ninanevermore (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ninanevermore) wrote2007-08-21 04:10 pm
ninanevermore) wrote2007-08-21 04:10 pm
Entry tags:
Tuesday – She Worked Hard for Her Money
Yesterday on my drive into work, I had to take an alternate route due to a traffic snarl that was tying up the back roads I usually use. Driving in on the major freeway I usually go out of my way to avoid, I went pasted Moments Cabaret, a sleazy strip club on Houston's north side. The strip club always reminded me of a woman I used to work with, Brenda, because she worked there as a waitress for one day that continued to haunt her for years later, thanks to the long memory of her young son.
Brenda grew up in Aldine, a working-class enclave in north Houston. I grew up 15 miles even further north, but it may as well have been in another world. In my neighborhood, if a little girl said she wanted to be a dancer when she grew up, everyone assumed she meant she wanted to be a ballerina or maybe a Broadway star. In Brenda's neighborhood, there was only one kind of dancer that a little girl might want to be, and it involves a pole and a g-string. In my neighborhood, if a little girl did, on the off chance, announce to her parents that she wanted to be a stripper when she grew up, they would be horrified and would immediately schedule an appointment with a shrink to find out why their little princess would ever have such an idea in her head. On the other hand, when Brenda's 12 year old niece walked into the kitchen wearing a bikini top and a tube top pulled down around her waist like a skirt and announced to her mother that she wanted to be a stripper when she grew up, the response was, "Well, fine, if that's what you want to do. I hear they make good money."
At one point, Brenda's on-again-off-again marriage was off again, and she needed some fast extra money to get her car repaired. Public transportation in Houston is bad to the point that it may as well be non existent, and no one can survive without at car. Brenda had an administrative job in a local medical facility, but she needed to find a second job on the weekends to help her raise the cash to pay a mechanic. With no transportation, she had to work some place where her parents could drive her. Moment's Cabaret was a few blocks from her parent's house, and since Brenda was an attractive young woman with a nice figure the manager had no problem hiring her to serve drinks.
"You'd make a lot more money if you're willing to dance," he told her. She demurred.
Her uniform was a pair of very short shorts and a tank top. Since they didn't have a name badge to put on her tank top that said Brenda, they let her wear one that they already had made up that said Brandy, because every strip club has a waitress named Brandy who works in it, and now Brenda was that waitress.
Having grown up in Aldine, she was not a particularly naïve girl, but the things she saw in the cabaret shocked her a little. Moment's is not what is euphemistically called a "gentleman's club," where business men in nice suites take their good 'ol boy clients and drink mixed drinks that they charge to an expense account while they watch women writhe on a pole. It's more the kind of place that people universally refer to as a "titty bar," and no one inside even pretends to be gentleman. In the nicer clubs, shenanigans might go on in a champagne room in the back; in Moments, the dancers were underneath the table in the corner and no one had to guess what they was doing under there. The fat, sweaty owner followed Brenda around all night asking if she was sure that she wasn't willing to dance, because her customers kept asking him if she was going to get up on the stage later. Worst of all, because she was working in the neighborhood she grew up in, she kept running into to people who recognized her.
"Hey, aren't you Brenda? I think we went to high school together."
"Nope, it's Brandy, see?" she said, pointing to her name badge.
"No, I know you - you're Brenda Smith. I sat behind you in English, remember?"
She still denied going to high school with him, or that her name was Brenda.
At last her shift came to an end, and she phoned her parents to come pick her up. Her son was still awake, so they loaded him into the car to go get his mom. Brenda made about $200 in tips that night and never went back, not even to pick up her paycheck. She wanted to put Moment's Cabaret behind her. It would have been a lot easier if her son hadn't been in the car with her parents that night.
Every time she was out with her son and either friends or, after her divorce, with a new boyfriend, and they drove past the lavender-painted Moment's Cabaret (which kind of stands out against the drab landscape around it), her son would point it out.
"Hey, Mom! You used to work there! Right there, in that purple building!"
"My Mommy used to work there! Me and Grandma and Grandpa went to pick her up when she did."
"Mom, how come you don't work there anymore?"
If he were an older child and he knew what sort of place Moments was, you could assume he was being a brat and wanted to embarrass his mother. But he did this when he was 4 and 5 and 6 years old. The building was purple, which is a neat color. He was proud that his mother worked in a bright purple building. What's not to be proud of? There was no denying that she worked in the building; he'd been by it a thousand times in his short life and he knew the outside of it well. There was no convincing him that he shouldn't tell everyone that his mom worked there, because he was the sort of child who would want to know why and Brenda was the sort of person who didn't want to explain why to her kindergartener. So every time it happened, Brenda would blush, put her head in her head, and stammered an explanation to her companions. It never failed to mortify her.
For my part, I don't know why she let herself get so upset. It seems to me that the easiest thing to say would be, "No, you're remembering wrong. Mommy's friend Brandy worked there, not Mommy. Now let's go get some ice cream, and talk about something else."
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Brenda grew up in Aldine, a working-class enclave in north Houston. I grew up 15 miles even further north, but it may as well have been in another world. In my neighborhood, if a little girl said she wanted to be a dancer when she grew up, everyone assumed she meant she wanted to be a ballerina or maybe a Broadway star. In Brenda's neighborhood, there was only one kind of dancer that a little girl might want to be, and it involves a pole and a g-string. In my neighborhood, if a little girl did, on the off chance, announce to her parents that she wanted to be a stripper when she grew up, they would be horrified and would immediately schedule an appointment with a shrink to find out why their little princess would ever have such an idea in her head. On the other hand, when Brenda's 12 year old niece walked into the kitchen wearing a bikini top and a tube top pulled down around her waist like a skirt and announced to her mother that she wanted to be a stripper when she grew up, the response was, "Well, fine, if that's what you want to do. I hear they make good money."
At one point, Brenda's on-again-off-again marriage was off again, and she needed some fast extra money to get her car repaired. Public transportation in Houston is bad to the point that it may as well be non existent, and no one can survive without at car. Brenda had an administrative job in a local medical facility, but she needed to find a second job on the weekends to help her raise the cash to pay a mechanic. With no transportation, she had to work some place where her parents could drive her. Moment's Cabaret was a few blocks from her parent's house, and since Brenda was an attractive young woman with a nice figure the manager had no problem hiring her to serve drinks.
"You'd make a lot more money if you're willing to dance," he told her. She demurred.
Her uniform was a pair of very short shorts and a tank top. Since they didn't have a name badge to put on her tank top that said Brenda, they let her wear one that they already had made up that said Brandy, because every strip club has a waitress named Brandy who works in it, and now Brenda was that waitress.
Having grown up in Aldine, she was not a particularly naïve girl, but the things she saw in the cabaret shocked her a little. Moment's is not what is euphemistically called a "gentleman's club," where business men in nice suites take their good 'ol boy clients and drink mixed drinks that they charge to an expense account while they watch women writhe on a pole. It's more the kind of place that people universally refer to as a "titty bar," and no one inside even pretends to be gentleman. In the nicer clubs, shenanigans might go on in a champagne room in the back; in Moments, the dancers were underneath the table in the corner and no one had to guess what they was doing under there. The fat, sweaty owner followed Brenda around all night asking if she was sure that she wasn't willing to dance, because her customers kept asking him if she was going to get up on the stage later. Worst of all, because she was working in the neighborhood she grew up in, she kept running into to people who recognized her.
"Hey, aren't you Brenda? I think we went to high school together."
"Nope, it's Brandy, see?" she said, pointing to her name badge.
"No, I know you - you're Brenda Smith. I sat behind you in English, remember?"
She still denied going to high school with him, or that her name was Brenda.
At last her shift came to an end, and she phoned her parents to come pick her up. Her son was still awake, so they loaded him into the car to go get his mom. Brenda made about $200 in tips that night and never went back, not even to pick up her paycheck. She wanted to put Moment's Cabaret behind her. It would have been a lot easier if her son hadn't been in the car with her parents that night.
Every time she was out with her son and either friends or, after her divorce, with a new boyfriend, and they drove past the lavender-painted Moment's Cabaret (which kind of stands out against the drab landscape around it), her son would point it out.
"Hey, Mom! You used to work there! Right there, in that purple building!"
"My Mommy used to work there! Me and Grandma and Grandpa went to pick her up when she did."
"Mom, how come you don't work there anymore?"
If he were an older child and he knew what sort of place Moments was, you could assume he was being a brat and wanted to embarrass his mother. But he did this when he was 4 and 5 and 6 years old. The building was purple, which is a neat color. He was proud that his mother worked in a bright purple building. What's not to be proud of? There was no denying that she worked in the building; he'd been by it a thousand times in his short life and he knew the outside of it well. There was no convincing him that he shouldn't tell everyone that his mom worked there, because he was the sort of child who would want to know why and Brenda was the sort of person who didn't want to explain why to her kindergartener. So every time it happened, Brenda would blush, put her head in her head, and stammered an explanation to her companions. It never failed to mortify her.
For my part, I don't know why she let herself get so upset. It seems to me that the easiest thing to say would be, "No, you're remembering wrong. Mommy's friend Brandy worked there, not Mommy. Now let's go get some ice cream, and talk about something else."
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