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twenty-two f

Changes

I became a fixture in the Trenton club scene. I missed Tina and my friends back home, but I made new friends, new drug contacts, and a following among the customers.

Because I was often billed as a “star,” most of the other dancers treated me with respect. Some even asked me to help with their moves. I learned to ignore the girls who’d do what they could to one-up me.

The life of a dancer is nasty, demonic, and materialistic. More than anything it’s addictive: the money, the drugs, the attention—it all feeds the ego.

I thought I could rise above it and keep my soul safe. But after so many years in the business, it had become my world . . . my identity. The deeper I fell into darkness, the more detached I became from my husband.

Jack was as sweet and loving as he’d always been, but it wasn’t enough. The more money I made, the less he thought about working and the more he focused on getting high. In my sober moments, I’d see us as nothing more than a couple of dopeheads.

“Fishing season opens in two weeks,” he announced one spring morning in 1975. “I’ve got my eye on some new equipment at Ralph’s Sporting Goods. Thought maybe you could advance me the cash to get set up.”

You mean give you.

“Rent’s due soon and there’s no food in the house,” I countered.

“Rent’s a hundred bucks a month. You make that on a good night. C’mon, Ava, we’re a team, remember?”

Some team. I made the money, paid the bills, cleaned, and cooked when we had food in the house. I’d lost count of how many flannel shirts I’d given him. But without him, I’d have nobody.

“You win,” I said. “Let’s go before Ralph sells out.”

In the year we’d been married, Jack had had four jobs, each of which ended after a few weeks. I’d had enough of coming home to him and his pals passed out like dead soldiers scattered amid empty pizza boxes, beer cans, and overflowing ashtrays. My feet throbbed after six hours of dancing. My head ached from too much coke, and still I tiptoed into the living room, careful not to disturb them. None of them heard me dump their trash out back or heard me stumble up the stairs and fall into bed.

Was I angrier at Jack for letting me down or at me for allowing it?

Jack talked me into a week’s vacation in the Pocono Mountains to celebrate our first wedding anniversary. I deluded myself into believing a short getaway would dispel the resentment building inside of me.

A week off my feet was my greatest joy. While Jack fished, I spent my days on the front porch of our cabin, legs elevated, reading How to Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie. The cover promised ways to change people without offending them. Maybe I could mold Jack into a responsible adult. And maybe, just maybe, I’d find a way to get my life on track.

I was wrong again. When we got home, I decided to focus first on my dancing “career” and second on my marriage.

My efforts paid off. The Pillow Talk Club sponsored a contest. Customers cast their vote for their favorite dancer, and I won. I was officially Miss Pillow Talk! It was the first real recognition I’d had since I lip-synched Barbra Streisand years before.

“Next up, Miss Pillow Talk 1975!” Nick, the bartender, got a kick out of announcing me. He raised the spotlights as I began my set.

I played to the crowd as I danced to “Come and Get Your Love” by Redbone, but soon I was playing solely to a dark-haired man at the end of the bar. I mouthed the words to the song as I headed in his direction. He stared at me with intense black eyes, raised his shot glass, and downed the brown liquid.

Our eyes stayed locked even after the song ended. I broke the spell and moved to the other end of the stage for my next number. Was it cocaine and tequila coursing through my body, or his intense energy that brought me back to him?

I joined him at the bar after my set.

“Miss Pillow Talk, huh? What are you, some kind of celebrity?” he asked.

“It’s my fifteen minutes of fame.” I smiled.

“Can I buy you a drink before your fifteen minutes run out?”

Nick poured me a shot of Jose Cuervo and a shot of Jack Daniel’s for my new friend.

“To you, Miss Pillow Talk.” He held his glass high.

“And to you—”

“Mike. Mike Ambrose. You are—”

“Ava Mar—Novak.” For the second time in my dancing career, I gave a customer my real name.

“A pleasure, Ava Mar—Novak.”

It felt good to laugh. We made small talk for the rest of my break.

I left to change costumes, fully expecting he’d be gone for my next set.

Mike stayed through my last set, slipped a twenty-dollar bill into my garter, and winked at me. I gave him my sexiest smile and mouthed, Thank you .

Mack, our resident bouncer, walked me to my car as he did most nights. Mike leaned against a fire-red Trans Am smoking a cigarette. Mack held my arm as Mike approached.

“It’s okay,” I whispered.

“You sure?”

“Positive.” I don’t think I’ve ever been as positive about anything in my life.

“Would Miss Pillow Talk be kind enough to accompany me to the diner?” Mike asked.

“I’d love to.”

I hadn’t gone out after work since I married Jack. Although I’d come home to my husband passed out on the sofa, I felt an obligation to be there for him.

That ends tonight.

Under the diner’s bright lights, I took a good look at Mike. He wasn’t just handsome, he was handsome —a young Burt Reynolds look-alike: lean, and muscular, with a sweep of dark-brown hair falling over his left eye. And those eyes—dark, intense, and powerful. He was impossible to resist.

Charisma—more than I ever thought possible in one man.

I was in love—actually, in lust.

“What do you do when you’re not at the Pillow Talk?” I asked.

“What don’t I do? I’m a mechanic by trade. Give me a motor and I’ll fix it. I’ve been workin’ at my buddy’s shop the past coupla years, pickin’ up work on the side. Guess you could say I’m a hustler. What about you, Ava Mar—Novak?”

I laughed. “It’s Novak. Martin’s my stage name. I don’t do much—sleep, housework. Dancing’s hard work.”

“You married?”

“Yeah, but things aren’t good. What about you?”

“Marriage ain’t for me. Hell, I’m only twenty-four.”

And I’m thirty-one.

“D’you and hubby have an open marriage?”

Other than Jack, I’d never dated a customer. I’d never cheated on Jack or Tom.

“Um, we’ve never talked about it,” I replied.

“It’s not something you talk about. You either do it or you don’t—so do you?”

My heart pounded in my chest. My cheeks burned. I’d made my share of impulsive decisions. I wasn’t about to make another.

Before I had a chance to answer, the waitress brought our eggs and refilled our coffee.

I changed the subject. “Tell me more about you.”

Mike took the hint. “I love to fly. Got my pilot’s license at sixteen. I dig music—especially some of the tunes you danced to.”

“We get to pick our own music. I like funk, rhythm and blues, anything with a good beat. I add in some Top 40 so the customers can sing along.”

“Doll, nobody’s thinkin’ about lyrics when you dance. Come sit next to me.”

I moved to his side of the booth. Mike put his arm around me and pulled me closer. His body was so hot .

“That’s better,” he said. “You and hubby have any kids?”

I couldn’t lie, especially about my children. “Two. But I was married before. They’re with their father in Charlotte, North Carolina, right now. It’s a long story.”

Was Mike smiling because he liked kids or because mine were far away? I suspected the latter.

“We’ll leave that story for another time. How about we hang out in my car before I send you back to your man?”

Mike reached into his pocket for his wallet and left a ten on the table. Our check couldn’t have been more than six dollars.

Bucket seats and a gear shift in his Trans Am kept us from melting into each other. Nobody had ever kissed me like Mike. I wanted us to move into his back seat, but he put the brakes on.

“You’re one hot chick, Miss Pillow Talk.” His dark eyes were hypnotic, even in the predawn light. “To be continued. Can I have your number?”

I didn’t think about what I’d say to Jack if Mike called the house. I simply rattled off my number.

“Aren’t you going to write it down?” I asked.

“What for?” He repeated the number from memory.