Nonstop Party Wagon

Before we got married, my husband and I broke up for a period of time we now call “the schism.” I was heartbroken, flattened. Every day, I woke with scratchy eyes, sobbing in my row house apartment, not caring if the neighbors heard my wretchedness. 

But I knew I couldn’t stay prostrate across the bed forever. Life, unfortunately, had to go on. To dig myself out of my hole, I decided to implement a lifestyle choice a friend called the “nonstop party wagon.”  

The concept was simple: say yes to everything. Anytime an opportunity comes across your path, take it. Anytime someone says would you like to … say yes. Always answer yes.  

I decided to try it.  

Want to buy musical theater tickets even though you don’t like that sort of thing? 

Yes.  

How about going to a twerking contest at a punk bar?  

Sure.  

Will you donate to the Girl Scouts of America?  

Absolutely.  

I said yes when a friend mentioned her choir was looking for sopranos. The group was called The Boar’s Head Wassail Quire and performed sixteenth century wassails—pagan-sounding Christmas songs, mostly British, about holy trees and boars’ heads on giant platters. They’re based in a tradition of peasants roaming the countryside singing for noblemen in hopes of being offered booze and snacks.  

We caroled door to door or walked into bars and asked if we could sing. The bartenders were uniformly skeptical, but when we burst into four-part harmony, we never failed to get applause (and the occasional whiskey shot). We were really good. Composed of former music majors looking for something to do with their skills, the choir was professional and stunning.  

We practiced in the sanctuary of a local seminary, and I never missed a rehearsal. I was the hack of the group; I’d been a singer in a rock band but was nowhere near a soprano.  

My roommate at the time was midway through a project to tattoo her entire body. One night, after I got home from choir practice, she asked if I wanted to get a drink with her and her tattoo artist. 

Yes.  

We went to a local dive. After a beer, the tattoo artist asked if we wanted to pay a visit to a strip club called the Cricket Lounge. “Want to go?”  

Yes.  

The tattoo artist, one of her tattooing prodigies, my roommate, and I piled into a van. I’d been to a strip club one other time, accidentally, when I was eighteen and living in France, and it hadn’t been a good experience. But if this was where the nonstop party wagon led, what could I do?  

I was also curious—the Cricket was a neighborhood institution, and I wanted to see what it was all about. 

When we walked in, everyone recognized the tattoo artist and gave a little cheer. They didn’t charge us an entry fee.  

An old guy sitting at the bar in an oversized winter coat motioned her over.  

“He’s one of my regulars,” she whispered to us. She supplemented her tattooing with part-time stripping. 

He handed over a stack of cash, not for her, but for all of us to give to the strippers on stage.  

“Don’t you want to give it to them yourself?” she asked.   

“Nah, you go ahead,” he said shyly.  

We sat in the front row and ordered nine-dollar Yuenglings, and soon a young dancer appeared. She was tiny with slight puckering on her stomach that showed she was a mom. Every woman on stage that night bore the same marks.  

She joked with the tattoo artist, laughed at me with my obviously wide eyes. She shook herself, laughing, “Don’t be scared, it’s only booty.”  

The tattoo artist gave us asides on strip club etiquette. “If you’re sitting in the front row, you have to give the girls real money.” She split the old guy’s stack of cash among us and I was grateful. I only had six bucks left in my pocket.   

“Here’s a fun thing,” she said. “Stripper darts!” She folded dollar bills into a shape like a badminton birdie, flattened one end and coated it in lip balm. A dancer approached, shaking her ass, and the tattoo artist threw darts at her butt cheeks trying to get one to stick.  

Each dancer wiped the pole with a towel before her act. Tiny women, naked except for Lucite heels, heaved themselves to the top with strength any gym rat would envy. Just some athletic moms who happened to be naked at work.  

~~~

I sat by the tattoo prodigy. He was young and cute with a few face tats. He reminded me of kids I’d known years before. I thought we were on the same page, our nods to each other acknowledging the absurdity of the situation—what a funny experience to have! Then he pulled out some cash and disappeared upstairs with a dancer.  

Around this time, the nonstop party wagon started to wear on me. I was lonely. I missed my boyfriend. I imagined telling him about my strip club adventure, about my newfound love of wassail music. He’d think it was funny. The smoke stung my eyes.  

Another dancer took the stage, curvier than the others and not as animated.  

The tattoo artist scoffed. “I hate it when strippers come out and just walk around the pole. Put a little effort into it!” 

I remembered my high school gym class rope-climbing failures. I knew I’d never make it as a stripper.  

I wanted to go home. My apartment was close, but it felt unsafe to leave a strip club alone at 1 a.m. I waited it out, my eyes growing heavy. The lazy dancer left the stage. The parade of naked moms continued. They seemed happy their coworker and her guests were there supporting them.  

I worked my way through the stack of cash, trying to dole it out equally to each dancer. When the money was gone, I sat quietly.  

Two young men moved to the front row, occasionally sliding singles onto the stage.  

“Cheapskates!” the tattoo artist said. “They should be giving more money in those seats.” 

These guys didn’t fit with the clientele of elderly, sad-looking men. They seemed square. Maybe business majors from the University of Pittsburgh?  

One of them looked familiar. We locked eyes and recognized each other at the same moment. 

He was the husband of one of my coworkers. I wondered if she knew he was here. I smirked. I bet he was terrified I’d tell her. Then I realized he might tell her I was here. A thirty-something woman in the front row of a dingy strip club, straight from choir practice at the seminary. None of this made sense. My life made no sense.  

My head ached. My throat stung with smoke. I didn’t have nine dollars for another beer. When the tattoo prodigy re-emerged, we finally left. I fell into bed fully clothed. 

Ready to make my own decisions rather than blowing with the wind, I set into a flurry of plans and applications and soon left Pittsburgh for a writer-in-residence position in New Zealand.  

A few weeks later, my ex-boyfriend/future-husband arrived in Auckland. He proposed in a camper van in the mountains near a bright blue river.  

I said yes. 

Hallie Pritts is a Sewanee Writers’ Conference alum, Chautauqua Writers Conference fellow, former artist-in-residence in New Zealand, and finalist for the Jeffrey E. Smith Editors’ Prize. Her work has appeared in McSweeney’s, The Missouri Review, LitMag, Off Assignment, and others. She’s working on a thriller.

This essay is a Short Reads original.