Page 4 of Praying for Thunder

Maybe some strip clubs were—are—shady, but I was lucky to have found one of the best.

Her bare arms wrapped around me, and she leaned her head to affectionately huddle over mine. “Candy, this kid is shitting all over my ego.”

Candy was sitting at her station, her green eyes focused on the mirror while putting on sparkly red lipstick that made her blonde hair stand out. “Oh yeah? At least he didn’t, literally, just shit on your new money maker.”

Poor Candy. I was in the middle of potty training and didn’t make it to the toilet in time. Her new costume fell prey to the outcome in a gory mess.

Moola’s head, with her long brown hair in an easy-release bun for sex appeal, reared back as she exploded into laughter. Then she kissed my nose. “You won’t ruin my net stockings, will ya, Little Guy?”

My only reply was a yawn.

Moola’s dark blue eyes winced. “Does that mean yes?”

Candy left her chair to go to one of the many rolling racks, my little boy overalls in the mix of all the costumes. “Luckily, that baby has more outfits than we do.” She grabbed a candy cane from the end, then went to a cubbyhole for a pair of my folded pajamas. Handing them to Moola, she said, “Here, he’s about to pass out on you.”

Moola warned, “But we’re out of training diapers.”

Just then, Tiny Cherry came running into the dressing room, her short red hair bouncing. “Sorry, I’m late. Here’s the goods.” She tossed a bag to my toddler firetruck bed in the corner to the right. “I got him three packs. May Candy’s costume rest in peace.”

Candy bent over to kiss me goodnight because it was her turn to dance. “Pucker up, handsome.” Mwah! I kissed her, then rested against Moola again as she teased me, “When you get older and get a job, you owe me two hundred bucks.” Winking, she left the room.

That’s when the music stopped, causing me to sit up straight, asking Moola, “Ani?”

As an announcer spoke through all the cheers from men, she pinched my cheeks. “Yes, your Ani is coming.”

When I started to get to the age I was trying to talk, Anita had tried to teach me to call her Aunt Anita. Understandably, that was a mouthful, hence me calling her Ani.

Anita didn’t want anyone to know her true identity, but when she finally woke from her head injury, she was in no shape to invent a lie, nor remember her fake name, Suzan.

That was okay. A promise was made. Only the club would know this name.

Slipping into a robe as Ani entered, she cooed, “Where’s my baby—Gross! What is that smell?” As I reached for her, she tossed two wads of cash and her silver eye mask on her station, cluttered with lip gloss and fake eyelashes like the others. The mask was her dancer persona, Lace Bandit. She claimed she was embarrassed about the little scar under her right eye, courtesy of the trucker.

Moola stood, much taller than Anita, and explained, “We think a demon came out of his ass.”

Seeing me reaching for her, Ani walked to a sink. “Hold on, baby. Ani has to wash her hands.”

Once clean, Moola handed me over. “I gotta go work the floor.” Working the floor meant anything from lap dances to gaining new patrons. My legs and arms already grabbing onto Ani, Moola leaned close. “Kisses?”

Mwah!

My legs held tight to Ani’s sides as she tickled my belly to get me to lean back, teasing, “Did you stink up this room?”

I yawned, nodding my head without an ounce of shame, then laid my head on her shoulder.

Tiny Cherry was hopping on one leg, getting dressed in her costume, and pointing to my bed. “I got him three packs of pull-ups.”

“You’re a lifesaver.” Holding me to her, Ani grabbed cash from her station and tossed it onto Candy’s.

The blonde tossed it back. “Put it toward your car. Or Stew, for gas for picking you up on the side of the road.”

“He wouldn’t take any money!”

“Then stop bitching!

As Candy left the room, sure to close the door, Ani held me close and rocked me. This was my favorite time with her. It was like two magnets of one soul that had been ripped apart, now finding each other all over again. In the peaceful quiet—as quiet as a strip club could be during business hours—we would exhale. The rest of the muffled noises would slip away as she’d hum. Her humming always made my eyes droop in a fulfilled manner, then flutter shut completely, my heart utterly content.

Her whispered, “I love you, Niño,” would be the last thing I would hear until I’d sometimes wake as she carried me up rickety stairs to a questionable apartment complex.