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nine f

Spiraling Downward

I began dancing four or five nights a week and earning some real money—more than double what I earned with Dr. Wendell. Some nights I tended bar. I thought working nights would give me extra time with my kids. I was wrong.

My nights got later and later. At first, I’d have a drink only on weekends, but before I knew it, I had a drink every night.

After a busy shift, I needed to relax, and who better to do it with than other dancers? I looked forward to a drink, often just a Coke, with the girls at the end of my shift. We understood each other. Sometimes the sun would be coming up when we left the bar.

It would be too late or too early, depending on my point of view, to pick up my kids after work. They’d need breakfast in a few hours. By that time, I’d be dead asleep. I’d see the kids for a few hours in the afternoon, give them dinner, and send them back to the sitter. I knew I was neglecting them, but wasn’t everything I did for their benefit?

Dancers chose their own costumes. Some girls preferred themes: schoolgirl, nurse, teacher, cop. Others like me went for glitz and glitter. Tina introduced me to her seamstress who custom-made my outfits. She hand-sewed crystals, beads, lace, and fringe into my outfits. They all came with little lacy stockings. It wasn’t long before I had enough costumes to change six times a night. I carried a full suitcase to each gig.

Some nights were perfect. I’d find my groove and sparkle as much as my costumes. The audience would go nuts for me, and the tips would roll in. Other nights the music was all wrong; I’d trip over my feet; my costume would tear. The inconsistency messed with my head.

Competition was fierce between dancers. I had my friends, mostly Tina’s friends, who took me in. When we worked together, we’d have a blast. Other nights, I’d work with total bitches. They’d try to one-up me with costumes, stage presence, and egos. I always compared myself to them, and always came up “less-than” in my mind. They crushed me during my first year until I learned to ignore them.

When I’d tell women outside the business what I did, I’d get mixed reactions. Some judged me; others envied me. The question they always asked was how it felt to be on stage with a room full of men gawking at me.

“I think of them as a bunch of perverts,” I’d reply.

“All of them?” they’d ask.

“Once in a while, I meet a decent guy, but then I start wondering what he’s doing at the club.”

“What about the big tippers?”

“I feel obligated to hang with them on my break,” I’d say. “Most guys are lonely, looking for attention. I always keep it short, saying I have to change costumes.”

“I think about dancing sometimes,” they’d say, “but I wouldn’t let it get to me. I’d do it for a couple of years, save my money, and get out. What about you, Ava?”

“Yeah, sure, that’s how I think.”

I never admitted that’s how I expected my life would be when I began dancing. I’d stay in the business long enough to get on my feet and keep my personal and work lives separate. I even changed my professional name from Ava Harrison to Ava Martin.

The money drew me in. The late nights drained me. The only people I spent time with were in the clubs. I saw no way out, so I stuffed my feelings deep inside and kept on dancing.

Biff Cardoba was a regular at Gentleman’s Delight. He watched me dance but kept his distance. One night when I was bartending, we struck up a conversation.

“You’re one a’ the best dancers,” he said. “What’re you doin’ behind the bar?”

I didn’t believe him. He was either drunk or trying to pick me up.

“They rotate the dancers, in case you didn’t notice,” I said.

“I could getcha lots more work,” Biff said. “Here’s my card.”

He handed me a plain white business card. All it said was: “Biff Cardoba, Agent” and his phone number.

“What’s the deal?” I asked.

“Straight up ten percent. I’ll getcha lotsa gigs. And no funny business. I got a wife.”

More jobs, less hassle.

“I’m in,” I said.

Gentleman’s Delight was still my home base, but Biff got me work at clubs across Central Jersey. He didn’t discriminate. A club was a club—whether big or small. Some stages were an afterthought, so small I’d have to hold on to the ceiling to keep my balance.

Other clubs had platforms behind the bar. Those were the safest. The best were runways from the bar to the tables. They got me closer to the customers, and I always made good tips.

The one thing the clubs had in common was grime. A haze of stale cigarette smoke hit me whether I entered day or night. Sometimes my shoes would stick to the floor as I made my way to the bar, where an undercurrent of cheap booze assaulted my nose. I’d douse myself in perfume to mask the stink, but no amount of perfume could hide the stench of urine wafting from the men’s rooms.

Movies today portray clubs as one-off glamour. Dancers are gorgeous gymnasts in various state of contortions swaying on perfectly placed poles. I haven’t set foot in a club in more than thirty years, but I’m certain that’s not how it is today.

It sure as hell wasn’t like that back then.