Cryptie Dot Net

The lusty pulse and sweet melody of trip-hop mixed with the curling fingers of cherry flavored tobacco smoke and slicked up, hungry bodies washed over them as they entered the reinforced doors of Strip Club Symposium, known by the underground railroad of sentients as the last sanctuary for human minds.

Marble pillars the color of ivory loomed with gauze-light draperies drifting from them over giggling indoor fountains.

Here, intellectuals lounged across ornate, antique love-seats, pontificating with one arm extended to grasp a martini or glass of bourbon, the other draped casually around the shoulders of a delectable woman of the night, or sometimes two, each clothed as roman goddesses and leaning into one another intimately, their fingers affectionately tangled in one another’s hair.

“C’mon now, dear, let’s warm up them chilled bones.” Fairy House Mom bustled busily behind the heavy wooden bar to the left of the entrance, whisking an apron from a hook on the wall and tying it around her waist in one deft motion. “How’s about a drink with some bite while you sit yer pretty behind down an’ tell me —” she leaned over the bar with a half serious, half teasing air, one eyebrow slightly raised “— what’n tarnation possessed you to go sittin’ out thar like a moonstruck cay-oat.”

“Tricksy-tini, two olives, please.” The girl pulled herself onto a barstool and sat, legs pulled up and bent to place her small bare feet on the barstool next to her.

“You gon’ have to get over this somber patch, girl.” Fairy House Mom shot her a skeptical look, wrapping her fingers around a martini shaker.”

The girl tilted her head, trailing a nail over the edge of the bar thoughtfully. As Fairy House Mom shook the martini with the mood of a cha-cha, words flowed softly from the girl’s mouth.

“When I was a little girl, my daddy used to take me to the park to feed the ducks. He’d carry me there on his shoulders, and he’d laugh with me. One time feeding the ducks, one of them bit me, and I cried, so daddy kissed it better and carried me home.

On the way, I was looking back over his shoulder, back into the woods and I saw this shining glint of light. It was like silver jewelry, or diamond, but breathing and alive. And when I looked at it, it looked back at me, and I knew I was safe there, riding along in my daddy’s arms.

Other times, when his arms were full, he would have me hold onto the back of his belt. That way, I wouldn’t get lost, even when he couldn’t hold my hand. I saw it then, too, looking at me through the leaves. Whenever I looked closer, it was gone.” Her voice trailed off.

“You must’a saw a reflection.” Fairy House Mom smiled nonchalantly, sliding the girl her martini glass. Barely looking, the girl took the glass, pulled out the toothpick, and idly discarded the third olive onto a napkin.

“That’s the thing. There was nothing reflective. I looked! Every chance I got, I looked. But there was never anything so much as a lost penny or a shard of glass.”

The lighter whirred and clicked ineffectually. A cigarette hung from her lips, flaccid and tinged with the salt of despair. This was probably just another lost cause, but she wasn’t thinking about that. If the gritty pavement and cold metal of a streetlight against her back weren’t going to demand her attention, a rain-soaked lighter and limp cigarette wouldn’t do the trick.

The rain never stopped in this city, and even when it slowed down, there was a grey mist. So she sat there, clothing soaked through and strands of hair stuck to her face, trying to revive one last spark as a figure lurched slowly to tower over her.

“Got any change?” it demanded.

“Sorry, I haven’t got any.” Said the girl, head bowed.

“Got any change?” it repeated.

“I really haven’t.” She examined her fingernails, bitten to the quick, against the lighter, sepia-tinged by the pale glow of the streetlight.

“Got any change?” it was relentless, and from the tattered patchwork swaying at eye level, the girl decided it might once have been a smiling beggar woman, selling flowers for a dollar at the side of the freeway. Now it would have strangely gaunt, hanging features, eyes obscured by the heavy shadow cast by its oversized wicker hat, its hand grasping and clutching the air, searching for – change? – no, something unattainable. It also looked for a spark that it could not create. Don’t make eye contact. She’s off her meds.

The girl was pained. This was certainly the age of boundless futility. As her stomach tightened and her shoulders rose, a sudden bustle and clatter erupted behind the figure above her, and two perfectly manicured hands wrapped themselves neatly around its shoulders.

“Now you heard ‘er,” said a cheerful, drawling voice, and the girl looked up in shock, first glancing to the flaxen haired woman who stood just behind the bewildered beggar, her smiling eyes closed, “She doesn’t have anythin’ for ya. So you jus’ go check if they got something down the end of the block you need, y’hear?” and she steered the figure easily past the girl, whose eyes connected – just for a moment – with the glimmer of vision beneath the beggar’s hat.

Time stood still. The moment clicked into place. My mind’s made up; there’s going to be trouble.

“…Mi…Mittens?” The figure shuffled for a moment, aimless, stumbled a few steps on the sidewalk, and continued on her way, setting off like a toy boat let loose on the current of a slow but steady stream.

“Mittens …” it repeated, muffled and further along. The woman who steered her off now squared against the confused young girl sitting on the pavement, hands on her hips like a firm mother. A large arctic fox fur jacket hung under her left arm, softening the contour of her hourglass figure.

“Lookit you out here, soaked to the bone and if I tol’ you once I tol’ you a thousand times —” her southern drawl poured slowly, even with the force of a lecture. The flicker of florescent signs  shattered over her shoulders, giving the impression of gossamer wings. “— you gon’ catch your death out here, and in more ways than one!”

She wrapped the sullen girl’s shoulders in the coat from under her arm and pulled her gently towards the heavy wooden doors across from the streetlight, under a sign that said “Strip Club Symposium.”