was sitting. It was easy for her to be nice to men, even losers, if they had something she wanted. In high school, it was weed or wheels. When she was using, it was pills and blow. Now, it was his money.

“Well, hello, how are you this afternoon?” she said brightly.

“Fine,” said the man flatly, tucking his head down and not looking at her. “I’ll have the Philly cheese steak and a beer, please,” he said quickly, keeping his face down.

“You sure that’s all you want?” she said, with a sultry lilt. “How about a lap dance?”

“No, just the sandwich. Bring the beer first.” His words were clipped. He didn’t smile and he kept his head down.

“You sure,” said Tisa, “her best ‘soft voice’ at work. “I think Kimber likes you,” she said, waving to one of the strippers who had just walked in. Kimber waved back. “She’s seen you in here before. I bet you like her, too.”

“JUST the sandwich,” he said, this time sternly.

“What about Julianne? She’s in the back. I’d be happy to go get her.”

“No thank you,” said the man, scooting out of the booth. He quickly walked to the exit, dragging his coat behind him, and walked out.

“Fucker,” Tisa mumbled under her breath. She walked back to the bar to wait for another customer.

“You gotta read their body language,” came an unsolicited comment from another cocktailer. “That’ll tell you what they want and what you can sell.” The cocktailer, Maxine, smiled at her, and while Tisa was not accustomed to taking instruction from anyone, it did seem like this woman was being nice, so she responded.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he didn’t smile at you when you walked up. You’re a pretty girl; he should have smiled at you. That tells you who the real mistress is. For him it was that booze. We girls gotta stick together, especially in the day shift. Else we can’t make that rent check at the end of the month.” Maxine smiled again and patted the barstool next to hers. “Don’t worry. We all make the same mistake. You’ll do fine. Just don’t mess up too often. I can’t afford it.” She winked at Tisa to let her know she was kidding.

Maxine had lived a hard life, considerably harder than Tisa’s. Having left home because of an abusive father at 12, she had gotten in the sex trade early. Maxine had the battle scars of a heroin users, but the scars had healed years ago and she told Tisa that she had been clean for over a decade. Like Tisa’s friend Larry, Maxine agreed that heroin was the greatest drug on the planet, if you had a death wish.

For a very brief time, she had been a prostitute, but the life didn’t suit her, she told Tisa. “I think you really have to hate men to do that sort of work. It’s the only way to make yourself feel like they’re the mark, not you.” Fortunately, she told Tisa, she was working for Artie Mitchell at the time, in the club he ran with his brother, The Mitchell Brothers’ O’Farrell Theatre, and it was an easy transition out of that life.

Maxine had personally performed a lap dance for Hugh Heffner, she told Tisa. But that was years ago, when the theatre was a place to make money. She had come to the Gold 4 years ago, danced on the runway until 2 years ago, and had settled into cocktailing as a form of retirement, she said. Maxine was 27. She had been working the club scene since she was 13.

“Most girls got pimps and stuff, and if I had gone that way, I’d probably still be in the life,” said Maxine, during a break on her shift. “But I was working the Champagne Room for Artie and when I was tired of it, he was cool -- just let me back on the pole.”

The Champagne Room was like the private dance rooms at The Gold, only famous. The Champagne Room had a stage. For an additional $100.00 a girl would give you a lap dance on the bed – also known as a bed dance. For $400.00 more, you could get more than a dance. Maxine had been lured by the money, originally, but couldn’t handle the perverts who frequented the place.

“That’s when I was using, so anything that brought in cash looked good to me. But I got clean with my boyfriend at the time and then I ran screaming. No more Champagne Room for me.”

Tisa learned a good deal about Maxine’s life between serving up baskets of chicken wings and martinis without vermouth. She couldn’t understand why Maxine was not more bitter and angry about her own situation. Maxine’s one child had been taken by the state during her brief stint with heroin; she had been raped twice, and at 27, she was still living in a studio apartment with barely more than a toaster to her name. Maxine shook it off, telling Tisa that she needed to make the best of things. Talking to Maxine made Tisa’s work day go by faster.

Maxine showed Tisa the ropes, letting Tisa shadow her during the days they were on shift together, and then debriefing her about what had just happened. Tisa got to know what signs to look for on a customer that made them a viable candidate for premium liquor, a lapdance, or a private room, all of which put more money in their pockets. Like Larry, Maxine was full of stories about the good old days, when she was using. Tisa was less forthcoming about her own life.

“We used to have to dance completely naked over at the Mitchell Brothers’, she said. “But the money was top dollar. We had to pay a bigger cover than here, but the tip-outs were good enough to make it worth it. Artie and Jimmy, the owners, charged a $30.00 cover per person. I can only imagine the money they were making.

“Some nights, I’d come home with $3000.00. On a good weekend sift, you could pull down $10,000 and that was 8 years ago,” said Maxine. “I don’t recommend the life for anyone, but if you pick the right place at the right time, there’s good cheddar.”

“What can you make here on a good night,” asked Tisa.

“Up there?,” said Maxine, pointing to the runway. “A girl can make almost the same, but I mean, it doesn’t go as far because it’s a new day. Some nights are better than others. Just sort of depends., I guess.”

“Depends on what?”

“Well, lots of things, you know; like who’s working the bar. If the drinks are good, the patrons stay longer, get drunker, tip bigger, and order more dances. If a guy’s having a birthday party and he wants to be there, that’s a good one., too. Which reminds me,” she said, “If a guy comes in for a bachelor party or something and you see he’s uncomfortable, he’s your mark. Tell him you understand how he feels, coming into a place like this and be real low-key. You’ll get a big tip.”

“What else do I need to know?” Tisa wanted to know it all. If the runway was where the money was, then the runway was where she wanted to be. Maxine casually spit out tricks of the trade as they worked: always pay extra attention to someone who’s throwing bills at your if you’re on the pole. Carry a bottle of rubbing alcohol in your purse and work gloves into your act. When you first come on stage, wear your gloves covered in alcohol and gives the poles a good rub as you dance to ward off herpes. Bring a flashlight and put a red Dixie cup over the top. If a guy is giving you extra attention, simulate sex with the flashlight.

“But look at us. You and I are too old to be up there shakin’ it. Once you’ve got some night shifts, you’ll see, the money’s good, and if you sell the girls’ dances, they’ll treat you right. I work Friday nights, which is definitely the best night – better than Saturday. Anyway, I think I made $500.00 last weekend. It’s good money, hon. Don’t get on that herpes infested pole. Save it for the young things.”

“Why don’t you dance up there any more?” asked Tisa.

“It was time to quit, I guess. You have to know when the life’s not for you any more. I’ve seen girls get booed off. It’s pretty humiliating. Besides, this don’t doesn’t have a retirement plan. What’s that saying? A young man’s game?”

“Why didn’t you just cocktail at The Mitchell Brothers Theater?”

“Oh, honey, you can’t serve cocktails there. California doesn’t allow alcohol to be sold where there’s full nudity. I would have made just enough there to have to get on my back again. Nope, I like The Gold just fine.”

After two weeks working the lunch crowd, Tisa was able to get some evening shifts. She had managed to keep her temper at bay, learn some waitressing tricks from Maxine that increased her tips, and keep her past to herself. She was making enough money to make ends meet, and even buy herself some nice clothes or something for her place. She charmed meals -- such as they were – out of the day cooks, so she never had to buy food. It never occurred to Tisa to assist her sister financially. Whatever money was leftover from the rent went to Tisa. Not having a bank account or the slightest clue how to get one, she kept her money under her bed.

Despite its function, the Gold was one of the first jobs Tisa had worked at that lasted for more than a few days. It was also the first place that Tisa had made female friends like Maxine. Maxine refused to complete with Tisa and ignored Tisa’s rants and anger. They had even gone out for coffee a few times, just because. Tisa could not remember a time when someone wanted her company for her and not for sex or drugs, or a court order. Maxine was not ashamed of working at the Gold, but neither did she think it was a good place to spend her life. Maxine had plans. School, maybe an office job.

Tisa’s schedule was even stable enough for her to start school, as her daughter had hoped, but the beginning of fall came and went without her ever picking up the catalog. She wanted to be closer to Domini, but the way to do that was with the gifts she could buy and the dinners she could lavish on her, Tisa was certain. After all, how could you share an education. To do what she wanted she needed cash, so what she wanted was to be on the pole.

Partly because TC and Maxine said she was too old, and partly because it symbolized for her the youth she’d lost downing whitecaps, she had to get up there. Tisa was pretty good at selling dances from her position as a cocktail waitress and the girls tipped her out generously, but she could not stand that she carried less status and weight among the men who patronized The Gold. Too fat and too flat had been TC’s battle cry when she first started working there. She needed to do something about the weight first, so she could get up there and make some real money. The boob job could come later.

Thing was, she was having trouble taking off the weight. Gone were the days when she could easily drop a few pounds simply by skipping the cream and sugar in her coffee. TC was clear: she could not get on the pole until she could show TC that she had what men wanted. His advice was to stay on the floor.

Most of the strippers were young, but a few had years on them that Tisa hadn’t yet seen. She went to them first. Some just didn’t eat much or were naturally thin; some spent time at the gym, firming things up. Some speed, they said, to take the pounds off quickly, like after a night out drinking. It was also a good kicker to start the night with, so the speed worked double-duty. If you wanted, you could easily dull your buzz with a little beer or a screwdriver. They slipped her a few bennies. It was fine, they said, . . . . so long as you could keep it in check.