a few years ago i learned the low, low going rate on my dignity: $50 in gift certificates to the third rock -- a heavy metal themed bar in superior, wisconsin.
it was approximately a wednesday. i don't remember the year or even the season. daisy and i skulked in the back door of the bar and were greeted by a local radio personality holding a clipboard. we had just begun to adjust to the culture and climate, smell, moral and societal norms when he propositioned us:
"you two wanna be in the wet t'shirt contest?" he asked. the chipper caricature of a voice that sells thinly veiled sexual innuendo between songs on top 40 radio (by day) and is a regular at frankie's, where he and presumably his dad, bastardize the lyrics of barenaked ladies' songs to include barenaked lyrics (by night). i assume that i hate him.
he didn't appear to be wearing a neck brace. surely he had noticed the concave nature of my chest. the matching gopher holes where most women stow their womanhood. the smooth white cleavage-less clavical pallet -- which acted like a slip 'n' slide when i tried to hide lipstick, matchbooks with phone numbers down the front of my shirt. a failed homage to every woman in every burt reynolds film ever made.
"absolutely not," i said.
"nah," daisy said.
we sat at the back bar and ordered drinks. the voice had procured a microphone, into which he was pleading with the scant female population to enter the contest. but it was, what? approximately a wednesday? 9ish p.m.? the day-drinkers plotting the multitude of ways to soil oneself in the backseat of a cab; the night drinkers erroneously imagining they would coast through 2 a.m. exemplifying moderation and decorum.
"free drink if you enter," he told us.
"who else is signed up," daisy asked.
"no one," he answered. flashed the blank sheet of paper at us.
"absolutely not," i said.
"um ... no?" daisy responded.
"are you sure you don't want to?" daisy asked me when he was gone.
"i absolutely do not want to," i told her.
***
i'm standing in the women's bathroom at the third rock holding a t'shirt, decorated with a gaudy flourecent silk screen radio station logo. we've been given scissors and instructions to "sex up" the garment. just three of us have entered. and i'm pretty sure that if you combined all of my drunks together into one night and stirred it with ruffies, i still wouldn't be drunk enough to be comfortable about this.
daisy enlarges the collar of the shirt, cuts the glorified hanes in half. yanks the sleeves off at the seams.
to daisy's right is a thicker woman, all reebox and bangs. definitely a d-cup swimming in gin. she rips into her shirt like she is making a snowflake then slips into the doily.
"i just got out of rehab," she tells us.
she doesn't look threatened by us. the meager competition. probably because one of her boobs is the size of all four of our's.
"meth," she says. "not alcohol."
me? i'm staring dumbly at my t'shirt. still fully intact. i'm less crafty than i am sexy and sexy is definitely not in the top 40 of words used to describe me. as luck would have it, my fairy godmother comes teetering into the room on a pair of long, long legs. she sees my predicament and takes the shirt and scissors from me. she carves a modest v-neck into the front and chops a larger v from the back of the shirt. she ties the contraption just beneath my bustline and blouses it. tugs a bit at the collar. surveys. looks pleased.
"what the? how ever?" i say. i'm viewing my angles in the mirror.
"i'm a stripper," she tells me. "at the lamplighter."
in that moment i know that we will be friends for life. and by "life" i mean until we accidentally make eye contact someday in the sober light of day.
she wishes me luck.
***
and it's go-time, the voice tells us. we file from the staging area and onto the stage. like sheep, but some of us more sheepishly than others. the word "cattle" comes to mind. and my flight instinct is its own heartbeat. or perhaps that bleating is merely the bass from warrant's "cherry pie" -- our walk-up song.
there is a kiddie pool at center stage. a chair positioned in the middle. pitchers of water off to the side. fewer than 20 gawkers waiting for the show.
we are supposed to be dancing. the meth addict is giggling and jiggling and gyrating and it is the awkward dance routine you would maybe perform if asked to seduce your fifth grade math teacher. she does it with abandon. daisy, never really inhibited on a dance floor, has her arms in the air and is doing a modest -- comparatively classy -- movement. me? i'm standing there like a big dumb ape trying to look more bored and less humiliated.
maybe, just maybe, i think to myself, i've taken things a bit too far this time.
the meth addict hops onto the chair. two waitresses douse her with water. she shimmies and jimmies and whips her hair. daisy takes center stage. keeps it clean. me? i stand on the chair like a big dumb ape, silently ruing the fact that now the ass of my jeans are wet and so are my shoes. i have very little going for me. very. little.
another song begins. maybe its whitesnake or david lee roth. the voice tells us to dance and my competition dances. me? i just stand there like a big dumb ape.
"dance," daisy hisses.
"absolutely not," i say.
because here is the vile truth: the third-place prize is a 20 dollar gift certificate. by default, i at least get that and that makes approximately 10 gin and tonics and the knowledge that i did not shake it in public.
***
it must have been rigged. votes were tallied by the gawkers' decible level of appreciation. and when it was the meth addict's turn to emit applause, she lifted her shirt and shook leaving nothing to the imagination, but plenty for nightmares.
the crowd loved it.
but somehow i won the grand prize: 50 dollars in gift certificates to third rock. currency that is not acceptible outside the building, but a form of money nonetheless. and the best part, dear readers, is that i did not once bounce, caress or expose myself.
between us, daisy and i left with 75 dollars of future drinks, two slutty t'shirts, and a promise to tell no one NO ONE what we had done. the catholic school girl contest had been one thing, but this ...?
***
unfortunately, by the time daisy and i felt comfortable enough to return to third rock our certificates had expired. and i'd officially retired.
