Well as much as I usually dislike talking about strippers, it seems I have no choice. See, I have been bartending in strip clubs (or upscale gentleman clubs, as they like to call themselves) for thirteen plus years now. I have seen quite a fair amount of bizarre shit. In fact, I am so desensitized to almost everything that it takes a wallop to my head to even phase me a little bit. But last week, I had a first.
It has been a while since I have had a new or unique experience, and this is just the funniest shit...
Let me start out by explaining the basic layout of the club I'm at. More specifically, the bar that I work at (the place has three) is a 25 foot straight bar with a 180 degree work area. Meaning, it is against a wall. I have, give or take (if they are broken), eight stools and a four foot wide waitress station. A friend of mine was nice enough to draw up a quick sketch for you, gentle reader.
It's the beginning of a slow week day shift. We are not allowed to smoke behind the bar, so I walk around and am standing by the door in the picture, having a cigarette and waiting for some business. About two chairs in sits a dancer. About mid twenties, normal looking chick, I suppose. She was on the day shift, which just ended and was just hanging around because....well I think it was only for the fact that she was plastered and did not know exactly what time it was.
So she's sitting two chairs in, and turns to talk to me. Now, when a drunk stripper talks to me, I have several pre-programmed responses ready. If she is a nice girl (in other words, if she tips,) I have a few polite ready-responses so that I can do some actual work while pretending to be able to hear what she says over the drone of the (usually) bad music. I mean, I do try to listen, but the topics are always the same anyway:
"Is there going to be any money in here tonight?"
Uh, sure doll.
"Can I get a drink and pay you later?"
Uhhhh
Of course, my little princess
"Dude, yesterday was SUCH BULLSHIT in here..."
Really, yeah it sure was....
Right. Anyway, so this chick was droning on about how she didn't get her champagne money, and how she was staying late or something. I was half paying attention; she does tip occasionally but she is a ‘day' girl so I don't often work with her. Actually my attention wondered from the details of what she was saying more so because I was watching her hand; it was on her panty bottoms. She had moved all the way to the edge of the chair, and at first, I thought she was fingering herself while talking to me. What she was really doing was so much cooler.
She grabs her panties from the front, pulls them aside, and, mid-sentence, starts pissing on the floor. At first I was amazed at her ability to get almost all the pee on the floor, sparing the chair minus a few drops. Really, for someone who is sitting, it took a certain type of talent. I stared in amazement; this was a first! The club was open, she was in the middle of the room with customers and other employees in there, and she let it rip all the while not delving off-topic.
When she finished I just stared blankly at the floor. I bubbly puddle was slowly sinking into the carpeting. In my head I thought of the appropriate response to this. What would the owner want me to do? Tell her to leave? Fire her? Slap her like the P.O.S. she is? The more I thought about it, the more certain I became: If I report this, I will have to clean it up.
We do have a cleaning crew, but we were open and it would be hours until they were there. We do have bar-backs, but the guy that night was four hours late. There was absolutely no way I was going to be able to get around cleaning it. Even if she had volunteered to do it, I would still have to redo it. By the time I had gone through all this, she had got up and was walking toward the dressing room. Fuck, she didn't even stop in the can to wipe herself or wash her hands. What the fuck.
So I told a few friends. I HAD to; it was so unique. I asked them what would they have done; shit, all ANY of them could say was, "Who was it?" and, "You cleaned that up, right?"
I quickly shut my mouth. It had little effect; you can't keep a good one like that secret in a place like that. We all love a good train wreck. Everyone was trying to figure out who did it, when, where, all that stuff. I kept my mouth shut and lied when asked about it.
At some point though, the house mom asked me, and I did not lie to her, I just refused to say who. I thought that maybe she was just drunk, or that she was so embarrassed that she just walked away because she didn't know what to say. Or perhaps she had said something in the way of an apology or excuse, but I was just in shock too deeply to hear it.
Today was a week gone by, and I hadn't heard anything for two days. I was going to write about it and talk about how that job numbs you, makes the obscure mundane, then I lost the initiative.
Well, as a small kick-start today, the house mom, Sue, comes running over to my bar and proclaims, "Sunshine! It was sunshine that did it!"
Did what, I inquired
"She was the one that peed!"
Why would you say that
"Because she just did it in my office!"
Wow, what the fuck are you talking about.
Apparently she was in the house mom office, drunk as fuck, and while talking to the house mom, in a super bright office without any blinking lights or extra-loud sounds, she pissed again.
Sue asked her what that noise was (they were both standing, with a tall desk between them, and Sue heard the pee falling on some paper that had fallen on the floor.) Of course Sunshine denies it, and Sue says I can hear it. A dancer walks in and says something about ‘how come the floor is all wet' and, ‘what is that running down your leg.'
I inquired as to the disciplinary measures that would be taken but about then my ADD kicked in and that is all I can remember. At least I was off the hook. It had happened somewhere, and to someone, else. Cool. Now it was funny again.
You are asking yourself, ‘What kind of person...'
