Was the stripper's toe injured? I may never know. As I cautiously made my way through the pitch-black innards of the Spearmint Rhino topless club—I'd just come in from the bright dawn light and my eyes hadn't adjusted—I could dimly see a path through the milling bodies. I started to squeeze through but had to back up, and I felt dainty toes crunching under my heel.
"Gosh darn it," a woman behind me yelped. (I'm paraphrasing.)
"Sorry," I murmured, but hey, babe, stop tailgating. I could hear soft cursing in the darkness behind me, but I pushed on. This was a mission of mercy, after all. I was looking for contributing editor Richard Abowitz, who was somewhere near the main stage, in the 13th hour of a grueling assignment.
Twenty-four hours in a strip club—it sounds like the ideal assignment for a single reporter with a Y chromosome, a healthy curiosity and a pocketful of 20s. But it was turning out to be tougher than expected, not only because the Too Much of a Good Thing principle applied in full force, but because Richard was sick, his lungs full of poison phlegm. But he was determined to go through with it, or was sick enough to be bullied into it—which is the same as being willing, in my book—so I went to check up on him at 6 a.m. Saturday morning, midway through his ordeal. I had the spare notepads he'd asked for.
Do you have any idea how busy a place like the Spearmint Rhino is at 6 on a Saturday morning? I'd expected a desultory emptiness, with a once-pretty prom queen grinding listlessly to Bon Jovi before an audience of a few die-hard pervs, including Richard. Instead, it was packed with well-dressed men and barely dressed women, and I began to get a sense of just how much money a place like this must make. The darkness and the high-volume hair metal disoriented me.
I found Richard sitting at a little table, taking notes, his umpteenth Diet Coke next to him. His voice was ragged, and even in the murk I could see that he looked like Keith Richards warmed over. But he was in good spirits, talking up the girls who came to solicit lap dances. I sat with him for a while, trading office gossip and listening as he expounded on the sociology of strip clu—
Whoa! What was that?
A tongue in my ear! Teeth nibbling on my ear lobe!
Sorry, miss, I don't dance. Oh, you'll do the dancing? Um, no thanks. I was outta there a few minutes later, Richard hitting me up for a 20 as I left.
I don't know if an editor can ask more from a writer than that he rouse himself from his deathbed to spend a long day among half-naked women for the greater glory of the paper. Well, yes, the editor can: The editor can ask that the writer portray him in the resulting story as the sweet-natured, caring person that the editor truly happens to be.
Thanks for one out of two, Richard.