Stan was tossing his deadened cell in the back of his Mercedes when the jalopy rolled up to the club. It was a busted-up bucket, with jagged rust-holes rent through the sides and an engine that sounded like it was being tortured. The car didn’t park, but instead idled in the middle of lot, its smudged windows distorting the neon of Fox’s Cabaret.
The cigarette rotted red at Stan’s lips—half the stoag still remained, so he turned his back to the club’s tinted door and faced the lot and the sparse highway behind it.
The bucket’s door cracked and a hand stuck up and grabbed the frame of the door, wrenching the occupant out. The kid—20, skinny, wearing loose clothing and scuffed Timberlands—exhaled his cigarette as his looked past the lot, protecting himself from the Lake Erie winds with the door.
He turned to Stan.
“Not much…just taking a cigarette break.”
Stan turned his shoulder towards the kid…they had the Y chromosome in common, and the double-Xes on display, the others, the entertainment, created instant camaraderie, just two fans at a show.
Stan saw that the kid wasn’t moving towards the door.
“You picking someone up?”
“Yeah…” The kid smirked rambuncuously. “Yeah.”
“Yeah…Ecuadorian girl…big ass.”
The kid turned off towards the distance again and bit the inside of his lip like he was trying to pop something.
“You getting a dance in there?” The kid’s smirk reignited as he turned back to Stan.
“Well…thinking about it anyway.”
“Jus a suggestion…if you get a VIP dance…go with Fern.”
The kid’s eyes looked past Stan to the door of the club as he nodded.
“That’s the one.” The kid coughed on his cigarette, sending the jets of acrid smoke into the frigid air.
Stan stabbed out his cigarette and swung the door to the club wide, the suggestion on his mind.