Sin City (33 page)

Oh, I know you could say it's the same with female strippers, that Alexis and the rest of them feel nothing either and are just feigning their excitement and their turn-on, but you can't actually prove it with a female. There's no clincher, as with men, so at least you're free to imagine they're genuinely aroused, which just saves the thing from insult.

They're taking their bows now, still pulsing with mock passion, blowing kisses, striking erotic poses, while those seven floppy misogynists declare the whole thing a sham. I turn away, can't look.

“Enjoy it?” Angelique asks.

I nod, wonder if I dare explain about the pricks, see if she feels the same, try and point out how hollow it all seems, sex without the x, without the charge and thrust, all posturing and facade. I fumble for the words. I've only just met the girl, don't want to offend her.

“Oh, come on, Carole. What d'you expect? Erections every week and on demand? It's just a job, for heaven's sake.”

I don't reply. It's obvious I'm the only one dissatisfied, the only sourpuss. The other girls are still squawking with excitement, swapping high points from the show. I remember something Dr (Beechgrove) Bates said: “You're angry with your father, Carole, for dying, so you take it out on all men, want to punish them.”

Bugger Dr Bates! He always made things so involved. I'm confused enough already. Those females with the placards object to porn as porn. At least that's fairly simple and consistent, whereas what I'm saying is (I think) that I want porn to be professional, porn for real. No, that's ridiculous. I object to porn myself, and yet … Oh, I don't know, but those female strippers seemed so glamorous, so suave. I'd rather look like them, earn their sort of money, than parade in a dirty boilersuit with nothing in my purse but skimpy principles. Yet I must admit I'd like to have a cause, something to believe in beyond mere cash and clothes; to be part of a group who cared enough to fight. I've always felt ashamed that I didn't join the peace marches, or chain myself to railings, or cut the wire at Greenham. Instead, I used to criticise their gear, those awful woolly hats and nylon anoraks.

I excuse myself a moment, pretend I need the toilet. I really need a break, a rest from all the noise and razzmatazz. The music is still ear-splitting, a sort of jangly yelping wail, amplified to pain. I fight my way to the exit, dodging chairs, tables, and randy men who grope me as I pass, shouting out “Hi, gorgeous! On your own?” I fend them off, squeeze through the mini soccer crowd still gathered round the bar. The foyer is mercifully deserted. It smells of curry, strangely, since they don't serve meals, only snacks and sandwiches. A broken doll is lying in one corner. I pick it up. Perhaps a family lives here, above the basement. I've hardly seen a child in all Las Vegas. They don't belong. It's not a family place. Adults only. And “adult” means something slightly sordid here. Adult movies, adult entertainment.

It's funny – I longed to be an adult, dared trial-runs when I was only twelve or so, larding on the blusher, buying dangly earrings, stuffing out my chest with tissue paper. Now I've made it: breasts for real, mascara and jewellery no longer hidden in my piggy-bank, yet it's all a disappointment. I thought it would mean more, much more, that I'd suddenly feel different, less confused, receive some insight or enlightenment, know what I believed in. But my eighteenth birthday was really much the same as all the rest – my father buying cakes and crazy presents, my mother nagging about crumbs and waste of money; a few jokey cards from friends. Perhaps we need something like the Jewish bar mitzvah, some solemn celebration to make the thing dignified and real, to convince ourselves we really are grown up.

I walk round and round the foyer, the doll cradled in my arms. Nice to be a kid again. Or would it? Even then, you're pressurised, have to keep up with your crowd, know what's “in”, what's yuk; follow trends and styles. I only started smoking because that was clever, daring. Now I'm hooked.

Las Vegas is a bit the same. You have to be a swinger, keep on Having Fun. “Enjoy, enjoy!” everyone insists. It's their favourite word, written on the menus, shouting from advertisements, in the mouths of all the staff – waitresses and barmen, Keno girls and hostesses. They say it when they bring your food, bring your change, find you tables, mix you drinks. “Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy.” To tell the truth, I'm feeling a bit sated. I've drunk too much, gorged too much, and I'm getting almost blasé. If there aren't a hundred courses or two hundred dancing girls; a glade of marble nymphs or a pride of gilded lions, then the place is second-rate.

I slump down on a bench. A television set is playing to itself. Two soldiers run for cover in a burst of rifle-fire. I can hear the fat man's laughter as background to the guns, amplified and booming from the other room. Then Israel (or wherever) gives place to sunny Spain – bronzed and leggy lotus-eaters throwing beach balls, sipping Coca-Cola. “It's the real thing, the real thing …” Actually, it rots your teeth, so next we get a toothpaste ad: Plaque Control with Fluoride. They're Having Fun again – skiing, surfing, sunbathing, flashing ice-white teeth against white snow, white surf, white rum. They're always drinking in the ads: Bacardi in Jamaica, bourbon in log cabins, and everything is Fun, even things like dandruff. You don't actually see the itching or the reddened flaky scalp, just Golden Girls floating in slow motion over silver sands, their sheeny hair streaming out behind them, and blissful smiles again. They ought to do a combination ad – shampoo, toothpaste, coke, Bacardi – just one beach, one big grin. Perhaps that's why my mother drank, to find the missing Fun. There weren't a lot of laughs in Elm Close, Portishead. My father did his humble best, but the house was cramped and damp and the immersion heater was always breaking down, so if you washed your hair it meant boiled kettles or cold water, not hot springs in Jamaica.

They're back to guns and bombs now, so I walk on down the passage to the restroom. I'd better use it now I'm here, though it's cramped and filthy dirty, with a crate of empty bottles in one corner. (Budweiser, not Bacardi.) I pee as quickly as I can, wash my hands in a trickle of cold water. There's a contraceptive machine above the basin selling Super-Sex French Ticklers. “Only Super-Sex offer the ecstasy of colour with improved raised spirals which combine total stimulation with maximum sensitivity.” Great. If I had a guy to wear one. I don't want a guy, though, do I? I'm hostile to them, fixated on my father. Oh, Dr Bates, where
are
you? No, I couldn't cope with him.

I'm tired now, really tired, wish I could just leave. But that would be unfair to Angelique, and in the absence of a bloke, she's my only friend. Well, Norah, of course, but even though I feel relaxed with Norah, there are still a lot of things we can't discuss – men, pricks, French ticklers, even resentment. If I were Toomey, I'd be burning with resentment towards everyone, from her non-existent father (who was too drunk or wild or careless to even bother with a tickler), to bloody Dr Bates who more or less ignores her. And instead she loves the world – or at least accepts it, and her place at the bottom of the pile, with the poor, the sick, the sexless …

I dry my hands on my skirt (the towel-holder is empty), return to the fray which is easier said than done, since the wet tee shirt competition is just about to start and more men are pouring in to see the fun – Fun. (It has to have its capital.) When I at last reach our table, Angelique is talking to a foreign-looking man, tall and rather striking.

“No, Reuben,” she's saying. “No, I'm sorry. I've told you no before.”

I'm intrigued. Is he propositioning her, trying to wean her from her pit boss? I suddenly feel jealous. This man has some quality I've never seen before – an intensity, a seriousness, a sort of fire and passion which has nothing to do with sex. You can see it in his eyes which seem too large for his thin and sallow face, staring fiercely out of it, burning up everything they light on. He can't be more than twenty-five or so, but he looks older because of the expression in those eyes, one of suffering, oppression. He's wearing ordinary blue jeans and a matching denim jacket, except they don't look ordinary on him, but daring and original, especially in this setting where most people are dressed up. He's very thin, as if he's burnt up all spare flesh in action and conviction. His hands, too, are long and lean, and he uses them a lot, gesturing, appealing, stroking back his thick dark hair, rubbing at his chin. He hasn't shaved for a day or two and his chin and jaw are shadowed, which makes him look not slobby, but somehow vulnerable.

Angelique hasn't introduced me. Some girls are like that – don't want the guy themselves, but heaven help you if you try and snap him up. Actually, they're both ignoring me, still deep in conversation. Angelique seems angry, almost scared. I can feel her vibes affecting me, making me not angry, but restless and excited. I bang my glass around a bit to remind them both I'm there. At last, he seems to see me, turns in my direction. I smile. He doesn't, just keeps his eyes focused on my face. I can feel myself flaming as if his glance is fire, reducing me to ash, burning away all pretence and affectation. Angelique is silent, so I introduce myself. “I'm Carole,” I say, unsteadily. “Carole Joseph.” I no longer need to change my name. I want to be myself.

“Jewish.”

He isn't asking, merely stating. His voice is very low, intimate and urgent, as if we're sharing in some secret, or he's telling me the password. I don't say “just a quarter” as I usually do. He's obviously Jewish himself with a name like Reuben, and those deep brown burning eyes, so why make myself three-quarters different from him? I simply nod.

He rubs his chin. “From England.”

“Yes,” I say, though it wasn't a question, just another statement.

“Staying here or visiting?” His voice is very deep. The American accent is barely noticeable, and is overlaid with something else. He seems to have pared down the language to its shortest simplest components as if he's short of time, doesn't want to waste it, or is used to giving orders.

“Visiting,” I answer. For the first time in five days, I wish I could say “staying”.

“How long?”

“Ssh,” says Angelique. “It's starting now.”

I long to escape, sneak out with Reuben on my own, creep away from the racket and hysteria, have him to myself. This man is something special – I know that in my veins – the unique and different man I knew I had to find. He's talking about Israel. I can hardly make the words out, but I can hear the fervour in them, see the passion and conviction in his face. Those other guys like Jake and Milt were playboys. I just clutched at them because I was feeling lost and lonely. Reuben's in a different class entirely – young, good-looking, serious, obviously intelligent, and concerned with things beyond mere greed and gambling. He's questioning me again. I crane forward to hear, but his words are scuppered in the fat man's spiel.

“Now any of you lovely girls who wanna get involved in our tee shirt competition, all you have to do is come up here and give me your names. Don't worry if you haven't got a tee shirt. We'll supply one. We've got hundreds – big, small, very big. We love the big ones, don't we, guys? There's a prize for the biggest, don't forget, but also for the smallest, the cutest, the best shaped nipples and … Sit down, Sir. There's a security guard standing right behind you and you should see where he hits. You'll be the winner of the next no-ball prize.” (Screams of raucous laughter, including the fat man's own.) “
My
name's Leroy. That's a black's name, isn't it? No, I'm not a black, but my mother loved 'em, couldn't get enough. Ha ha ha. Anyone out there with a wife or girlfriend who's a little shy, just push her up on stage. We'll wet her down and show everyone her titties. Look at all those horny guys sittin' in the front row. Smile if you're horny, guys. Great! Every goddamn guy is smilin'.”

I feel embarrassed for Reuben. He's not smiling, hardly seems to be listening at all. He's still sitting next to Angelique (though she's turned her chair away), and is scribbling on a folded bit of paper, his brows drawn down, his profile sad and stern. I think Jesus would have looked like that. I know the pictures show Him as a wimp, with long blond curls and clutching little lambs (or lilies), but He was obviously dark if He came from Palestine, and I'm pretty sure He looked haunted and oppressed when you think of all His problems.

Angelique is nudging me. “Go
on.
”

“What?” I say. I'm so obsessed with Jesus Reuben, I think she means take his hand, solve his problems, join his Church.

“Get up there and give Leroy your name, hon. This is your big chance.”

I shake my head. I'm even more opposed now. I want Reuben to regard me as someone cool and dignified, an apostle, a disciple, as serious as he is. They're anything but serious on stage. They've dragged on a children's plastic paddling pool and are handing out tee shirts and bikini bottoms to a troupe of giggly entrants.

Leroy is bawling through the microphone again. “Hundreds of girls want to be in showbiz. Well, this could be your break, girls. Look at that great audience out there – impresarios, theatre owners, motion-picture producers, all pantin' to spot new talent, snap you up. And even the regular guys will all be rootin' for you. Come on, guys, get your wallets out, unroll those dollar bills. I wanna see you all go crazy tonight. It's the first time for most of these girls and they're nervous as all hell. I hope we get some pretty ones, but we take on anyone. We can't say no. Last week, the winner had only one tit. We gave her the prize for most original. Ha ha ha. Right, who wants to see some action?”

Screams of “yeah”, wolf whistles, glasses banged on tables.