| Back Again 10.22.2002 - Back Again Tomorrow, my first column of the year appears in my paper. Because I'm lazy, I'm posting it here too. TOTAL COP OUT ENTRY! WOO HOO! Enjoy. Something like the truth The first time I uttered the phrase "I'm a writer," I was talking to a stripper. Excuse me-- exotic dancer. In Vegas for my 21st birthday, I looked forward to the prospect of legal gambling, but after having poured the majority of my monthly grocery budget into an unforgiving video poker machine, I found myself in search of alternative entertainment. Slouched next to a tiny cocktail table, I somehow ended up bathed in the warm blemish-erasing red light of the Tender Trap Cabaret having a lengthy conversation with an aging dancer. Were I not a cheap bastard with a burning desire to see as many breasts as possible before I die, I might have resisted the allure of the huge glowing "TOPLESS GIRLS! NO COVER!" sign above the door and the words may never have tripped from my tongue. I don't know why this human stew of wrinkles and silicone targeted me of all people. It could have been that I had the appearance of someone with money to burn or maybe a modicum of conversational skills, but after about twenty seconds of discussion with me, it would be impossible to hang on to either of these beliefs. Regardless, she perched next to me for a good hour. At first, she tried diligently to sell me a lap dance, but eventually settled to just have a little chat about whatever flitted through her thought-bubble. She told me about how she became a dancer, how she's moved from club to club, city to city over the years and about her little boy who started calling himself "Vulture" after he decided "Clayton" was no longer appropriate. Although I attempted to keep this discussion as one-sided as possible, she eventually began asking questions. "What do you do?" Now, I could have said, with honesty, any of the following:
Instead, I manipulated the truth. "I'm a writer." Immediately after the sentence left my mouth, I winced. At that point, I had certainly written things, but nothing anyone would even enjoy reading, let alone pay for the privilege of doing so. I didn't even have this weekly column at the time. Still, it didn't matter. For all Miss Tassel Spinner 1968 knew, I was a young, tubby John Grisham. I didn't feel bad because I lied to someone attempting to carry on a genuine conversation. Truthfully, no conversation can be all that serious when one of the participants will eventually break up the tête-à-tête to get on stage and show everyone her nipples. I regretted that statement for more selfish reasons. I wanted to shove the words back into my mouth out of fear that I might have jinxed myself. Ever since third grade, when I used to stay after school to write children’s books on the class computer, I’ve secretly (or not so secretly) fantasized about someday becoming a real writer. Regardless of whether or not that’s even a remote possibility, lying about being something you eventually hope to become is just bad luck. Even though I do occasionally get a check for something I’ve written now, I’m still reluctant to bestow the title of “writer” upon myself. It’s not because I don’t identify with the designation. It’s mostly because I’m perpetually afraid of being exposed as a fraud. Thankfully, however, The Oldest Living Stripper didn’t call my bluff. Still, my misstep left me with a bad taste in my mouth, and it’s probably the reason I haven’t set foot in a “gentleman’s club” since. Hopefully one day I will actually realize my fantasy. I dream of a day when I will make my living in words and can once again find happiness in stuffing dollar bills into the thongs of topless dancers. |
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