The Winner: Part One

"That'll be eight dollars and twelve cents..."

The clerk behind the bullet-proof plexi-glass is wearing an Insane Clown Posse T-shirt under his red Texaco vest and has a G.E.D. study guide open on the counter in front of him. As I dig the money out of my pocket I stop for a second and think about the items I am purchasing this Thanksgiving night:

One pack of GPC menthol cigarettes. They are not for me, but for my morbidly obese mother, who has started smoking again in an attempt to put herself into the grave as quickly as possible. I don't feel particularly inclined to stop her.

One pack of generic ibuprofen, to take the edge off the splitting headache I've had for what feels like months now. I have barely been able to concentrate on anything more difficult than late informercials because of it.

Two lotto Quik-Piks. To me these are the most depressing items. I've taken to the playing the lottery a lot lately, even though I've traditionally despised it. You can tell someone is at the end of their rope when their last hope is the billion to one shot at hitting the jackpot. I don't know why I even buy these. I don't even check to them to see if I've ever won anything. My jacket pocket is full of old, crumpled up tickets. I see it as more of a symbol of where I am in my life now; at the bottom of the pile. An ex-con in a dead-end job as a night clerk at a sleazy hotel. This is even worse than when I went to jail; a constant state of low level desperation.
I look at these items on the counter before me and realize my downfall is complete.

I stick a ten-dollar bill through the slot under the partition. ICP-boy puts it in the register and slips my change under there. "Have a happy Thanksgiving," he says as I stuff it in my pocket.

"Yeah, you too," I mumble as I step out of the convenience store into the freezing cold night.

There is, of course, no turkey, no stuffing, no gravy or jello salad waiting for me at home. Thanksgiving comes at the end of the month, which is also the time when my mother has blown most of her welfare money. She ate the turkey that was donated to her from the food bank weeks ago by herself. Today, she was making the rounds to every homeless shelter in the city serving a Thanksgiving dinner. It was a very elaborate plan (for her) which would mean she would get no less than four dinners tonight if she took this bus and that bus and got to this and that church at the correct serving times. Personally, I think it's an awful lot of walking for someone who weighs just shy of four-hundred pounds and gets winded walking up a flight of stairs.

I wasn't really hungry anyway, I tell myself. This constant headache has removed any appetite I might once have had. Money really isn't an issue. I've been able to save up about five-hundred bucks which should put me on the way towards getting my own place soon (that is, if the rent don't keep shooting up like they are everywhere.) I also get paid tomorrow, so I can blow a few bucks if I want to. I see the bus coming down the street and I'm near the stop. I'm in no mood to go home yet, so I flag it down and take it into town.

The bus is practically empty. There is one mean looking old black lady and a homeless guy passed out in the back. I try not to look at the black lady, and I imagine she's looking at the mangled COCKSOCKET tattoo on the skin graft on my cheek and judging me. I always get paranoid in places that are well lit. I avoid areas with florescent lighting as much as I can.

I ride the bus about half an hour before getting off in a semi-populated area. I have made one drastic and obvious miscalculation in thinking there would be any place open on Thanksgiving night. A few bars might be open, but with my headache, I am in no mood to drink at all.
I got off the bus and wandered down the street pointlessly, feeling like a schmuck for having wasted the bus fare down here. Eventually, I see a place down the block with a flickering neon sign. Its some strip bar named Friday's Gentleman's Club. I am cold and think maybe the sight of some titties might cheer me up. I amble over to the club and go inside.

At the door, I pay some stern looking Greek guy my twelve dollars cover and change out a twenty into singles. The sign next to the door guy says "Two-drink minimum, No Alcohol". No alcohol served meant the place could have full nudity. I was excited. Being a young man who is pretty much addicted to porn, it takes more than tits to excite me.

A strip club on Thanksgiving is a naturally barren place. There are maybe five guys in the whole place, split between two stages. None of us look like high rollers. There are four bored strippers lounging around some tables in the back. The wear sterotypical clear high heels, sip diet Pepsis and smoke cigarettes, waiting for their turn on the stage. It looks like the club put on the day-shift strippers for the holiday. All of them have that blank, thousand yard stare of a woman who had been working in shitty clubs for way too long.

Duran-Duran's "Girls on Film" was just wrapping up as I walked in. The DJ, who is a built like a Hell's Angel in a bow-tie took the mic. "Okay gentleman, give your hands up to the lovely Cherry on stage one and Mo'quesha on stage two..."

A quiet crackle of unenthusiastic claps ripples through the room, barely audible over the music. The DJ announces the next two strippers, respectively named Cinnamon and Banana (I guess this place goes with a food theme for the girls). I go and sit next to one of the stages and a waitress, who is inadvisedly wearing a skimpy outfit and looks even more worn out than the strippers, asks me what I want to drink. I order a Coca-Cola. She shuffles off to the "bar" (which is really just a soda fountain and a rusty coffee percolator) and returns with a glass of soda. "That'll be six dollars," she says.

I know the mark-up for drinks at a strip club is insane, but it feels even more like rape when it's soft drinks. Since I don't have a choice, I hand her six singles. She doesn't go away.
"Excuse me, can I ask why you don't feel the need to tip me?"

My attention had already wandered to the stripper on the stage, who I guess is the one named Cinnamon. "Because you just charged me six bucks for twelve ounces of soda POP," I replied. "At those prices, I consider the gratuity included."

She just stands there. "The gratuity is NOT, included sir. I work for tips."

I see the Greek guy at the door looking over at us. I don't want to get kicked out just yet, so I peel another dollar bill off my stack and set it and hand it to her. She gives me a "fuck you" smile and walks off. Cunt.

I slowly sip and savor my six-dollar Coca-Cola (which tastes exactly the same as the ones that cost fifty cents at the grocery store) and watch Cinnamon strip unenthusiastically. She takes her bra off on the second song (some crappy rap music) and she has obviously had a bad boob job (you can see the scars where her nipples were cauterized shut). Her g-string comes off on the next song, which is some whiny nu-metal. I stick a dollar bill up on the stage when her snatch is visible. Cinnamon starts churning her ass at me for maybe thirty-seconds before sweeping the dollar back on the stage and returning her attention to the schmuck sitting across from me, who's been laying out five dollar bills for the girl.

The song ends and the DJ comes back on to goad everybody to "put their hands together" and reminding us that the girls work for tips (perhaps that fucking waitress has been badmouthing me to the DJ, but I don't care.) "Now, we have Apple coming up on stage one, and Tosha on stage two."

"Apple" gets on my stage and she is even less to look at than Cinnamon. She is emaciated thin, and practically doesn't have tits. Her stomach is completely distended with stretch marks, not to mention the huge schnoz that takes up most of her face. The girl is so homely that she prompts an exodus of the two other guys at the stage. I grab my overpriced soda and follow them.

The DJ must have no taste in music because he start putting on some Limp Bizkit and I hate Limp Bizkit. I put a dollar up on the stage, but the stripper (who might have been considered hot twenty years ago) is too busy with the loser stuffing five dollar bills into her G-string on the other end of the stage. None of the pussy here is worth five dollars a pop. When she finally gets around to wiggling her ass in front of me, I am too bitter about all the money I've wasted here to really enjoy it.

I look back at the stage I just left and felt a pang of sympathy for the ugly stripper, who was kind of just moving there alone, listlessly. I don't know if it was prompted by chivalry or pity, I picked up my coke and went back to stage one and stuck a dollar on the stage.

Limp Bizkit ended and some Tool (which I like better) started playing. Apple took off her bra and I stuck another dollar on the stage. By this time, even though she wasn't that good looking, I felt like moving back was a good idea. I didn't have to compete for attention from the other guys, and after more consideration, she wasn't as hideous as I had initially thought. It was probably the eyes...her big hazel eyes that turned the tide and made me overlook the fact that she was built like a twelve year old boy.

Tool ends and "Stone Cold Crazy" by Metallica starts up and I'm actually getting pleased by this run of music. Apple takes down her G-string. I can see razor burn and stubble around her shaved snatch, which is probably gross to most people, but to me is kind of humanizing thing. It gave personality to her vagina.

Her set ends, the DJ comes back on the mic, going through his whole spiel before playing what I thought was going to be "Superfreak" but ended up being MC Hammer. Most of the twenty I had changed out was gone now, so I took a table away from the stage to drink my Coca-cola, which was now half water from the melted ice. I am nursing it as long as I can so I can avoid that fucking waitress.

While I'm sitting there, Apple comes up to me, now with her bra and g-string back on. "Do you mind if I sit with you?"

"Sure, go ahead," I say.

"Thanks," she says, then sits down, pulls a pack of cigarettes out of her purse and lights up. "What's your name?"

"Poopy," I say.

"Sloopy?"

"No, Poopy..."

She giggles. "That's a funny name," she says. Her accent is slow, thick, and southern. "I'm Apple, as in 'Apple-of-your-eye'."

I laugh, even though that wasn't in the least bit funny. Then again, I tend to let things slide when you've been staring at girl's pussy for ten minutes.

The evil harpy waitress comes up to the table. "Would you like another drink...ahem...sir?"

I still had two inches of soda left so I just say, "No, I'm fine for now."

"Would you like to buy the lady a drink?"

That manipulative bitch. Then again, if you go to a titty bar, your masculinity will be used against you and all the pussy has a price tag, so I said sure. Apple ordered coffee and tells me "Thanks," with those hazel eyes of hers and I didn't feel so bad. The coffee too was six-dollars. I handed that cunt seven so I wouldn't have to fight with her in front of Apple.

Now that we were alone together, I guess I had to make small talk, so I said "Been slow here tonight?"

"Yeah," she said, slurping at her coffee. "I didn't expect much people here though. Thanks for coming to my stage. I've only made thirty dollars and I've been here since two."

"Thanksgiving isn't much of a party holiday I guess. Fuck it though. Any holiday which is premised on stuffing yourself with turkey isn't one to break your back celebrating."

"Yeah," Apple says. "Besides, my kids aren't old enough to eat turkeys just yet." She takes another drag off her cigarette. "I hope they're okay. They're probably hungry. I only left them two bowls of Cheerios in their crib."

"How old are they?" her cigarette was making my eyes water.

"I have a one year old and my other one is two months; both of them boys. I always wanted me some boys. I hope they're still asleep when I get home at midnight."

Mother of the year, I thought snidely. Then again, I couldn't be too harsh. Apple is the only female I've spoken to in months besides my mother, and I needed the attention, so I just say, "I'm sure they'll be fine."

The set ends and the DJ calls Apple out to stage two this time. "I gotta go dance," she says. "It was nice talking to you. If yer still here, I'll sit with you again."

"Nice to talk to you too," I say, as I watch her go up to the stage. The men all leave her to go to stage one and I once again feel bad for Apple. I don't know how she can do that every night.

"Would you like another drink, sir?" It was the waitress behind me.

"No, I don't," I sneer.

"Sir, I should inform you that this establishment has a two-drink minimum."

"I already bought two drinks. One for me and one for her."

"I'm sorry, but that one doesn't count."

I was getting pissed now. "The hell it doesn't."

The waitress gets a smug look on her face. "If you'd like, I can bring my manager over..." she glanced back at the huge Greek guy, "...and you can discuss our policy with him."

There was no way I was going to give this bitch another six bucks. "That's okay, I was leaving anyway." I swallowed the last bit of watery soda and marched out the door.

I go to the bus stop and wait for half-an-hour in the cold for the next bus to arrive to take me back to my neighborhood. The fact that I kind of liked Apple depressed me. When the highlight of your Thanksgiving is a stripper with a big nose and stretch marks, you know your life is fucked.