Gator Tales
by Douglas Young
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
As the couple turned to walk back to their table, the wife almost bumped into a topless dancer. Apologizing, the older lady could not help but notice the younger one’s large bare breasts. Tattooed on the left one were the words, “Dizzy Ray Hollister,” and inked below the right nipple were the words, “was here.”
“Whatever you do,” the young lady said leaning forward in a teasing tone, “don’t ever put nobody’s name on your taters.”
Forsythia continued to hawk lap and table dances and was having a lucrative shift. Since it was Friday night, there were several groups of men on out-of-town business trips eager to get a table dance, and tonight there were many generous tippers
“What kinds of guys are the best tippers?” one young customer asked after she collected her tips from a table dance.
“The nice ones,” was the prompt reply.
The next table had three local male graduate students meticulously grading the beauty and sexiness of each dancer. Realizing the students were hardly lucrative prospects, Forsythia asked in a pro-forma manner if they wanted a table or lap dance. When they politely declined, she quickly moved on her way.
One of the young men looked at his friends and expressed regret that they missed out on a table dance “from the hottest chick in this whole place.”
“Oh, come off it, man. If a few minutes of staring at strippers makes you a beauty expert, then I’m a gynecologist,” one friend replied.
“Yeah, if you’re so into her, go ask her for a lap dance, man,” volunteered his other buddy. “In fact, why not ask her out? You’re decent enough looking, and far closer to her age than most guys in here. Tell her how in a few years you’ll be making big money as an engineer — which is true. Besides, you’re the one complaining about being dumped last month and how long it’s been since you got laid. Well, here’s your chance. Go for it.”
“I guess I’m just not hungry enough yet,” the first friend answered. “Or I’m too insecure to ask. I don’t cotton to getting more rejection.”
Having stopped by every table in the club, as well as seeing if anyone at the bar wanted a lap dance, Forsythia left the crowd, noise, and flashing lights to return to the dressing room for a quick break and to check on her cat. Upon entering the room, she smiled at a couple of girls petting Lucy Fur who rested contentedly in front of a brightly-lit mirror.
Turned off by the smell of a lot more marijuana, Miss Farmer noticed three dancers seated on the sofa taking turns using a rolled twenty-dollar bill to snort cocaine on the small table. After years of breaking his parents’ hearts, Forsythia’s brother had recently done a stint in rehab for cocaine addiction.
A dancer who had been a mentor to Miss Farmer had died the previous month of an overdose of cocaine and heroin. She had been another single mother. Forsythia stood staring at the young women, surprised they would flout using the very drug that had recently killed their colleague.
“Want a little bump, babe?” one girl asked with a smile as her two friends chuckled.
“No, and I strongly suggest y’all go real easy with that marching powder,” Forsythia replied.
Though sorely tempted to criticize them and remind them of the other dancer’s death, she recalled that they already knew of it. She sat down in front of a mirror to see a troubled and tense face staring back. The dancers on the sofa laughed loudly, and Forsythia noted, when several more girls entered the dressing room, that no one appeared to notice all the drugs about.
Two mirrors down, she saw one of the youngest dancers. Forsythia had failed to recognize her at first before realizing that she had acted as a mentor when the young lady had been hired a year ago. Though the girl was not twenty, Miss Farmer was struck by how much the girl had already aged. Gone was the spark that had initially drawn Forsythia to her.
Lucy Fur jumped into Miss Farmer’s lap, and Forsythia felt as if the two of them were an island in rough seas. As she petted the cat, a bouncer put his head through the door.
“The boss wants you back on the floor, Syth,” he announced. When she did not reply, he spoke again.
“Syth, you hear me?”
“Yeah... Thanks,” she replied with a weak smile but remained seated to look at the tired lady in the mirror. Thoughts of her brother and the dead dancer continued to preoccupy her as the dressing room got ever louder with more girls arriving for the late-night shift.
Despite the din, Forsythia dwelled on how much she enjoyed her pre-law classes, especially regarding free expression issues. It was fun participating in class discussions, and she dared dream of becoming an attorney. She sighed, knowing she still had another year of college and then three more in law school, but she almost smiled at the thought of arguing a case in court. Though still facing the mirror, she no longer noticed herself.
Slowly but resolutely, she changed into her regular clothes, stood up, tossed her bikini on the makeup table, and left the room. As all the dancers did when clocking out, she went around the main floor, tipping the bouncers, bartenders, barmaids, and disc jockey.
This time she hugged several and kissed a couple. A few asked if she was okay, and she said she just had to go. After picking up Lucy Fur in the dressing room, she started walking down the hall to the rear exit.
As she passed the club owner’s office, he saw her through the open door and called out. “Syth! What’s up, babe? Your shift’s not remotely done. You all right? Something wrong?”
Forsythia looked in his office where he sat behind a large desk, on the other side of which sat several beefy middle-aged men in loud suits whom she did not recognize.
“I just have to go,” she stated above the loud music echoing from the other side of the hallway.
“Syth, I don’t want a scene, but if you want to keep working here, you need to get back out on that floor and finish your shift,” he said evenly.
“I know. I got no beef with you, but I just have to leave.”
“Now, Syth, I like you — a lot — and if somebody’s done something or said something to you, I want to know so we can fix this. You’re a great earner and a real sweet gal, too. I don’t want to lose you. But if you can’t explain this, in fairness to all the other girls I’ve fired for a lot less, I’m gonna have to let you go. Before you walk out that door, ask yourself: can you really afford to turn your back on all this easy money?”
Forsythia acknowledged that she had never made remotely as much money elsewhere and felt some butterflies launch in her stomach. At least for the next few years, no other job would let her earn anywhere nearly as much or choose her own hours. But she reminded herself that she now had some savings and could surely get work waitressing or bartending.
Most of all, she kept seeing her brother and the dead dancer, and she felt an intense pang of loneliness that frightened her. Then she saw her little boy eagerly running into her arms as she returned home. She looked up from the floor at her former employer. “I can afford it and justify it. Best wishes always.”
Copyright © 2025 by Douglas Young
