My father picked his teeth at the dinner table and belched out news of a live band at Cloud Nine strip club. His biker friends ran the club and would let me sing. After all, I did wanna be a star, didn’t I? Embarrassed, I twisted my hair, forcing a tight smile. A strip club sounded super creepy, but maybe this was my big break.
Primping in the club’s bathroom, I reapplied thicker makeup, practiced taking a bow, and twirled on my way out. And the crowd chants, Tricia, Tricia, Tricia. A scrawny biker whose nose twitched like a rabbit’s escorted me to my father. Over a beer-soaked table, he judged my made-up face with a grimace. Cigarette smoke insulated the room from all things decent and kind.
I yelled above the noise about my singing, but my father shushed me.
A spotlight focused on the raised stage. A large figure hurled itself forward. At first, I didn’t know what I was looking at. I leaned forward, eyes wide and unblinking. Red Hot Mama sashayed onto the scarred wooden runway. The two-hundred-fifty-pound stripper hula-hooped an inner tube. Round and round that piece of rubber went, circling her impressive girth. Raunchy howling and catcalls erupted. Red Hot Mama swiveled her mighty hips, unfazed—her face smug and sassy.
I fidgeted in my seat and threw rancid peanuts at my father. He held the waitress’ hand against his cheek. “If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?”
I hung my head in disgust and began to shred paper napkins. I didn’t care about singing anymore; I wanted to leave. Sweat moistened my face as I struggled out of my jacket and fanned my face with my hands.
Hot Mama shimmied across the stage as drunks flung dollars and insults. She grabbed cash by the fistful, bumping and grinding through a desperate space. The beer-guzzling crowd stomped dirty boots and clapped greedy hands. I twisted my hair again.
My father threw money on stage, slurring, “Take it off, baby!”
My hand checked the buttons on my blouse. I hunched and hollowed out my chest, my desire to sing replaced by shame. Hot Mama attempted a tired saunter, noticeably winded. Staggering and struggling to breathe, she forced a half-hearted smile and stumbled out of the inner tube, paying the price of laughter and jeers.
I leaned forward, studying the worn-out stripper. Hot Mama blew a kiss, winked an indifferent eye, dropped her hand like an old disappointment, and traipsed off stage. Nobody noticed. Oblivious drunks shifted their focus to broken bottles and spilled ashtrays.
I gathered the remnants of my shredded napkins. Dumped them in the trash along with my useless dreams, watching the façade vanish through the haze. There was no band. No opportunity. I squeezed my eyes tight and whispered, “Idiot.”
My makeup had tear tracks. Irritated, I rubbed my face, uttering “Damnit,” before striding away. The floor was so sticky it was hard to walk. Lysol and vomit assaulted the air.
I hurried to my piece-of-crap car. A large shadow leaned against an old Ford pickup. I didn’t recognize Hot Mama at first. She wore an old hunting jacket over baggy jeans. A lipstick-stained cigarette hung out the side of her mouth. Smoke enveloped her in a storm cloud.
“Girl, who did that to your hair? It looks like a squirrel’s nest.” She pulled baby wipes out of her truck. “You might wanna wipe them mascara streaks off before you scare folks to death.” She chuckled softly.
I cleaned my face. Crumpled the soiled wipes and stuck them in my jacket pocket. “I wanted to sing real bad.”
The stripper flicked ashes onto the gravel. “You come to the wrong place, baby cakes. A girl like you don’t belong here.” She blew out a swirl of smoke and murmured, “A girl like me, neither.” She dropped her cigarette, stubbed it out with her boot. “Whatever you think you want, it ain’t here darlin’. Go on home now, ya hear?” With a tiny smile, she walked away.
I drove home with the windows down, cool night air rushing past my clean face. I tapped out a rhythm on the steering wheel, started singing an old country-western tune–somebody’s heartache, something—couldn’t remember the words, so I belted out my own. At the top of my lungs.

Patricia Pease has worked as an actress for over 35 years. She holds a BFA from UNC School of the Arts. Retired, she now writes full time.
So good. Love the phrasing: “Hot Mama blew a kiss, winked an indifferent eye, dropped her hand like an old disappointment,”