The sanctity of my local strip club...

it's always night here

Screenshot from the film Factotum [2005] based on the novel by Bukowski

When I’m depressed—and I mean, really, truly, down-on-my-luck-fucked-depressed—I don’t call my therapist.

I don’t seek salvation in the old Irish church at the end of the street.

I don’t feel sorry for myself on the rickety stool in the corner pub.

I head straight for my local strip club.

I love it here. Why? Not for the reasons you might expect.

I love this place because it’s always night here. Windows blacked out. Lighting so grim, you forget what day looks like. You forget it’s a hot, stinking Tuesday afternoon outside. You forget how late your rent is and how many people have forgotten you. You forget what the real world is like. And today all I want to do is forget.

I love this place because there aren’t many men present at this hour. Which is a kind of relief in itself. And the few men that are around, are all very troubled. You can see the defeat carved deep into their faces. There is something surreal and strangely comforting about sitting across wilted men who are just as broken as you, but older. Further down the dark road. Closer to the cliff.

I am both fascinated and disappointed by the fact that we are surrounded by these captivating half-naked women who could easily kill us off at any moment and end our collective misery, but instead of doing that, they choose to show us only smiles and mercy.

I love this place because the bartender also coaches kids soccer on the weekend when she’s not moonlighting as a cook at the diner across the street to pay for her coding classes. Not to mention the fact that she always serves stiff, mean drinks and only bothers me when my glass is empty—God bless her goddamn heart.

I love this place because nobody ever brings up sports, or politics, or the latest trash trending on Netflix. And nobody asks me: “Where do you see yourself in five years? When are you getting married? Why do you want to work for us? When are you going to give me a grandchild? Why don’t you text me back? Do you have life insurance? Do you really love me? Have you found Jesus?” (In my humble defense: I wasn’t aware he was lost, or that I belonged to the search party that’s supposed to be looking for him.)

I love this place because they never ask for my thoughts and prayers. They just let me sit in holy silence with my ancestral sadness. They let me read my book in peace. They let me write things no one will ever see. And every now and then, the dancers allow me the honor to sketch their hypnotic Brazilian shapes as they spin and sway to deep cut remixes of Depeche Mode, Gun’s N’ Roses, and Nine Inch Nails songs under the flickering neon lights.

If heaven bears any resemblance to this, take me now.