by Michael McGrath
When awakened by a telephone call at some ungodly hour, I’d like to think I’m not alone in my reaction to it. Throwing back the covers, I scramble out of bed, and when I finally locate my phone I’m hesitant to pick it up, automatically assuming that the caller is the bearer of bad news. The only time I’ve ever appreciated being jarred awake by a ringing phone was during my years as a substitute teacher, for it meant another day’s work, and rather than setting my alarm every night, I’d go to sleep hoping to receive a wake-up call from a woman named Agnes.
“Good morning, Michael. This is Agnes from the sub desk calling,” Agnes from the sub desk would say. We’d never met, Agnes and I, but given the advanced age of the employees working at the school board office, I guessed she was pretty old, mid-forties, maybe. You’d never have known it by the sound of her voice, though. Soft and sultry with a smoldering undertone, it was like listening to a steamy phone-sex operator. As Agnes aroused me with a list of available jobs, I’d picture a voluptuous young woman wearing only a babydoll. Yawning, I’d then ask her to repeat the choices, thinking, Just keep talking, you naughty girl.
Occasionally I’d receive a lengthy assignment, filling in for someone who was either deathly ill or injured, but for the most part, substitute teaching was fickle, low-paying work that toyed with my emotions. Some weeks I’d hear from Agnes regularly, which sent my spirits soaring, while at other times the phone would fall silent for days on end. On those jobless mornings, I’d lie in bed and stare dejectedly at the ceiling, wondering, like some aging Hollywood actress, if I’d ever work again. All right, Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up. If only Agnes would call…
When I landed a temporary contract at the start of my fourth year of teaching, I thought I’d finally turned the corner, but after spending all my savings on a cross-country road trip the following summer, I found myself back to square one on my return: day-to-day on the sub list. I don’t know what I was thinking. I mean, it wasn’t like I was guaranteed another contract in the fall, but with Labor Day fast approaching, and only eighteen dollars left to my name, I figured the time had come to supplement my income with a job that my hairdresser, Tanya, of all people, had informed me about.
Tanya had a makeshift salon set up in her basement, and though she was located on the opposite side of the city, making for an inconvenient commute, her stunning good looks, plus the money I saved on haircuts, more than made up for the extra travel. My preference for shapely, and inexpensive, stylists had begun in my second year of university when, in my zoology lab, I happened to get paired with an absolute knockout named Jayde. Swiping the hair out of my eyes while hunched over a dissected frog, I casually mentioned that I needed a haircut. Jayde, short, slim, and supple, with breasts the size of cantaloupes, then offered to give me one in exchange for a case of beer. “I took Beauty Culture in high school,” she told me. Later that night, following my haircut and while parked on a bluff overlooking the city in her father’s car, we abandoned the beer and hopped into the back seat to conduct an extra-curricular biology experiment of our own.
Tanya was basically a slightly older and taller version of Jayde, and as she washed my hair during my first appointment, I’d asked her how she was able to afford a two-bedroom bungalow on a hairdresser’s salary. “This is just something I do on the side,” she answered, rinsing out the shampoo. “Most of my money comes from dancing at stag parties and things.”
My heart raced. “You’re a stripper?”
Tanya’s large, firm breasts nuzzled the back of my head as she vigorously toweled my hair. “I suppose that’s the layman’s term for it,” she said, “but I prefer to use the phrase ‘adult-entertainer.’”
Tanya could call it anything she wanted. All I knew was that she was getting paid a shitload of cash simply for taking her clothes off. Interesting, I thought, never imagining that just a year and a half later, I’d be seriously considering following in her footsteps.
***
Tanya worked for an agency called Meow Enterprises, and when I arrived at their downtown office, I received an application from a receptionist who introduced herself as Linda. She was fair and freckled, her feathered, shoulder-length hair the color of honey. A charm bracelet hung from her wrist, and it jangled as she reached for my completed paperwork. “Mr. Meow will be with you shortly,” she told me.
I returned to my seat in the lobby and passed the time by flipping through one of the many photo albums that were on display. Each one was labeled MEOW ENTERPRISES: BETTER THAN PURRFECT—WE’RE THE CAT’S PYJAMAS, and midway through the first album, I came across a provocative shot of Tanya posing in a lace bra and G-string. Ooh la la, I thought, but her flawless body soon had me questioning my own chances of getting hired. Relax, I had to remind myself. Don’t forget, you’ve already had some experience doing this sort of thing.
I thought back to my final year of university when, in the fleeting days of August, I’d thrown a birthday party for my friend Heather, who was the head lifeguard at the outdoor pool I’d frequented that summer. Most of the invited were girls she knew from work, and as the party got underway, a group of them approached me, asking if I’d be interested in joining a couple of guys who were set to perform a striptease as a birthday present. After some initial hemming and hawing, I agreed, but once I’d descended into the basement to lube up with baby oil, I quickly realized that the frenzied cheers emanating from upstairs weren’t in anticipation of watching my doughy, sunken-chested body prance around in a Speedo. Rather, they were reserved for the two Adonises practicing their posedowns next to me. One was an Olympic swimmer, the other a college football player—solid choices, both of them. I, on the other hand, appeared to be no more than an afterthought, included solely as a courtesy for hosting the party. I was the wilted garnish decorating a main course. A scrawny nag, bound for the glue factory, surrounded by a stable of Kentucky Derby thoroughbreds. Please don’t laugh at me, I remember thinking. Please be kind.
I dismissed the dismal recollections from my mind and, convinced things would be different this time around, picked up a second photo album in order to examine the latest crop of beefcakes that I’d be competing against. At first glance, I didn’t see anything that was particularly worrisome. Get a load of the bad perm job and fake tan on this boy toy, I thought, mocking a sleepy-eyed specimen listed as Lance L’ Amour. Yeah, and I’m sure that’s your real name too, buddy. More like Richard Simmons if you ask me. But then I turned the page and discovered a barrel-chested duo who referred to themselves as “Butch and Sundance.”Once I laid my eyes on their mustached faces, I realized that I might be in over my head. Here before me was the virile pick of the skin-trade litter, a couple of real pros who had gone to great lengths to leave the competition in the dust. In addition to the requisite cowboy hat and boots, they were both outfitted in tearaway chaps and gun belts with holsters. Black leather vests hung open, revealing their rippling pecs, and a sheriff’s badge topped off the look. I stared at their chiseled abs, bulging biceps, and skin-tight briefs, which were stuffed with what looked to be a third six-shooter, thinking, Aw, come on now. That’s not even fair.
Before I could dwell on my shortcomings, Linda snapped me out of my thoughts, announcing, “Mr. Meow will see you now.” She gestured toward a tiny back office behind her desk. “And put those albums back where you found them. You can finish ogling the talent later.”
Having pictured a larger, burlier, and more intimating figure to be the head of a stripper agency, I was surprised, and somewhat relieved, by the man’s slight build and rumpled appearance. His tie was loosened and dandruff dusted the shoulders of his dress shirt, which was unbuttoned at the top, exposing a soiled perspiration ring on the inside of the collar.
“Cut the crap, kid. That’s not my name, and you know it,” the man behind the desk, whom I’d obviously mistaken for the boss, said when I addressed him as Mr. Meow. His voice was deep and coarse, as if his vocal cords were covered in barnacles. “It’s Henderson. Barry Henderson. Linda’s the only one I let call me ‘Mr. Meow.’ She gets a big kick out of it—probably thinks she’s being clever or something.” Barry reached for his cigarettes and, poking one between his lips, said out of the side of his mouth, “Don’t get me wrong, she’s a nice kid and all—plus I think she’s got a thing for older men. But I got to tell you—and this is just between you, me, and the lamppost—she’s beginning to drive me nuts with this whole ‘Mr. Meow’ schtick.”
So far, so good, I thought, thrilled to have been trusted with this information. This guy must really like me.
“Hmmmm,” Barry said, picking up my application. A thin pair of plumes streamed from his nostrils as he skimmed the page, his amber-colored fingers so stained with nicotine that it looked like they’d been dipped in polyurethane. “Well, seems like everything’s in order. How about you? Got any questions?”
There was only one thing on my mind. “How much work can I expect from this?”
Barry blew a cloud of smoke into the yellowed ceiling tiles and shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, kid, but I’d say your best bet would be to ask the ladies.”
I thanked Barry for his time, and after we shook hands, he told me to stop by and see Linda on my way out. “She needs to snap a few shots of you for our portfolio.”
Linda was head down at her desk, clacking away on the typewriter, and she instructed me to go into an adjacent room and strip down to my underwear. “Keep your grimy paws to yourself and don’t mess with any of the equipment in there,” she said without looking up. “I’ll be with you as soon as I’m finished with this letter.”
The room was set up with a camera mounted on a tripod facing a backdrop screen, and after undressing to my briefs, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to warm up a little in front of the full-length mirror that was propped against the wall. I tried out a number of poses that I hoped would be alluring and was in the middle of what I considered to be my most seductive expression when Linda burst through the door, saying, “What’s the deal with your face? Catch your dick in your zipper or something?”
Startled, I lowered my eyebrows and unpuckered my lips. “Who, me?” I said, and then, because I didn’t know what else to do, I cupped my hands over my crotch and added, “I was just, uh, practicing making love to the camera.”
“Well, don’t use that look or you’ll break the lens.”
Barry was right: he was the wrong person to be asking about my stripping prospects. As it turned out, Linda was the expert in this field. Throughout the photo shoot, she chipped in with a running commentary, bombarding me with all the feedback that I would ever need. Nothing was too sacred for her harsh, unfiltered remarks. Linda touched on my weight (“Sheesh, for such a skinny beanpole, you sure have quite the paunch”) and my facial features (“Turn your head and look straight at the camera. I want to hide that big beak of yours”). There was no holding back on other parts of my body, either. “Jesus,” she said at one point as she looked up, squinting, from the camera. “Those are your friggin’ nipples? Christ almighty, they’re no bigger than a couple of dimes. Wait till Mr. Meow gets a load of this!” Half an hour and a roll of film later, my self-esteem in shambles, the message was loud and clear: I had about as much chance of being a stripper as I had of becoming an astronaut.
***
Just as I’d feared, Labor Day came and went without an offer for a full-time teaching position, and it wasn’t until the middle of the next week that my bedside phone finally rang at six a.m., delivering my first wake-up call of the new school year. “Hello, Agnes from the sub desk,” I answered, groggily, before she had an opportunity to introduce herself in her usual manner.
“How did you know it was me,” Agnes asked, sounding as sensual as ever.
“Who else phones at the crack of dawn to whisper sweet nothings in my ear?” Still half asleep, I yawned and sank my head back into the pillow. “Actually, I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever hear your sexy voice again.”
“Oh, stop it,” she chuckled. “You’re making me blush.”
“Well, if you ever feel like making a little extra money, I can put you in touch with a guy who works in the exotic entertainment industry.” And I was prepared to do it, too, especially for someone like Agnes, who had more talent in her tonsils than I had in my entire body.
“Listen to you,” she purred, the words rolling lusciously off her velour-upholstered tongue. “Aren’t you a smooth talker. Such a ladies’ man.”
“His name is Mr. Meow, and I’m sure he’d love to give you a job answering phones.”
Again she laughed. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind, big boy. Now, do you want to work today or not?”
Category: Featured, Short Story