Closing Time At Teddie's

Tonight was Mel DeVore's birthday…his thirtieth. 

Riding through the dark and dangerous streets of Phoenix’s Southside in an unwashed Cutlass, he could feel the minor alcohol buzz wearing off from the informal party thrown on his behalf just minutes ago.  He never was much of a drinker; he always limited himself to one or two beers, even on special nights like tonight, not because he disliked alcohol, but because he was afraid of being out of control.

The radio was playing a favorite R & B song from his youth when he pulled into the parking lot of Teddie’s Topless Nightclub, a place he would find time to visit once or twice a month whenever he had the spare change and the pangs of loneliness.  Mel preferred this place to the “Gentlemen’s Clubs” of Downtown and Scottsdale because it was dirtier, cheaper and thoroughly lacking in extravagance.  Teddie’s was a taut, square building with milk-white windowless walls, not too distinguishable from the pawn shops and panderias nearby, and tonight it featured a fresh attack of graffiti.  Over the front was hung a barely-working neon box  with the name "Teddie's" painted in script over a poorly-drawn imitation of a scantily clad Vargas Girl, all framed with big, pink light bulbs flashing in alternating motion.  Social critics would kindly call it “tacky,” but for Mel, it was perfect.  This was, after all, a strip club; a place where women rub their naked bodies on aroused men for dollar bills.  He felt there should be no elegance in such a place, and Teddie’s was the only club in the city that understood that.  Mel found it neither odd nor pitiful that he would spend the waning hours of his birthday in a flesh den on the bad side of town.

He reluctantly cut the radio off in mid-chorus as he pulled into the space closest to the front door.  His was the one car that saved the parking lot from being completely empty, not counting a small group of cars huddled in the rear of the building that most likely belonged to the employees.  Hip-hop rumbled from behind the wooden doors as he walked in, his I.D. already in his hand for the bouncer to verify.

Mel quickly realized he was the only paying customer in the entire place, and he nearly turned tail and walked back out, but changed his mind, allowing himself just one interactive experience and no drinks.  A check of his watch showed that it was a-quarter-to-one in the morning.  Usually there was a least a handful of patrons at this late hour, even on a Thursday night.

He stood to the side of the bar behind the random settings of tables and chairs, staring out at the empty stage with its lonely brass pole rooted like a dead tree in a flat hill covered in wood paneling.  The walls were plum-colored and decorated with torch-like lamps with dull shades and paintings of nude black women posing with white tigers.  A layer of black and white tiles turned the floor into a massive, shiny chess board.  It looked like the living room of a pimp in a 70's blaxploitation movie.  The D.J. booth was missing its master of ceremonies, though the sexy, bass-heavy beats continued to pump through the speakers in his absence.  Mel gently nodded his head to the rhythm, silently wondering why the room was so dead.

An attractive, Rubenesque woman in her forties wearing a t-shirt and jeans approached where he stood.  “Can I get you something?” she asked. 

“Just a Coke,” he replied, pulling off his jacket.

The waitress smirked and with a hint of well-intentioned sarcasm remarked, “You got here just in time, sweetie.”  She walked back to the bar to get his Coke.

Yeah, thought Mel, just before closing up early.  Nice timing.  He took a seat right in front of the stage and waited for the first performer.

The waitress came back with a glass loaded with more ice than cola and set it down on the stage in front of him.  “Four dollars,” she said, glancing at her watch.

Mel felt a little embarrassed bringing it up over a four-dollar soft drink, but that’s what this special day was for.  “It’s my birthday today.”

The smirk returned to her face.  “Yeah, that’s what they all say.  How many of those have you had this month?” 

“No, really, I turned thirty.”  He reached into his back pocket to pull out his I.D. again.

“Just yanking your chain, honey.  It’s on the house.”  She checked her watch again.  “But you’re not getting any free lap dances, alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s cool.”  He reached instead into his front pocket and pulled out a dollar for her tip.  “When are the dancers coming on?”

“She’ll be on in a little bit.  There’s just one dancer tonight, but she’s really good.  You’ll like her.”

“What happened?  Did all the rest of them go home?”

The waitress turned her eyes toward one of the velvet erotic paintings on the wall.  “Well, yeah.  I sent them home.  I didn’t want to risk…”  She stopped herself.  “I mean, it’s kinda dead right now.  No need to have them here, really.”

“Funny you mention that.  Why am I the only guy here at ten ‘til one?”

The waitress checked her watch again, even after he had told her the time.  The look of anxiety on her face sparked a morbid fascination in Mel.

“It’s just a slow night, that’s all.”

Mel pressed her.  “C’mon, what happened?  Did you guys get in trouble or something?”

“No, it’s nothing like that, it’s…”

“It’s what?”

The woman sighed and put her hand to her forehead as though she was about to reveal some dark, incriminating secret, then looked at him with a seriousness usually reserved for tragic news.

“Tonight’s the night she comes back.”

Mel looked puzzled.  “What do you mean?  Who’s coming back?”

The waitress pulled up a chair and sat next to him.  “How old did you say you were?”

“Thirty.”

“You might be old enough to remember.  Ever hear the story of what happened here twenty years ago?”

He shook his head.  “I wasn’t living here back then.”

“Oh.  Well, one of our dancers got murdered here.  A real sweet girl, a college girl…and man, could she dance.  Gorgeous body, and not shy in the slightest.  She had regular customers lined up to see her.  And off the floor, one of the nicest people you’d ever want to meet.  She was…magnetic, you know?  Seemed like everybody had a crush on her, including my husband.  Her name was Marilyn.  I remember once she told me, ‘My boyfriend has no idea I do this for a living.  He thinks I’m pulling a night shift at the university library!’  She laughed about it.”  She swallowed and continued:  “Do you get jealous?”

“Jealous?  I don’t know.  I don’t think so.”

“If you found out your girlfriend was working in this place, what would you do?  C’mon, be honest.”

He shrugged his shoulders.  Mel never had girlfriends; he had company.  For him, relationships required a level of detachment suitable for a mortician.  “I guess I’d dump her.”

“Right, there you go,” she said.  “That’s what most guys would do.  Well, Marilyn’s boyfriend came in one night with a bag from one of those fancy department stores.  Nobody bothered to check what was in it.” 

The waitress’s voice began to waver with a small measure of regret.  “He asked where her dressing room was, and somebody showed him.  A minute later we heard two gunshots.  The guy was just running out when we started to smell gasoline, then smoke.  Everybody cleared out.  I ran in to try to get her out of there, but…”  She stopped, fighting the urge to cry, unable to finish that part of the story.  “They caught the boyfriend and arrested him, and now he’s rotting in Lewis Prison.  The bastard should’ve fried.”

Mel sat with a concerned look on his face, taking each word of her morbid story like a morsel off a plate of bad-tasting food.

She looked straight into his eyes.  “You know what they found out at the trial?  The bullets didn’t kill her.  He shot her twice in the back, but she was still alive when he set her on fire.”

She turned her eyes to the floor and shook her head, pondering the gravity of what she was about to say.  “She never left.  My husband and I have tried everything.  New paint job, new name, new furniture.  But I swear to God, she’s still here.  Every now and again her song would start playing on the P.A. system.  That’s when we all know she’s here.”

Just then, the music stopped.  “What song?” Mel asked, startled by the sudden crash of silence.

“Some old 80's song.  I don’t know who sings it, but it sounds weird—like something out of a scary movie.  She loved that song; she thought it was sexy, and it was in a way, but I never liked that new wave shit.  Now I really don’t like it.  Makes me sick.  It feels kind of slow and garbled, like it’s coming from a warped record.  Five years ago, it came on real loud while a girl was on this stage.  She started shaking like she was having a fit, and bleeding all over.  Then her back just snapped in half.” 

A new song suddenly popped on, shattering the tension.  The lights on the stage faded up to reveal a short, thin brunette wearing a powder blue lingerie ensemble, ready to begin her provocative routine.  Mel was still staring with disbelief at the woman who served him his ice-heavy beverage. 

“Business got real slow after that,” she said, barely audible over the musical din refilling the room.  She checked her watch yet again.  “We gotta close at 1:20.  No later.”

Mel watched her wipe tears from her face as she walked back to the bar, her bizarre recollection flashing in his mind like the old, neon sign outside.  He was confused and more than a little disturbed, but as he devoted more of his attention to the slinky nymph thrusting and bouncing just for him, the creepy feeling faded out, giving way to an assumption that maybe she was just talking shit.  It didn’t stop him from taking a quick glance at his watch between gyrations.

It was one o’clock straight up.

                                                   ~~~~~~

The dancer, who introduced herself as Leticia, performed her exclusive act for another ten minutes and Mel tipped her well.  She was as the waitress advertised; coordinated, flexible and irresistible, though her face was just flawed enough to keep her from plying her trade at the more popular strip clubs.  She had already gathered her tips and clothes and stowed them away backstage, and was now seated next to Mel, hoping to make the most of a dull and barely profitable evening.

Mel played the birthday card with the almost-naked vixen.  “Aw, happy birthday!” she cooed, hugging him like a boyfriend.  “I wish I had a gift for you, but I don’t!”

“You can give me a lap dance,” Mel suggested.

Leticia giggled.  “Only if you got 25 bucks!”

Mel feigned disappointment, making her laugh out loud.  He knew it was a stretch.  “Alright,” he said, pulling a twenty and a five from his pocket, saving another twenty for her tip.  They made their way back to the area known as the Chardonnay room, between the dressing rooms and the bar.  The waitress was already standing in the doorway with her arms crossed.

“This area’s closed,” she stated, “and you got five minutes.”

She and Leticia argued over policies, procedures and superstitions, but the forty-something lady’s word was final.  She did acquiesce to the dancer’s request for the latest hit from 50 Cent, which she hastily cued up in the D.J. booth with another five minute warning.

Mel took a seat in the middle of the room, amused and impressed with how serious the waitress was taking her story.  The music began, and Leticia was calm enough to put on her smile and disrobe down to her blue thong and high heels.  She would perform his services without shame, purring in his ear and humping his crotch to the rhythm.  Mel became absorbed in the heat of her fabricated seduction.

She was seated in his lap when his eyes turned to the floor.  A small puff of grey smoke was crawling along the ground like a drop of mercury.  The stereo speakers crackled with intermittent static.  The ball of smoke settled under Leticia’s feet.  The music stopped with a loud pop.

“That wasn’t no five minutes!” she yelled to no response.  Then a new song began--a nauseating, incongruous blend of electronic notes in the cadence of a warped vinyl record.  Mel’s lust was overlapped by a disquieting tension.  Leticia just sat in his lap, confused and…shuddering.  Choking sounds came from the back of her throat as her body jerked.  Her neck was snapping with inhuman force, leaving jaw-shaped bruises on her bare chest.  Blood was oozing from her bruises, then her nose, her arms, her cheeks, every part of her. 

Mel screamed and tried to push her off of him, but her hands grabbed his shirt. The chair fell backwards and she fell on top of him. He could hear the waitress screaming behind him, saying something that sounded like, “Marilyn!”  The calliope of death was louder, overwhelming, droning in the ears of everyone inside.  Mel looked at the tilted head of the corpse holding on to him.

Behind the unending seepage of blood was a face of pure rage.

He punched her arms and chest until her grip released and her lifeless body fell off to the side.  Covered in her blood, he bolted for the door.  He pushed it, pulled it, slammed his shoulder against it.  It wouldn’t move.

“The door!” he screamed.  “Somebody unlock the door!”  He looked for the waitress, and saw her lying on the floor, motionless.

He also saw Leticia standing up.  Her nude body looked as though it had been sandpapered, her broken neck forced her head to a horrific angle, and that vengeful look still held to her face.  Mel knew she had to be dead, and what he was seeing couldn’t be possible.  But she was trying to walk, extending a single outstretched arm to him.  Mel froze.

He was grabbed from behind by a large man wearing a black t-shirt.  The bouncer had used his key to open the door, and they both ran out, leaving the monstrous tune jangling in the distance behind them.

                                                 ~~~~~~
                                                 
Mel DeVore lay under the covers of his bed with his eyes open, his foggy head covered to the ears with a well-worn comforter.  The memory made him too frightened to sleep, and after hours of wringing his body between the sheets in a futile attempt to find slumber, he had simply given up.  Not even watching some disposable late-night TV could filter the hellish thoughts from his mind.  The darkness mocked him, pulled him into the grip of that inescapable night terror that made him feel as though closing his eyelids would kill him.  The dawn would not come soon enough nor offer any guarantee of relief.  Between short gulps of breath, he silently cursed the ugly strip club, Marilyn, and the birthday he would never forget.

And today was his birthday.  His sixty-fourth.