Oh, so this is the way that the world ends: not with bangs but a wig. Hot off the local celebrity news ticker, the one that litters the bathroom floor of the hall of disgrace, my superfriend wondertwin, the Sexy Savannah, has agreed to make a bad patch even worse by rubbing her situation against mine. Seeing as she was just "let go" from her 10-year tenure at Real Radio, right before letting go of a large portion of her signature blond locks in a hair-stripping accident, I've got a lot live down to. This should be easy.
"I guess I should fire you," fired my editor over the phone, half-jokingly.
"You can't!" I whimpered.
"I just did."
OK. And so it is that Savannah and I humbled in my car, gainfully unemployed but dressed for the affair; she in a Jessica Simpson wig that is causing her discomfort, me all in black with a white belt, causing everybody else discomfort.
"Oh. My. God," I throw my gay schtick out the window. "You're JT Leroy and I'm James Frey!" Which is only funny if you're a liar who used to have a drug habit and/or occasionally dressed like a woman, if you really existed at all. So it's funny.
Tonight, my brilliant idea is that we will, in tandem, pound the pavement for a paycheck: We'll go out, I'll get drunk and somehow, in a hung-over haze, tomorrow I'll wake up drooling on a lucrative 401(k), fingers stained with ink from signed publishing deals. Barring any possibility of that, we've set our sights on "working the Trail," local parlance for upward mobility of the sex-worker variety
"We need to stop at 7-Eleven for tampons," Savannah bleeds. "I hope they have my brand."
Appropriately, her brand is OB. And in an absurd moment of repulsive testimonial, she goes on about the threat of backing out with a prickly plastic applicator, adding that "a finger is much more gentle than a spiky piece of plastic." And I die.
Resuscitation isn't far off, though. We kick our job hunt into gear by pit-stopping at the Parliament House for the end of happy hour. I refluxively rant something digestive about my own tail end to a bartender named Suzanne, and she almost knocks the life back out of me.
"Are you having one of those Grey Poupon moments?" she spreads.
Ew, again. Girls, officially, are gross.
Boys, however, are stupid. Gay comedian Jason Stuart is holding guest-celebrity court tonight — he's been boarded here for his weekend stint at the Improv — and he doesn't seem very happy, or funny for that matter. Not only does he not like me or even remember Savannah (she interviewed him in her former broadcast life), but he's griping about his Z-list treatment from the front desk staff. Basically, he's doing what queers who think they're famous do (I should know) and begging free drinks for his nonexistent troubles. Well, he does have one visible trouble.
"Omigod, it's wig night!" Savannah twirls her flaxen synthetics. A rug somewhere shifts.
Out of nowhere, a smiling pink-carder pops into our periphery, grasping either a copy of my column or some low-rent toilet paper. I fashion my lips around a "Thank you, I'm glad you liked it," but before I can even lisp the "Th …" he bleats, "I love your column!" to Savannah. And I really am unemployed. Not Savannah, though. In addition to usurping my considerable notoriety, she's also been motioned to by management on the subject of her possible employment as a bartender here. Me? "Well, we might have a place at the front desk," management rolls its eyes. Fine.
Further up the Trail, at urban leg-spread Cleo's, Savannah and I somehow manage to comp our way through the cover charge by mentioning somebody whose name might be "Ion." And while it's unlikely that we might ever be able to gain employment on the booty roster, we're still going to give it a booty shot.
"Can you twerk?" Savannah secretly claps her ass cheeks together.
"Ooooh, can I ever," I can't. But surely I can lie on my résumé.
Twerking our way to a table, we quickly figure out that not only are we the only Caucasians here, but we're virtually the only customers at all. A DJ is introducing a line of girls, who when they aren't being called "booty, booty and booty," are going by names of ice cream flavors. A mass table twerk is arranged, which is at best uncomfortable. Dark Chocolate's ass is in my face, and it's more like semisweet, while Strawberry (in a strawberry blond wig) is cheek-up to Savannah's wig. Uncomfortably, Dark Chocolate stops the world for a moment, looking over her shoulder and uttering in a none-too-happy voice, "You know, you have to tip the dancers." OK. Strawberry sits next to Savannah and details that she's been there for a year, and that the key to successful twerking is that "you have to hustle." My all-black garb is showing the wear peculiar to those with dry scalps but too lazy to dry-clean, especially under the imposing black light, so we soon hustle our way out, totally twerked over.
Across the street at the redneck ghetto strip club, we're too tip-broke to even get in (although we do steal a peek of a pudgy single mom lying listlessly on the runway in granny panties). We opt to sample the wares of the sex store next door, fingering our way through blow-up dolls and anal porn until we come across a 2-foot vibrator in clear plastic casing.
"Oooh, that would hurt," sizes up Savannah.
"No it wouldn't," I finger my cave.
But it does. As luck would have it, picking up the vibrator package cuts my finger into a bloody mess (hello, hepatitis!), and in some sick way, the night has been realized: finger stained with blood, world over. All I need now is a email@example.com
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