and dropped her robe. Somebody whistled. Somebody shouted. She kept her shades on and danced the set, glad the songs bled into each other and she’d be through soon. She concentrated on the music, singing along in her head and ignoring everything going on around her.
As abruptly as it started, it was over. The music ended and Amber came out.
Janie stepped off the stage.
Ernie yelled over to her from the bar, “You got the job. We’ll call you Shady Lady.”
Janie pulled the robe around her and went back to the dressing room to wait for her next set. She wondered how she could do this again but knew already that done once, it would be easy enough to just keep going.
Sympathy for the Devil
“HEY, ERNIE GIVE ME A BIRD AND A BUD.” PAUL JESSE pulled a bill from his money clip. He carried a roll of bills sorted by denomination with the presidents facing the same way. He placed a Jackson on the bar and sat down. It was still early and only a couple regulars, old men with nothing much to do sipped beer and waited for the dancers to come on.
Ernie took a bottle of Wild Turkey off the shelf behind him and poured Paul a shot glass, grabbed a bottled Bud from the cooler and put the change on the bar, counting it off out loud. “Where you been hiding yourself?”
Paul took a sip of beer and wiped his Fu Manchu. “Went down to the city to see my kid and do a little business.”
“You take your bike?”
“Yeah. Twelve hours straight. My back is killing me.”
Ernie laughed.
Paul Jesse thought of The Habit as his office. He’d never been a grunt; never done more than a cursory pass at a straight job. He liked to think of himself as a Mongol trader from faraway times running drugs between Seattle and San Francisco – occasionally a trip East with a carload of dope. He’d known Ernie and Stella growing up in San Francisco where their families all lived within blocks of each other. Paul kept the dealing at The Habit low-key and mellow, gave a good deal, and never much looked at the women. He believed in the Golden Rule: deal unto others as you would have them deal unto you. He didn’t so much sell the drugs as they sold themselves. He merely delivered them. His bags of dope were never short; whatever he sold was guaranteed to get you high; he never ripped anyone off, didn’t sleep with their women, and if he stayed overnight on a long trip, he turned his hosts on to whatever he was selling. Dope was business and pleasure. Dope was away of life.
Ernie called out. “Let’s go, Shady. You’re up.”
A girl’s voice called back. “I’m just looking for some decent music, Ernie.”
Paul lowered his shades and glanced at the mirror behind the bar. A new dancer. She had long hippie-girl brown hair. A loosely belted robe revealed the curve of a breast. She wore old scuffed cowboy boots and mirrored sunglasses. Paul sipped from the shot glass.
Ernie smiled and yelled to the girl as she climbed the steps of the stage, “Soon as you learn to dance, baby, we’ll get you some new tunes.”
Brown Sugar came on the jukebox, and Paul turned on his stool to see what the new girl would do. It seemed like she was looking right at him, but it was probably Ernie she was looking at when she stuck out her tongue and shook her ass like some little kid. It made him smile. Paul turned his back to the stage and watched from the mirror. “Who’s the new girl?”
“That’s Janie. We been calling her Shady Lady. Cute, ain’t she?”
Paul nodded. “A little young.”
“We’re calling her eighteen.”
Paul shook his head. “Yeah, and I’m calling myself Miss America.”
“I’ll get your tiara, Your Highness.”
Paul watched the girl dance her set and finished his beer. When she walked off stage, he stood and called to Ernie. “Later, man.”
In the parking lot he climbed on his Harley Davidson ’58 Panhead and kicked her on. He hadn’t caught a shower or any sleep for a couple days. The road wound up a hill to a gravel road where he turned in. Paul rented a trailer parked behind Ernie’s house. He showered at Ernie’s and sometimes used the kitchen, but mostly the trailer was just a squat to sleep in when he needed. Paul unlocked the back door of the house and left it open while he got a clean towel from his trailer. He could smell Ernie’s through the open door – beer, cigarettes, and dirty socks.
Paul’s long hair was braided for riding. In the bathroom, he cut the rubber band that held the braid together at the bottom and loosened it with his fingers. His hair was stiff from the long ride and held the waves of the braid even after he brushed it. He undressed and turned on the shower, waiting for the water to run hot before he stepped in. He turned and let the steaming water pound the sore muscles in his shoulders and back.
This last trip to San Francisco had been tough. He wanted to see his six-year old son, Pauly, but little Pauly didn’t want to see him. Paul sat on the floor outside the kid’s closed bedroom door and talked to him for an hour, trying to get him to at least come out and say hello or goodbye. Little dude wouldn’t go for it.
Mia, his ex, said Pauly was scared of him. He and Mia had been strung out on the crank he’d been selling the last time he’d seen Pauly. The kid still remembered all those bad fights. Paul got paranoid and jealous. Mia got mouthy. Their last fight he’d held her by the throat and slapped the shit out of her. He looked up and saw little Pauly, almost three then, in his cowboy pajamas, wailing for his mom. Paul let go of Mia and walked out. A few months later he rode his bike to Seattle, which reminded him of San Francisco. He didn’t come back for over a year. When he did, Mia had sobriety and a straight old man. She’d even gone and married the guy. Now she, her husband, and Pauly lived in a nice house in the Avenues. The kid had his own room and a chance. Sometimes Paul thought the best thing he could do was forget about the kid. Mia’s husband wanted to adopt him. Paul wasn’t so sure. Thinking of his son was like running his tongue over a sore tooth. Nothing he could do about it now. Best thing probably was to cut the little dude loose.
Paul stepped from the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist, wiped the steam from the mirror and looked at himself. Getting old. He was going to be twenty-six this year. Closing in on thirty. Sometimes when he saw himself he wondered where the altar boy had gone. He trimmed his Fu Manchu and shaved his cheeks.
After he combed his hair, Paul cooked a bowl of Ramen noodles and poached an egg on top, dousing it with soy sauce. He took the bowl to the porch to eat. The spring sunshine felt warm. He liked it quiet like this. A Cooper’s hawk circled over a nearby pasture. One of the neighbor’s cats, a scrawny calico, crawled out from under the trailer and rubbed against his legs. Paul put his bowl on the ground for her. The cat lapped up the broken yolk, arching her back as she ate. Animals made better company than most of the people he knew. Paul yawned, stretching as he stood to go inside for a nap. He left the bowl for the cat.
BEFORE LEAVING THAT night for The Habit Paul bagged up an ounce of pot. He threw the baggies into a small paper bag and tucked it in the inside pocket of his leather jacket. He didn’t like to take more than an ounce. During the evening, he made several trips outside to do business with his regulars.
He sat at the bar nursing his second round. Every now and again he’d glance at the mirror to see who was dancing.
Delores
