cupboard and set them on the counter, double-checking the basket of sweeteners. With each new act and ticking of the wall clock, my heart beats faster. It’s almost time. I step up on the main stage and run my fingers up and down the pole. Maybe just one or two moves…. It’ll help calm me.
Just as I’m getting into position, the doorbell rings. Oh, God! This is it! They’re here. Take a deep breath. You know. Breathe in, now out, and in again. Steady….
I take a final look around the room, then head down to answer the door. For the moment, I forget how to breathe. How stupid is that? I’ve been doing it since I was a baby. It’s supposed to be involuntary. And now I forget how to breathe. What the hell? I close my eyes and try to calm myself before opening the door.
The bell chimes a second time. I reach for the handle and pull the door open. Standing before me is a pleasant though nervous-looking woman dressed in a black leotard and matching top, with a bag slung over her shoulder. “Hi, my name is Carol. Is this where the pole-dancing class is?”
I muster my most reassuring smile. “Sure is. My name’s Sally. Come in, please.” I step aside to grant the woman passage and note her meticulous appearance as she enters. Not a hair is out of place, and her outfit is flawless.
She turns to face me. “I hope it’s all right that I’m a few minutes early. Always am. Bothers some of my friends. Makes them uncomfortable. My being early isn’t making you uneasy, is it?” She doesn’t wait for an answer before continuing with her rapid monologue. “What was I thinking? Of course it’ll make you uncomfortable. Here, let me wait out in the car until the others arrive.” She suddenly looks grave. “There are others. Right?”
I’m so stunned by her incessant speech that it takes me a second to process that she’s paused so I can answer. “No. I mean, yes, there are others. No need for you to wait in the car. I’m sure the others will be here any minute. Why don’t I take you up and show you the studio?”
“Are you sure? Only if it’s no bother.”
“Come on. We can have a cup of coffee while we wait.” Hold on! What the hell am I saying? A cup of coffee. Surely, this woman’s already consumed fifteen espressos. “Or perhaps you’d prefer water?” I add.
“Coffee sounds good.”
Great. Of course it does. I’m gonna be the only pole-dancing instructor to kill off her first student with a cup of coffee. I mean, how much more stimulation can this woman’s heart take without checking out? I try another tactic. “Actually, I’m not sure if the coffee’s done brewing yet. Sure you wouldn’t prefer some water?”
“Well, if the coffee’s not done….”
As we enter the room, the sharp acidic aroma of freshly brewed coffee greets us, and I see the woman’s eyes twinkle with delight as she spies the full pot. Damn! I hear the doorbell ring downstairs. I look at Carol and motion toward the carafe. “Feel free to help yourself. There’s creamer in the fridge.” Not giving her a chance to respond, I head downstairs.
As I swing the door wide, a perfectly chiseled, five-foot-nine, alabaster-skinned, redheaded woman on the other side retracts her hand, poised to press the doorbell a second time. “Thought maybe I had the wrong address when you didn’t answer right away,” she says.
Great. I’ve got overly jumpy Carol caffeinating herself upstairs and Miss Judgmental standing before me. “Are you here for the pole-dancing class?” I ask.
“Yep.”
“Then you’re in the right place. Come in. My name’s Sally. And you are…?”
“Trish.”
“Pretty name. Is that short for Patricia?”
“No. Just Trish,” she says while noisily smacking her gum.
Wow! This is going great. Can hardly wait to meet the others. “Why don’t you come in?” I say. “I’ll take you up to the studio. One of the other students has already arrived.”
As we ascend the stairs, I’m concerned about how wired Carol might be. We arrive in the studio moments later where, ironically, I find a much calmer Carol. Hmmm…she must be hyperactive. I’ve heard caffeine calms hyperactive people.
I introduce the two. Trish sizes her up, sniffs and comments, “My, aren’t you the eager beaver.”
Standing slightly off to her side, I read Trish. She uses her tough girl act to cover for her insecurities. Know her type well. Used to be just like her…. I show Trish to the service counter where she helps herself to a bottled water, while I pour myself a cup of coffee. The three of us talk for a few minutes before the doorbell rings again.
I leave Trish and Carol to themselves and head down to greet my next student. Arriving at the door, I’m surprised to see who I presume are the remaining three of my students.
Pam’s in front of the other two and introduces herself. She’s pretty in a Midwest kind of way—not cover girl material. I sense a mystique hidden just below her surface, clamoring to make its way free. Her aura is alluring. To her left, a compact stout woman with dull mousy brown hair and lifeless eyes tells me her name is Molly. To Pam’s right is Alicia. When she offers to shake my hand, I can’t help but notice her nicotine-stained fingertips and the hard edge to her features. It’s evident from the heaviness on her face that hers has not been an easy life.
I welcome them and lead the way up to the studio where I introduce everyone. Trish is instantly put on guard by Pam’s height, just under her own, and her easy buoyant disposition. Of course, I’m sure Pam’s tanned complexion and sassy curls that frame her soft features don’t help. I’m going to have to watch those two. Oil and water….
Molly seems to be almost in physical pain when asked a question and literally shrinks back from the others. Alicia and Trish seem to hit it off for no apparent reason. I sense a common thread, not all that dissimilar to my own past.
By this time, Carol is on her second cup and Trish has almost finished her water. Pam helps herself to a mug of coffee. Alicia takes a water. And Molly refrains from treating herself to anything.
I allow them to finish their beverages and mingle for a few minutes. All the while, thoughts tumble their way through my mind. Man! What have I gotten myself into? I mean, look at them. Each is a train wreck of despair and a hard life. Who am I to think that I can make a difference? With every fiber of my psyche protesting and telling me to abort, I begin my first pole-dancing class.
Class Has Begun
Looking at my merry bunch of misfits, I realize that I’ll have to draw upon my people skills if I’m to succeed, and I say, “I thought we’d begin by introducing ourselves.” I can’t help but notice the apprehensive looks that mask my students’ faces, suggesting that they hide their feelings. “Some of you appear a little skeptical.” A little? More like jumping out of their skins. “How about if I begin? My name’s Sally Whitmore. I’m thirty-two. My life used to be really messed up. I was a prostitute, crack addict and a stripper.” I grab hold of the pole beside me and circle it. “Spent a lot of years hating myself, having no self-confidence and loathing
