Kill Whitey

Jesse was already inside the club. He’d gotten a table close to the stage and saved seats for me and Darryl. When we walked inside, he was getting a lap dance from a skinny stripper named Natalia, who I didn’t care for. In truth, she grossed me out. Her black hair was cropped short and she had way too much ink on her body. Even her tattoos had tattoos. Demons and flowers and tribal signs. I hate that shit. Natalia always had dark circles under her eyes, and her arms and legs were usually covered with black and yellow bruises. Rumor had it that she was on heroin. Supposedly, she shot up between her toes so that the customers wouldn’t see the needle marks. In order to feed her habit, she offered rough trade in the private rooms upstairs—S&M type shit. That wasn’t my thing. I never understood how pain was supposed to feel good. Whether you’re making love or just fucking, the last thing you wanted to do was hurt the other person. It just seemed wrong, somehow. Defeated the entire purpose. Years ago, I used to work at the foundry in Hanover. We had this dude there named Sherm and he was into that shit. Used to punch girls in the mouth during sex. Choke them as they came. Said it helped him blow a load. He also said that the girls got off on it, too. The cops shot him during a botched bank robbery. That had always seemed just about right to me.

Maybe Sherm and Natalia would have been a good fit. Then again, maybe not. He’d have probably gotten the shits of her skank ass, too.

Despite all of this, Jesse certainly seemed into her. No accounting for taste. Maybe he was drunk or maybe he just didn’t give a fuck. He barely acknowledged me and Darryl as we slid into the booth. He just kept staring into her eyes, his own lids half-closed. His body was tense, his arms stiff. His muscles stood out taught. Natalia ground against him. Jesse’s breathing quickened. Then he groaned. With a parting smile that was more business than it was pleasure, Natalia snatched a rolled-up twenty from Jesse’s hand and slunk away. Jesse turned his head towards us. He looked spent. I guess he was, at that. There was a wet spot on his jeans.

“Dude,” Darryl said, “you are one sick white boy.”

“Why? What the fuck?”

“Because, Jesse.” Darryl nodded towards Natalia. “That shit is infested.”

Jesse shrugged. “Pussy’s pussy.”

I laughed. “You’d fuck a garden hose if there was enough pressure in it.”

“True that,” Darryl agreed. “He’d fuck a bush if he knew there was a snake in it.”

“Screw you both.”

“No thanks.”

We’d brought a six-pack of Miller Lite bottles with us. Darryl offered him a beer and Jesse accepted. Apparently, Jesse was tired from blowing his load. His eyes drooped and his shoulders sank. The three of us popped the caps off the beers and took a drink. The beers were still cold. That seemed to wake Jesse up again.

“You alright?” Darryl asked him.

Jesse smiled. “Damn straight.”

He had the night off at GPS and was ready to party. Darryl and I had to go in later. Our load area was expected to get hit hard. Jesse bugged us to stick around the Odessa. Said we should call in sick. I considered it. I’d called in sick a few times before, just so I could see Sondra dance. But Darryl wasn’t having any of that. He needed his paycheck—his child support got taken directly out of it and if he didn’t work enough hours, there’d be hardly anything left. And since I’d driven us to the Odessa, I was his ride to work. No way was he letting me call off and no way I was letting him drive the Cherokee. Darryl had totaled three cars in the last two and a half years. I wasn’t going to let him do the same thing to mine.

It was a little after ten. We called Yul and laughed at him. He was just getting home from a flower show at the York Fairgrounds. Kim had made him go along with her. The poor fucker had to get up at three and go to work after spending a night doing that.

We drank beers and watched the dancers take their g-strings off and had a good time. At first, things seemed normal. But after the first hour, we noticed something was amiss.

The first indication that something was wrong was when Sondra missed her dance slot. The DJ announced her. Played her song—Gwen Stefani again. The house lights dimmed. The red spotlight swiveled, searching the stage—but the stage was empty. No Sondra. The DJ called her name again, but she didn’t show. There were a few boos and jeers from the crowd. Some of the bouncers looked pissed. I sat up in my seat and glanced around, confused. The DJ called for Sondra a third time and when she still didn’t take the stage, he quickly covered.

“Change of plans, folks. Sondra will be with us a little later on. You’ll want to make sure you don’t miss her. Meanwhile, please put your hands together for the lovely, luscious Lakita! Let’s give her a big Odessa welcome. Make some mother fucking noise!”