Early Friday Evening

The sky is bruised as if somebody had threatened it with terrible violence and then made good on his promise. Now badly beaten and broken-hearted, it’s about to weep. The air is cool. It smells like fall and somebody grilling hot dogs. It’s magnificent. “Brick by Brick” is throbbing through my car stereo. “We’re the undefeated. Always undefeated...” Window all the way down. Driving past a gas station, I can see a girl walking through the parking lot slowly, like she’s got nowhere better to be than in front of this gas station. Her hands are in the back pockets of her jeans, and her elbows are splayed out wide. Her hips and ass are almost perfectly spherical, and moving smoothly, like she’s dancing. I begin to think about how I wish my hands were in the back pockets of her jeans. Now it smells like fall, hot dogs, and gasoline. Life doesn’t get any better than this. Further down the road, there’s a man in a wheelchair crossing an ugly intersection. His legs are very small and atrophied. He’s wearing a tank top, and his arms are lean and muscular like Bruce Lee's. He looks to be about 50. Mustache and a balding mullet, his head gently convulses with each violent thrust of his arms. His chair jerks across this intersection. He stops at the grassy island in the center, changes directions, and begins his way across the ramp and onto the sidewalk which goes across the McKees Rocks bridge. It’s a long fucking bridge, and he’s a better man than me. His heart is stronger than my legs. It’s amateur night at Silky’s. Same price to get in as any other night, but inexperienced girls on the stage, instead of the usual trained professionals. They have shitty all-you-can-drink beer on tap. The leaves are starting to turn, and I’m thinking about growing a beard.

Asleep At the Wheel

My best guess is that he simply fell asleep at the wheel. We were driving home on a Sunday afternoon from a weekend with our friends, traveling down a three-lane highway. The little silver early '90s Nissan, driving in the left lane in front of us, drifted off the road into the concrete abutment. The rear driver’s side fender kissed the abutment, throwing sparks and dust. The driver must have awoken immediately and promptly overcompensated, going out away from the divider, and then slamming back into it. After the second impact, he swerved out much farther across the right lane. Fortunately, the man driving the rig which occupied that lane had seen the preceding spectacle and accelerated out of harm’s way in ample time, leaving that lane vacant. Likewise, riding in the left lane, behind the little silver Nissan, we decelerated and dropped back to allow him room. After crossing over two lanes into the right lane (and nearly off the road entirely), the driver of the Nissan overcompensated again and apparently stood on his brakes at the same time, nearly rolling the car over as it spun back across both lanes. He drove nearly straight into the same concrete abutment he’d sideswiped initially. He collided with it slightly less than head-on, just towards the passenger’s side of the vehicle, which was unoccupied. The car came to rest pointing in the wrong direction. The rig pulled over immediately, and we pulled over shortly thereafter, just in front of it, about 250 feet from the wrecked vehicle. I got out and looked back towards the wreck. The trucker was already out, talking with the young man, who was also standing outside his vehicle, apparently unhurt. The trucker was on a cell phone, presumably contacting the police. Traffic was already beginning to move past the event. Everybody was okay. Not wanting to add more people to the confusion, we got back in our car and drove off. It was a strange end to a strange weekend.

Coffee and Gasoline

Coffee is wonderful. It should be consumed in great volumes, without cream or sugar, undiluted, and in the presence of a strong smell of gasoline. It’s best accompanied with a three-pack of Zingers and some beef jerky. A long car ride, a book of Charles Bukowski’s poetry, and loud music are also helpful accompaniments.

Aftermath

The only clean thing in the room is the window. Everything else shares our guilt. Everything else was an accessory to what we all did. The window was the only thing in the room that tried to betray us. It tried to let somebody know. It’s 4am, and everything is quiet. Everybody has had their fill. There isn’t a drop left in anyone here. We’re all done for the night.

Mustang Sally’s

Mustang Sally’s is a bottle club. You bring your own beer and the girls get completely naked. Weird state laws prevent fine establishments such as this from selling alcohol when the dancers are totally nude. Most of the time you find clubs where they either sell alcohol and the girls wear pasties or you bring your own alcohol and the girls get completely naked. On our way there, on the winding narrow roads whipping through the backwoods, my girlfriend’s husband was driving us at seventy miles per hour. It was terrifying. I was in the backseat with all the windows open. It was making me chilly. Normally I enjoy being a little chilly, but this was just a little too much, just enough to be uncomfortable. The air was roaring.

When we arrived, the parking lot was full of trucks, men, and coolers. The building looked new, with a huge, impressive neon sign. Upon payment and entrance, you are given a plastic cup. They come in a few different colors. Mine was fluorescent orange. Neon pink and green appeared to be the only other options. It was also screen-printed with the black outline of a sexy-looking, cartoon cowgirl standing between two galloping horses, all in front of giant flames. The logo sat beneath, drawn in rope. Below that was the phone number of the club and its web address. The main stage was big, and lit dramatically. It looked like every other stage I’ve ever seen in a strip club, only newer. The spot where the brass pole met the ceiling looked like it had been peppered with buck shot. The little holes from where the girls’ heels had punctured the drop ceiling formed a halo in the panel around the top of the pole. Bad, radio-friendly metal from the late '90s throbbed over the PA. The girls were all in good shape. Many were quite athletic, and did things that made me dizzy. They smiled a lot, and looked cute and occasionally innocent in the neon glow. At other moments you could see their detachment. I watched a girl get on her hands and knees, point her ass at a man, spread her legs and pump her cheeks and crotch in his face, which was just inches away. He stared into her vagina like money was going to fall out of it. While she did this, her face was pointed away from most of the patrons. It was apparent that she didn’t think that anybody was looking at her face, as she looked utterly disinterested with what she was doing. Not uncomfortable, just disconnected. I generally feel disconnected from what I do for a living. How was this any different? It didn’t spoil the experience for me. I actually felt more intimate with her as a result of it. I felt like I had actually seen something that I wasn’t supposed to see, and that’s the very reason you go to a strip club anyway. I felt like we had something in common. It was humanizing. Later, the same girl came over and pressed her breasts against my face—a nipple in each eye—and shook them for a few seconds. I tipped her.

Eventually most of us got drunk and we all decided to leave. My wife’s boyfriend resumed driving duties, as he hadn’t been drinking. I got blown in the backseat on the way back to their place. He drove with no less abandon than during the initial trip, which made the experience that much more exhilarating.