Mouse
The well-used vanities in the back room at Mamba’s were smeared with red lipstick. Hairspray-slathered mirrors trapped flies that had hoped to find relief from the dry East Texas heat inside the dark, wet jungle of the strip club. There was only one dressing station, Ruby noticed, in the far corner by the washroom, which was pristine. Almost swelling with the slow pulse of a white-hot glow.
“Whose place is that?” Her voice came out as little more than a peep. She felt her cheeks flush. Maybe she was, like her old boss at the roller rink had said, just a little too small-in-the-world to be one of the featured girls at the classiest joint in town. I can see your ribs under yer skin, Ruby. That ain’t beauty, he’d said, wiping fat palm over sweaty upper lip. That’s weakness.
“Shit, girl, don’t even dream about getting that spot.” Mindy May, Ruby’s guide to the underbrush of Mamba’s spoke in a deep growl, perfected over years of howling at and smoking with her clientele. “That’s Adder’s spot. She’s kind of the queen around here. The type of dancer that makes the rest of us seem not so lethal.” Mindy looked over to Adder’s station and gave it a quick nod of respect. “The longer you stick around the further back towards the washrooms you get.” She popped stale-smelling cinnamon gum against glistening white teeth, looking Ruby up and down. “Best take the spot closest to the stage.”
Mindy clomped away in her platforms, leaving Ruby to place her outfits, still in plastic from their trip to the dry cleaner, down on the little empty dresser in front of her filthy mirror. The clothes smelled fresh. Awkwardly virtuous against the musty backdrop of drugstore perfume and clumping, sweat-soaked mascara.
She wandered down the aisle of vestibules, seeking out an identity. Maybe a place to hide. All the girls’ spots were draped in the same glitter, cluttered with the same rusted curling irons. Rhinestone leather slips. Empty boxes of blister-sized bandages.
Except Adder’s. Hers was a nest carefully carved out from a different world. Radiant like Hollywood. Moving like Manhattan. Ruby slinked quietly towards it, tentative steps falling in time with the music on the nearby stage, booming through thin chipboard walls.
Your cruel device
Your blood, like ice
One look could kill
My pain, your thrill.
Adder’s chair was hard-backed, slippery steel. Ruby glided into it.
I want to love you but I better not
Touch (don’t touch)
I want to hold you but my senses
Tell me to stop
It was cold against her sweat-soaked back. She sunk deeper in, hypnotized.
I hear you calling and its needles
And pins (and pins)
I want to hurt you just to hear you
Screaming my name
Don’t want to touch you but
You’re under my skin (deep in)
Ruby slipped out of her jeans. Shook out of her milk-stained tanktop. Heat seared her skin, wanting to slide off, onto the floor. She picked up a boa that sat on the dresser. Wrapped it around her neck. It coddled her veins, squeezing them until her pulse pumped boldly in her ears, falling in time with the beat pounding through the floor, through her hips. She closed her eyes.
She was up on stage in legs that would never be hers, the bass thump, thump, thumping in her chest. Her hands slipped around the cool pole. Like vine after the rain. The crowd called for her. Caws and catcalls and guttural worship from somewhere deep. They were bullfrogs; fat and still, waiting.
I want to kiss you but your lips
Are venomous poison
You’re poison running through my veins
You’re poison, I don’t wanna
Break these chains
An unfamiliar strength rose up through her calves as she twisted them around the metal, suffocating her prey: They stared from the front row frozen. Their mouths opened, sucking in desperate breaths.
Tight in her clutches, they were helpless.
One hand over another, holding tight, she curled up the pole until she was at the top, and then twisted her body backwards. She held there shivering with cool calculation, surrounded by the hot sweat of sin rolling around in the dirt. One last smile, the fangs coming out…
Pain. Digging at her throat.
Ruby opened her eyes. The music had stopped. There was a sharp plastic fingernail at her jugular. Her neck exposed, her body open, she was trapped in a chair that wasn’t hers.
The woman was tall. Black-ice eyes and thick brown hair straight and shining over her shoulders. She traced a line down Ruby’s neck, hand steady. The breath on Ruby’s throat was strong, slow, controlled. Her own was strangled out by fear.
“Christ, honey.” The woman whispered in her ear. “You’re going to get eaten alive.”
This was a freewrite exercise in which I wanted to write a scene involving a character who was mostly absent. How it came to be about strippers, I have no idea. Oh, and the song lyrics are from “Poison” by Alice Copper. Apparently the girls like to dance to it.
A year of freelancing
So, today is worth noting for two reasons. First, it’s the official start of my unofficial Maternity Leave. (Being self-employed, the government doesn’t give me squat) Second, it marks the one-year anniversary of me quitting my job and starting to freelance.
It’s been an interesting year, for reasons both personal and professional. A lot of what’s happened was, at least in part, made possible because of my desicion to work for myself.
Freelancing gave me the freedom to pick up shop and move to Waterloo, to spend more time doing my own writing, and to learn how to pay more attention to finances. Also, on what probably seems like a less relevant level but really is equally important, it has allowed me to take my dog on walks at lunch time, and take a half hour nap in the middle of a Tuesday.
It’s not all roses though; freelancing does have certain drawbacks. It took me a long time to get used to sitting in a room by myself all day. I did (and still very much do) miss the social aspect of working - chatting with coworkers (face-to-face, not over the internet), having more opportunities to share ideas, etc. It’s also taken awhile to develop the adequate self-discipline needed to be my own boss. The aforementioned Tuesday afternoon nap is actually a rare occurrence. But in the beginning, it was undoubtedly difficult to fight off the constant urge to sleep in, wear jogging pants, take long breaks and watch a lot of midday cable shows.
After a short while I guess you just kind of figure out that unless you put in the hours, the cheques don’t show up in the mail. And I’ve been fairly lucky in that even during these supposedly trying economic times, I’ve been able to find work. There have been a few dry spells, but nothing significant.
As of today, I’m taking what I hope is only a month-and-a-half off. I’ve never had a baby before, so I have no idea how much effort and time a newborn requires, but I imagine it’s a lot. Regardless, starting in June, I’m hoping to slowly start taking on projects again, just to keep myself in the loop. We’ll see if baby cooperates.
Speaking of which…I’m just over 38 weeks. Here’s hoping the kid has inherited his father’s penchant for punctuality vs. his mother’s inklings towards fashionable lateness.
Interlude
As of today, my due date is exactly one month away.
Damn, that’s soon.
I say that, and yet there will be moments (more like minutes, or hours) each day where I forcefully wish the time away. I guess it’s a delicate balance between enjoying your last weeks of relative irresponsibility, and yet desperately looking forward to no longer carrying a basketball in your belly.
Regardless, dan and I took some time out this weekend to get away. We didn’t go anywhere exotic, just downtown Toronto, where we stayed at The Sheraton Centre right across from Nathan Phillip Square. I think I chose that hotel not only because it was centrally located but because it had what sounded like a good quality breakfast buffet. Ahem, not that that matters.
It was a good weekend. We got to meet up with friends, do some shopping, some eating, some chilling.
On Sunday, I went to a baby shower, where lots of cool ladies brought me lots of cool things. After a couple days of wandering blissfully around the town however, the shower was a definite reminder that life is seriously about to change.
At least now I have ample receiving blankets.
(Oh, the photo was taken from our hotel room on the 35th floor. Decent view.)
On Rejection
I’ve received a lot of short story rejections lately.
This is not, however, a post about how my stories are being undeservedly shot down by markets left right and centre and how no one understands who I am as an artist and why don’t people realize how awesome my writing is blah blah blah.
All of the rejections I’ve received in the last couple months have been along the lines of “This was really good, but we’re saying no” or “We almost bought this, but didn’t have room in our magazine”. While I’m sure there are a thousand micro-reasons why editors are saying no, I think the main issue is that what I’m submitting is just not quite good enough. “Almost” is the word that’s causing me the most frustration these days. My writing is good. It’s not great.
So what’s going to push it over that line? As with most things in life I suspect a lot of it comes back to the old adage of 10% inspiration, 90% perspiration. I probably just need to work harder. I recently read a great quote from Jack Nicklaus, which was “The more I practice, the luckier I get.” My only worry is that by practicing more, there’s a chance that I’ll just perpetuate any bad habits that I have, ingraining them deeper into my process. I’m trying to counteract this by reading more, and more widely, hoping to subconsciously pick up on What It Means To Be A Good Writer and learn a little about story structure in the process.
Anyway, I suppose this is a lot of time and energy spent writing about writing, when I should just actually be, you know, writing.
Hypocrisy, you’re a nasty little minx.
Outside my Literary Comfort Zone
Last night I headed out to the first l meeting of the book club at Words Worth Books, a cool little independent book store downtown Waterloo. I joined for a few reasons, one of which was I wanted to read some stuff that was outside my comfort zone.
The first book that we’ll be reading is The Disappeared, by Kim Echlin. It’s supposedly about the passions and pains of a Canadian woman and her Cambodian lover. Not at all the type of novel I would pick myself, which is why I’m quite interested to read it.
We’ve been promised that even though it’s quasi can-lit, there’s not a prairie in sight. And from what I’ve heard, the writing is top notch. Which is good; I like writing that makes my own prose seem like it was written by a developmentally challenged chimp. It’s oddly motivating.