The Go-Go Girl
It can be purchased from the following sites:
(kindle edition) http://www.amazon.com/The-Go-Go-Girl-ebook/dp/B007QOZ3IM/ref=ntt_at_ep_dpt_1
“It almost happened one night in Rome”
I’M ON A PLANE to Italy. There’s very little planning to this, just a destination and an urge. The stewardess gives me Dramamine, and I mix them with a few trazodone, and I close my eyes waiting for the pills to take effect. I know I’ll need my energy when I get to Rome.
I hailed down a cab, loosened my tie, and told the driver to take me to the airport. All I received was a letter telling me to come see her. “Any time, anywhere, if you need me I’ll be there,” was what I told her, and I just figured the time would be sooner and the where would be a hell of a lot closer to New York than Italy.
I slink into an Italian taxi. The cabbie has a bushy mustache and his eyes are leering at me in the rearview mirror. I pull the letter from the inside breast pocket of my blazer. In butchered Italian, I tell him to take me to L_____, the words pirouette and stumble on my twisting tongue. Displaying the letter, I point to the name with my index finger. I jab the paper hard and fast under the name, raise my voice, hoping this is the international way of indicating urgency and he should floor it. He nods his head.
We speed through the streets past modern buildings and ancient architecture. Gazing through the taxi window Rome becomes a wet painting someone has wiped a hand across. We pass round the Colosseum, hit a slow spot of traffic, and I’m able to take in a monument I’ve always wanted to visit, over a few seconds. While I glimpse at the deteriorating walls, I hope that this trip won’t be too rough, but everything always is with her. My palms rub my eyes, my hair falls over my fingers, and my lungs take a deep breath. I know I’m falling into her mess and I’ll be a few steps behind—even after she tells me her version of the whole story.
The cab slows to lurch down a constricted alleyway, flanked by tall buildings, that block out the light of the late afternoon sun. I see the neon sign of the club. I straighten my tie before the taxi comes to a halt. Red light drips from the neon sign onto the brick wall, the sidewalk, and me. My left hand is in my blazer pocket playing with my cigarette pack as my mind toys with the thought of smoking before I go in. A man stumbles out, and as the door swings open my ears catch the sound of “Dizzy Miss Lizzy” escape behind him. I pull my hand from my pocket, remember I’m not in New York anymore—I’ve left my reality, on the other side of this door is a tempest which will add color to my white life. This is Italy and I can smoke inside. I rub my eyes with my palms once more, sighing, “Fuck,” pick up my head and enter.
It’s a 60s style go-go club, probably some fat Italian’s kitsch idea to attract the lonely male tourist. I am almost expecting to see a room overflowing with sailors on leave taking in the girls under the miasma of smoke and the aroma of booze. I’m not too far off the mark. Three cages hang from the ceiling—two olive-skinned brunettes are shaking their moneymakers in the side cages. I focus on the center cage where my reason for coming here is dancing.
Her honey-blonde hair is strewn across her face as she sways her head. She’s working a red sequined bikini separated by a tan, flat stomach, and a butterfly tattoo resting on her left hip. Her legs are clad in black fishnets that run into a pair of white-heeled boots—still a knockout.
Her hands grab the bars and she moves her head making her wavy hair a twirling propeller. As she lifts her face she finally notices me. For a second she pauses and we exchange a glance full of unspoken words. I take in those blue eyes, button nose (I would always tell her how cute and perfect her nose was), soft lips, and I remember why I told her, “Anytime, anywhere, if you need me I’ll come running.” For the first time since I left my office I smile.
I’m standing still but I’m filled with a sense of vertigo, everything seems to be spinning: smoke, lights, maroon velvet walls, men, and beautiful girls all spiraling out of focus. The center cage is all I can see clearly and I keep my gaze on it the way a twirling dancer focuses on a point to stay balanced. I slowly walk to an open seat near the cage. One foot in front of the other—I’m concentrating on each step—the last thing I want is to make a scene by tripping and falling into a waitress. I ease gently into the chair, the way a ship pulls into port after a long voyage, wanting to be sure it makes it all the way home, before its crew can feel relief. Using my hand I signal over a waitress so I can order a Canadian Club and ginger ale. To the right sits a gentleman that seems Eastern European and has the smell of a man who went for a dip in a cologne-filled pool. The odor is pungent enough to distract my mind for a moment from the girl.
The waitress doesn’t take long to return and I pull out my wallet, placing it on the table while handing her cash. She shoots me a perplexed stare for handing her American money. I slowly milk my drink, and the dancer pulls my eyes back to the center cage. Occasionally she gazes down at me. She’s a hypnotist’s pocket watch mesmerizing me—doing the same to all the guys in the club.
She continues dancing through two more songs before her time is up. A giant greasy bastard helps her down out from the cage, and a streak of jealousy shoots through me at seeing some brute touch her. As her boots hit the ground the bastard leaves taking my jealousy with him. She makes her way toward me with a hungry stare; a lion licking its lips at spotting wounded prey.
“Want to go in back for a private dance, handsome?”
I stand up, offering my hand so she can lead me. We enter a hallway in the back that is illuminated with the blue snow glow of fluorescent lights. There are six doors, three on each side, and a coatrack before an exit door with a small glass window, where all the lines in the hall seem to vanish into. She never looks back at me while pulling me down the hall and into the last room on the left. I sit down in an armless chair in this purple room. She goes back to close the door, then turns and approaches me. Her lap dance starts with her back against my chest and her legs straddling mine. Tilting her head back, placing her lips on my ear, she whispers, “At least I can tell you find me attractive still.”
“I can’t control everything that happens to me, Tess.”
“I knew you would come, Kevin.” She gently runs her fingernails across my chin and down my neck.
“You want to fill me in on why I came all the way to Italy?”
She swings her body around so we’re face to face as she continues dancing.
“Why did you need me here today?” It was getting harder to talk between short breaths.
She put her lips back up to my ear. “I’ve done something very bad.”
I can’t believe she’s trying to be playful. My eyelids squeeze together—hopefully my eyelashes are interlocking to help—and I bite my bottom lip just to concentrate on her words. It’s always simultaneous pleasure and pain with her.
“Listen, we gotta escape,” she says. “Go on the run. You’re the only person I trust, and I know how you love a good time.”
“What am I involved in?” I stomp my right foot trying to keep my concentration. Damn she’s a fantastic dancer.
“I need you for this, Kevin. Are you in?”
I hate it when she’s vague and it involves my life. Opening my eyes I see her face anticipating my answer. I place my hands on the sides of her face and reach my lips up to kiss her. As the kiss ends I pull her bottom lip down with me as my head descends. She’s reeled me in. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go!”
“We have to run out the back door.”
She stops dancing, and I release a sigh. I hand my blazer to her and open the door, and I peek my head out to see if the coast is clear. The hallway is empty, no obstructions hindering our path of escape. I reach my hand back, seizing her wrist, and give her a look to let her know it’s time to run.
We sprint down the hallway. I’m towing her with my right arm. As we pass the coatrack I grab a hat, and then push open the door as we escape into a parking lot. The sky is orange and violet from the setting Mediterranean sun. I’m running blindly with no direction in mind.
“No. This way,” she says. “Toward the white Peugeot!” Now she’s leading our escape dance, grabbing my wrist, yanking me to follow. My torso gets too far ahead of my legs and I nearly fall over. I’m the Leaning Tower of Pisa being dragged between two rows of tiny European cars.
Suddenly she breaks away, “Keep going to the car!” She starts running toward the dumpster. I stare at her wondering how she’s not eating cement running in those boots. The trash lid flies open and her arm reaches in, retrieving a blue bowling bag. As I get to the car, I look over my shoulder to see her taking short quick choppy steps, while hugging the bag, to cover the distance between us.
“Hold on, I’ve got the keys!”
As she runs to me, I put on the fedora I grabbed off the coatrack before exiting the club. “Catch!” Her arm swings forward in a softball motion, and as her hand passes her hip, the keys begin to tumble in the air.