When I got to the bus stop, I broke down crying.
I pulled out my cell phone and through my blurry vision, I pushed the fast dial button for my father.
"Hey there, darling. How are you?" my father asked.
"Daddy! The hospital said the insurance is gone. They said the insurance dropped him. And the guy who hit him is dead!"
He sighed, leaving a few moments of silence between us before he responded.
"Willow, darling, I already knew about that. We're trying to work something out, your mother and I."
My grip around the phone tightened.
"What? You knew and didn't tell me?" my voice shook. "I visit him every damn day. I'm the only person who comes to see him and you didn't tell me?"
"Willow, please,” he said wearily. “You know─"
I hung up. I hated when my father got that patronizing tone, and I knew it wasn’t worth fighting with him. I was hurt that he didn’t trust me to inform me about things, but, I had learned by now that there was nothing I could do about it.
The bus arrived and opened its doors. I looked at it blankly. I still couldn’t get over the fact that my parents had known about this and hadn’t told me.
I dragged myself on the bus and slid my transfer card through the machine.
My body felt lifeless. Sam deserved better than this. My family had fallen apart after that car incident. And I was beginning to think it wasn't going to come back together again.
Instead of returning home, I stopped by the local social services and got a bunch of papers containing information for places that helped with medical bills. A brief review, however, only delivered more gloom and doom to my already awful news. Medicaid wasn't going to cover it, we couldn't afford a new private policy, and the churches that were on the list only offered medical care up to a hundred dollars.
I threw the papers away and opted to walk to work to clear my head. It's going to be fine. Sam might just wake up and come out of this. He's always been a lucky bastard. He really needs to pull one of his larger than life stunts now.
I was remembering a time when we were little and Sam took me for a ride on our cousin’s ATV. He was going too fast and ran into a fence. We both went flying off the vehicle but Sam remained unscathed, whereas I ended up in the hospital with a broken arm.
At the time, I had been mad at him for endangering me without experiencing any consequences himself. I always thought he would never learn. But, looking back now, I can’t help but smile a little bit at his luck, and hope that it continues now in his adulthood, when he so desperately needs it most.
Ten minutes later I had finally arrived at my job, which gave me a little comfort. At least I had something else to focus on. As soon as I walked into the bar, my boss looked at me, raising an eyebrow.
"Well hello there, Willow. You're half an hour early. Something I can help you with?"
"Hey Mr. Brent. Just wanted to come here early,” I told him. “I don't have anything else to do."
"Hmm, well okay. You know I don't pay overtime."
He gestured with his cigar, and a few ashes fell to the bar. My boss was a rough around the edges type of guy, to put it nicely, who liked to proudly declare that he had registered with the city as a cigar bar for a special license, so that no one could tell him he couldn’t smoke his cigar in his own damn establishment.
I shook my head and looked for a rag to wipe the ashes off. "Yeah, I know."
I worked around the bar, cleaning bottles and shot glasses. Mr. Brent didn’t seem to care, as long as, I didn’t clock in yet. Once my shift had officially started, I began asking customers what they would like to drink.
Late afternoon settled in as I walked back and forth, pouring beer and mixing cocktails and trying to make small talk with the customers. It was hard in a place like this, where the kind of small talk they wanted to make involved the words, “Show us your tits.”
Try as I might, I couldn’t forget my brother’s predicament. Sam's peaceful face in my mind tore me apart. How long would it be before they took him off the machine? Could they do that; was it even legal? I couldn’t see how this would be any different than murder if my brother died because of the lack of money.
One of the dancers sat down at the bar table and took out a wad of cash. She began to count it, and I couldn't help but stare at it like it was a beacon of light.
I knew they made money.
But that looked like cash sufficient to pay off medical bills type of money.
"Stacy," I asked, pushing her a shot of tequila, which I knew was her favorite. "Is that how much a dancer can make in a week?"
She pushed her lips to the side in thought and downed her shot.
"Not really. Maybe if you're new? I made this last night. I was just too busy to count it, ya know. Mr. B skims two hundred a night and we keep the rest."
My eyes fell out of my sockets. "Wait, he takes two hundred and you still have all that left?”
She chuckled. "Yep. That way we don't have to worry about a percentage."
My eyes lingered on the money for a second.
Sacrifice.
A sacrifice had to be made.
I pushed Stacy a drink on the house and went over to Mr. Brent's office.
"Hey, Boss?" I asked, peeking my head into his office.
"Come in, Willow."
I slipped in and sat down in front of his small desk.
"What's wrong?" he asked. “I knew something was up with you today.”
"I want to be a dancer."
I said it in a rush, before I could change my mind.
"You want to dance for me?” He grinned and shoved his cigar back in his mouth. “It's about damn time you asked. You want to know how many men have asked if you were going to be getting out from behind that bar and onto a pole?"
"Maybe I'd rather not know? But I'd love to start tonight."
He got up and motioned for me to follow him. He took me into another part of the building I had never been before; it was the dancer's area. There were lockers and a lot of counter space with mirrors on top, with makeup spilling out onto all surfaces. The tiny, shiny scraps of clothing they wore were hanging on racks as well as draped across chairs. The ones they had already worn on stage had clearly been tossed off in favor of a new outfit, and littered the floor, next to tons of high heels. I mean, really high heels.
"Just dress as skimpy as possible, you can use anything here. Since you're new, I'll just skim fifteen percent until you hit a stride."
I clutched at my shirt. "Thank you, Mr. Brent. I really appreciate this."
He nodded. "Say, you've always been the mild mannered sweet one here, the girl next door type and all of that, so what makes you want to be a dancer?”
"Well, the medical insurance to keep my brother on the breathing machine dropped his coverage, so..."
"I see.” He shook his head, his cigar wobbling back and forth. “Damn greedy motherfuckers. They like to collect money, but don't want to pay it out. My grandfather passed away like that."
He patted my shoulder. "You'll be fine. Get out there and dance a bit. That'll help brighten up your mood, and fill up that bank account of yours as well."
And his, too.
"Thanks, Mr. Brent."
He left to go back to his office, and I stood still in the middle of the room like an awkward lamp post.
"Huh, this stuff is really skimpy," I mumbled to myself, picking up a sheer thong. But it was no different than a bathing suit, right?
Right, keep telling yourself that…
"Hey, whatcha doing back here?" Stacy asked, popping up behind me.
"I’m a dancer now," I said, shrugging a little.
"Really? Mr. B just let you on just like that? Sheesh, that's fast. He made me audition for him and he told me to gain a few pounds. Said the guys here like women with some meat on their bones and I was too scrawny. How rude, right?"
“Yeah, that is rude,” I told her.
I felt bad for her. But for once, that extra weight I could never seem to drop seemed to have worked in my favor rather than against me.
Stacy sat down at her makeup station. "It doesn’t matter. I never really gained the weight because my metabolism is good no matter how many burgers I eat.”
“Must be rough,” I said, laughing.
“I know, right? The good thing is that Mr. B seemed to forget about his instructions. I think there are men who like all kinds of different body types here. Once he saw that they were happy to continue buying drinks and watching me, he dropped the whole issue.”
“That’s good,” I said. “You look great just as you are.”
I blushed as I said this, as it implied I had been watching her naked body on stage. I had only meant that I liked her figure and admired her confidence. But I was afraid I had come off creepy. If she thought so, though, she didn’t say anything and instead just patted the bench beside her.
“Come sit right here, you can have this spot next to me. I can show you the ropes.” She looked me up and down, then shook her head. “Someone as innocent looking as you is gonna need a few tips!"
I sat down next to Stacy and watched in the mirror as she did my makeup and hair and picked out an outfit with a matching pair of shoes.
“There are some guys here who like the innocent look, so I’m not doing you up too much,” she said, like a school mom tasked with training me in the ways of exotic dancing. “But most of them think we’re bad girls and that if they pay us enough in tips when we’re on stage, we’ll do extra things for them when we give them lap dances. So it’s not good to look like a goody two shoes. No offense.”
“None taken,” I told her, shrugging. “I appreciate your help.”
They had a rehearsal pole in the changing area and Stacy showed me how to grip it and do basic moves.
"You're not worried you'll crack your neck?"
"Nah, I was in gymnastics when I was younger. Doesn't scare me."
"Wow."
I was athletic and could do a few gymnastics moves, too, but Stacy’s moves were on a different scale entirely. After some pole dance coaching, I had the basics strung together for an okay show. Maybe I wouldn't make as much as Stacy did on my first day, but it was a start. It was going to be a hell of a lot better than the measly three hundred and fifty dollars I earned a week by tending bar here.
I didn't even know how much money it would take to keep Sam alive, but that didn't mean I could sit idle until then. Now I had the chance to save money to take care of Sam. It wasn’t exactly what I’d seen myself doing for a career, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
The music began and the rest of the evening shift dancers arrived. The bar was filling up with the early crowd— older men who didn’t want to go home quite yet, and frat boys getting an early start on Saturday night drinking.
Mr. Brent knocked loudly and stuck his face through the curtain. “Time to go, ladies! Willow, you’re up first!”
I gulped. This was it. My shot to help save my brother.