The first thing that hit me was the embarrassment. It was only when I was back on my feet that I realised my legs were pouring with blood.
It was pitch black and I ‘d been walking across uneven paving, but the alcohol undoubtedly contributed. I hadn’t fallen far but my pride had taken a massive tumble.
You see, even at midnight, the streets of Atlanta were crowded and so my fall from ‘grace’ had been witnessed by more than a few onlookers. Luckily I wasn’t alone and my friend, Nicola, was on hand to help me up and dust off my bruised ego. Without further ado, we continued towards our destination – The Clermont Lounge in Atlanta’s notorious Poncey-Highland district.
Originally opened in 1965, The Clermont was Atlanta’s first ever strip club and had gained a reputation for being ‘kitsch’. It was a word that I’d never heard attributed to an establishment of this kind. So while Nicola was convinced that my wounds were severe enough to warrant calling it an early night, I was so intrigued by what would be my first ever strip club experience that I wasn’t to be deterred by a little bloodshed.
With an antiseptic lotion and a gauze bandage – all administered by the surprisingly caring head bouncer – I was ready to enter the mystical realm of The Clermont Lounge.
The narrow steps that led to the main hall were difficult to navigate but as we neared the bottom, a faint pink hue lit the way. And, once we’d rounded the corner, it flooded the room before us.
Through the haze, not much else was perceptible apart from an oppressive odour of tobacco – that was impossible to escape. But as we approached the bar, the scene unraveled before us in hideous technicolour. The walls were plastered in a gaudy green and on them hung elaborate signs created from neon tubes. The bar, although manned by a completely average looking person, was crafted from a thick wood and decorated by garish mats and bronze fittings. And, most ‘eye-catchingly’, tonight’s ‘entertainment’ was sat astride a flimsy barstool which looked ill-equipped to carry her.
Quite what she was called escapes me. She was in her late 50s, plump and wearing an outfit that gave a whole new definition to the word ‘vintage’. I realised they were right – this wasn’t your average strip joint. It was, in fact: kitsch.
I tried to look away but, transfixed by the unfurling horror before me, I remained in a car-crash-like state. And that’s when I spotted him.
Like many great things, it all started off as a bet between two best friends.
“Bet you can’t get that guy’s hat” was the ultimate challenge for me who, having downed 3 tequilas in the short time we’d been there, (medicinal only, of course), was now more than a little worse for wear.
He was well over 6ft tall and thickset – the most intimidating man in the building and the one that, as a girl of 25, you probably shouldn’t approach. But all that was irrelevant at this point. The mission was on.
He stared with a cruel look, the fixed glare refusing to welcome my approach. I considered backing out but it was too late. I had committed.
As I neared him, I noticed that his face was lined with pain. The kind that you only get from having seen too much of life. It dawned on me that a girl in her mid 20s asking for his hat would be more than an annoyance to such a man. Something more was needed.
I struck up conversation – just small talk, to try and break the ice. And somehow, as happens when you’re talking to a complete stranger, he spoke with a surprising openness. He’d grown in up in Lakewood – one of the most deprived neighbourhoods in Atlanta and, in fact, in the whole of the Deep South. He’d witnessed his brother being brutally murdered on the streets, and was convinced that his mother’s death just two years later was the result of a broken heart.
We spoke for hours before Nicola decided we had to leave.
And then it happened.
As I said goodbye, the glare in his eyes softened. And though only for a moment, the harsh lines that framed his face were replaced by a soft smile. The most human I’ve ever seen.
“I been coming here every weekend for over 10 years, and you’re the first person who ever spoke to me”.
His appreciation for me talking to him was clear, and yet his gratitude was still unmatched by mine. I had met someone real.
I never did get his hat. But I left that night having gained more than I could ever have hoped for.
About the author: Miriam Thomas graduated in 2006 and spent several years in teaching. She has travelled across Australia and New Zealand and has a strong desire to visit Japan in the near future. She currently works in Milton Keynes and is keen to pursue her love of both travel and writing.
