Bad Gig

The pole is slick there's a smell emanating from the toilets body odor and a thick male musk in the smoky air. I'm not here to gawp at the dancer just bar tend. The floor is sticky, the glasses dirty, the canned music sleazy. It's not a classy joint. Nobody tips, not many drink, the head of the skinny manager materializes from around a drape. The head wants me to clean off the tables. I get my coat walk out into the clean snow, wash-out the muck behind my eyes with handwipes.