Nine trips to seven tittie-bars in forty-eight hours or My tittie-bar tour of Portland
1.
In the winter months that marked the beginning of 2005, two semi-employed, bitter friends from a small west Texas town began an adventure in the quaint little town of Austin. After the long, drawn out process of a high-school-sweetheart divorce, James, a twenty-seven year old chemical engineering doctoral graduate of the University of Texas, realized that he had missed out on every bit of debauchery that ten years in college has to offer. Disillusioned and deeply depressed by both the recent divorce and the lack of immediate interest from prospective employers, he began to focus on a relatively new hobby, drinking. Enlisting the assistance of an old high school friend with a reputation of drunkenness and excessive free time, the two soon realized that beer goes down much better when surrounded by naked women, and thus began a three time a week habit that would last for the next six months.
The majority of this time was spent at a local adult entertainment establishment known as the Expos. This lovely little place is located less than four miles from either of the apartments in which he and I (the willing accomplice in this part of the tale) had lived at the time, allowing for the ease of visitation which facilitated our frequent patronage. Skipping over the vast majority of detail involved in the many occasions of drunken spending, I developed numerous infatuations with both entertainers and servers, as they represented the only female interaction I had during the time, aside from the girls in my realtors office who were all married or involved. Though so many of these girls were irresistibly beautiful and quite unique, one young lady in particular stood out far above the rest, which is probably poor wording, as she was, quite possibly, the shortest.
I, being a hopeless coward, probably had no more than two conversations with this girl throughout the months I saw her. I was, nevertheless, quite enamored with this fit, petite brunette sporting a great number of tattoos, including red daisies on her elbows. (Why that particular ink stands out in my mind, Im not quite sureI suppose its the pain involved in tattooing thin skin over bone.) Some time before the end of our stint, we had stopped seeing her there at all and simply assumed she had gone to work at one of the other bars here in town.
Eventually James received a fairly lucrative job offer with Intel in Portland and moved away, ending our frivolous expenditure, but not before one final blowout with many friends in tow to send him off. My attendance dwindled, as I had a hard time finding a replacement to accompany me in my depravity. I still made it a point to go on occasion to see a server I had developed something with (or rather, been manipulated by) and had a few growing friendships with the management, servers, and dancers (one of whom, Chanel, I am still quite fond of). For the most part, however, the habit was broken.
2.
Recently, James came down for a visit during his sisters Birthday, and, inevitably, we returned to our old haunt in search of strong drink and friendly entertainment. I, of course, devoted my attention to Chanel, while he befriended a girl I was not familiar with. I believe her name is Teri.
Later in the weekend, we had decided to barbeque at my house. For those of you not familiar with the barbeque stylings of west Texas natives, it usually consists of a couple of assholes pretending to know what theyre doing while everyone gets drunk over the period of an entire afternoon during which people get tired of waiting on the two assholes to finish fucking around so everyone can eat. (In our case, its usually myself and a second generation family friend, Jeremy our fathers were actually roommates in the late 60s, and our moms were in high school togetherhow sad.) Attending this event was my tax attorney, also a west Texas native, who had airline mileage soon to expire. He quite aggressively insisted I use it to join James in Portland for a weekend, and I happily accepted.
After everyone had had their fill and all but a few had departed, James and I both hinted at a return to the Expos. Jeremy wanted nothing to do with it, knowing his own weakness toward seeking solace in the arms of willing young women at the bargain price of twenty dollars every two an a half minutes. So, as I wanted nothing to do with the fourth remaining guest, I told them both to get the fuck out of my house, and James and I proceeded with our trip to the beloved tittie bar.
Once inside, we secured our beer order and James found Teri. The night was fairly unexciting for me, because none of the people I knew were even there. The following day, however, I find out from Dr. Pancho (James alias) that Teri had been friends with Emma (the aforementioned petite, tattooed brunette), and that she had also moved to Portland. I left it to James to find out where she worked before my arrival in his new nonnative home. He failed miserably.
3.
Having been unable to find the time (or accompaniment) to go once again to the Expos to ask around, I arrived in Portland Friday (03/24/06) with no clue as to where we might find Emma. From the airport, James drove us to his suburbanite community of Hillsboro, where he took me through his day to day drinking life which eventually led to two rather disappointing adult oriented organizations.
He had mentioned in prior conversations that Oregon law apparently creates a cockfight like environment in which performers are in something of a bordered arena rather than atop an elevated stage such as I had become accustomed to in Texas. I found this, as well as other strange etiquette, to be a bit unnerving and, therefore decided to dollar-toss the dancers in a deliberate drunken attempt to get us thrown out. (The dollar-toss is a rather demeaning act of actually throwing a wadded up dollar bill at the performer. Though it may not necessarily have been invented by him, it was popularized by the Monty in the tittie-bars of Dallas and Killeen, and later, Austin.) This attempt was disregarded entirely, and we grew excessively bored as James computer geek colleague had disappeared for an exceptionally long spell of purchased affection. Once he reappeared much later, we managed to leave, and I finally got some sleep.
4.
The next morning, we stumbled around, slightly hung-over, before finally going to lunch and then to the Japanese Garden, which was my main priority for this entire trip. (The gardens were amazing, by the way.) We went to some slightly Bohemian district to wander around and eventually eat again, then returned to his apartment to rest and shower before an evening of downtown exploration.
Before leaving, I made a quick call to Ray, the manager of the Expos back here in Austin, to see if he knew where my tiny infatuation might be working. Unfortunately, he had no idea, and with little hope, I figured we would drop in to a couple of places and simply ask. Once downtown, we found parking adjacent to a place called Dantes, which had advertised burlesque shows involving several different suicide girls. We stopped in, finding that they were not yet open, and continued down the road hoping to find a pool hall or at least a pool table. We passed several closed bars, leaving me with the odd conclusion that northwesterners dont start drinking on Saturday until after 7:00.
Eventually, we came to rest at an Irish pub called Kells, had a couple of Guiness, and were accosted by a middle-aged woman who insisted I say hello to whoever was on her celphone with no explanation as to why. We asked our server where we could kill an hour or two and maybe play a game of pool. She recommended a place called Berbati's. I adjourned myself to the restroom to find a rather odd poster of a crab and a lobster attacking a bass that held a cucumber with his flipper. The caption read My Goodness, Wheres My Guiness? I returned to find James was growing irritated with the server who felt obligated to give us her life story in response to the subject of bitterness after a break up. After which, the basement accommodations of this bar began to lose all appeal, and so we ventured out into the evening chill where the nights endless possibilities seemed to allude us. Berbati's was closed, and it was around this time that James revealed to me he did not know that much about downtown Portland, and there did not seem to be much hope for an exciting evening.
We returned to Dantes to a near empty bar with a trash barrel fire pit, and, more importantly, a pool table. I made it a point to ask the cute young bartender if she knew which of Portlands numerous strip joints employed a high percentage of tattooed entertainers. She offered little help, as she simply recommended we start with the nearest cabaret, aptly named the Cabaret. I thanked the girl and complimented her lovely eyes. James and I each grabbed a beer and proceeded to entertain ourselves with a game of pool, only to find that there was a second cue ball in place of the missing eight ball and the table was nowhere near level, which allowed for some interesting, if unintentional, trick shots. Boredom was inevitably creeping in, so I decided that the search for Emma would now be the main focus of the entire evening. We would travel bar to bar collecting clues, kind of like a scavenger hunt. (Twisted, I know, but entertaining, nonetheless.)
5.
Assuming the joint upstairs had some affiliation with Dantes, we ventured up to Centerfold Suite, expecting a nudie-bar of some type, only to find an unlit stairwell. We made our way up, step by creaky step as the ceilings seemed to lower with each additional flight, at the top of which was what appeared to be a simple apartment door (which was closed) and a doorbell with a sign that read Ring hear and win a prize. With some hesitation, I rang, not quite knowing what to expect, but somewhat suspicious that this was no tittie-bar. A rather heavy blonde in a white negligee peeked out of the door explaining that they were full at the moment, and we might want to come back a little later.
Taking the bartenders advice, we crossed the street to Cabaret and took a seat at the bar to survey the place. There was no immediate sign of Emma, but there were a couple of girls with excessive ink. I asked the bartender if she knew of a tiny brunette that might be working there and it did not ring a bell, but we decided to enjoy this place for a bit as it was still rather early, and we might get more information from the performers who were there. James found himself smitten with one of the two well drawn on ladies. She was otherwise quite plain, sporting glasses and somewhat geeky, which was no surprise as this seems to be the type of woman he tends to prefer these days. I sat and drank, eventually sidling up to the stage to tip a dancer with a slight resemblance to the Mini Driver character in the film Sleepersa cute, mousy face of unknown ethnicity with a great deal of curly, almost frizzy hair. The young lady eventually stopped by our table to solicit a private dance while James was tipping whoever happened to be on stage. She sat down and began with the usual small talk that tends to be the norm at any place such as this. I informed her of our quest and asked for her recommendations as to where we might go. She said to try Marys, just down the block, and Union Jacks, just over the river. She also pointed out that the DJs would probably be the best people to ask about any particular performer. The small talk continued as my cohort was still tending to his on stage fascination. I learned that this Mini Driver had, only three months before, given birth to premature twin girls that were still in intensive care. Not being one to judge (out loud), I said nothing, and once James returned, we left.
Recrossing the street to Marys with already dwindling hopes, I realized James was feeling the effects of what little booze we had had thus far. I let him know that we should expedite this whole process by asking around before settling in. We were abruptly stopped by the bouncer at Marys who apparently thought we were going to try to avoid cover when James began to rush past him to use the restroom. I assured the gentleman that we would not do any such thing and then gave him a description of the lovely lass we were looking for. He said that we had missed her by about an hour
Astonished, I asked if the girl in question was named Emma, and he said he thought that was right. This felt a little like leading the witness, so to speak. He might be telling me what I want to hear just to bring in future business, so, while James went to use the facilities, I asked if I could run the question by the scantily clad woman sitting at the bar. Careful not to give anything away, I simply asked if she knew an Emma that worked there. She gave a perfect description and asked the bartender when she was scheduled to work again. To my grave disappointment, it was not until Monday when I would be well on my way back to Austin. The lady then told me that Emma also worked at Union Jacks and provided us with more comprehensive directions on how to get there. So, off we went.
Once we found Union Jacks, we circled the block in search of curbside parking. There was none to be found, and James began to pull into the parking lot of a closed office building, the Oregon Industries For The Blind, where I pointed out that he might be towed, but he ignored the warning, alluding to their inability to even see us there. It was a quick walk around the building as the excitement of the quest was setting in. We met resistance at the door when a strange accent questioned the slight difference between our Texas drivers licenses. James had renewed his more recently than I, and his had the capitol building printed on the background. There is also the fact that I was sporting a rather bumlike beard about halfway to ZZ Top at the time of my last renewal nearly six years ago. I had also been about six months into the long grueling process of natural dreads, so my ID photo is essentially a scraggly furball. The door man seemed determined not to allow us in, though by the end of the day I look closer to forty than twenty. I mentioned having my passport in the truck and he began to send me for it, but suddenly had a change of heart as there was an impatient crowd growing behind us.
Finally inside, I scanned the place and immediately noted the significant improvement over the first two spots of the night. The interior is a nice blend of rockabilly and punk over fairly clean-lined modern architecture, providing more of a club feel than that of a sleazy dive. We made our way around the center bar in search of the evenings quarry which was nowhere to be seen. A couple of beers and James made himself comfortable at one of the stages while I asked around. The first girl I approached, a tall, gorgeous brunette was second or third in line at the DJ, and I leaned in to ask if she recognized the general description I had already grown used to giving. She knew her right off the bat and let me know that she was working at Marys and a place called Sassys. Without further provocation, this wonderfully accommodating woman began to call Emma for me and make the whole hunt come to a close. After a moment, the performer concluded that Emma must be working if she didnt answer her phone and gave me the general location of Sassys to be 12th and Morrison.
After a quick examination of Union Jacks toiletries (quite nice with everything done in diamond plate) we were out the door and on our way once again, happy to find the car had not been towed. Without paying too much attention, I happily allowed James to take us over the bridge once again, but began to question his sobriety in light of his increasing belligerence and lack of direction. He crossed up and down the streets adjacent to 12th and Morrison with no sign of any Sassys, eventually settling in a parking lot several blocks up. We walked our way back to the intersection in question until we encountered a couple of excessively friendly locals who advised us not to go to Sassys at all. Once I explained to them that we were in fact looking for one person in particular they informed us that it was on the other side of the river. Apparently Portland numbers their roads in both directions away from the rivernow thats quality urban planning.
Around now, it became abundantly clear that James was well beyond his limit and that he was even less familiar with downtown Portland than he had previously let on, as we were heading several blocks away from Morrison when simple logic would tell you to follow the road back across the river to the opposite 12th st. Several miles upstream, he finally managed to cross. An inadvertent tour of at least two neighborhoods followed before finding the way back to Morrison, locating Sassys, and promptly parking halfway onto a sidewalk. (This being the point when I took his keys.)
We get inside and I immediately ask the bouncer if there is a tiny little brunette named Emma. He did not think she was working that night, but we made our way in anyway in hope for a lead from the bartenders or DJ and out of general curiosity toward the entertainment itself. The place had the feel of a small Texas dive bar that might be largely patronized by NASCAR Fans. With an entertaining assortment of eighties cock-rock and seventies southern hits, it felt, almost nauseatingly, like home.
It was a few beers and a couple of song-long tips later when I approached the ridiculously blue-eyed DJ for information about the eves objective. Its a rarity that I am significantly taller than anyone, but this guy was really small. Cute, though, like a miniature Jared Leto. My questions were initially met with momentary hesitation, but, after explaining I had known the young lady here in Austin, he tells me she also worked at Marys (where we had already missed her) and some place called Magic Gardens that the earlier friendly locals at the opposite 12th and Morrison had mentioned.
Frustrated and losing interest, I went outside to just call Magic Gardens and ask if she was there. I was informed that she was no longer employed with them, and I went back inside to check up on James, who I was now addressing as Drunkie. I joined him along side the stage to update him on the most recent disappointment.
Out of beer, I went to the bar and grabbed a pen and paper along with my refill. Briefly recapping the evening and wishing her well, I closed the note with something ridiculously cheesy along the lines of Austin misses you. I asked DJ Jared Little-Leto if he could pass the note to her the next time she was in. He said that would be Tuesday, but he might actually see her before then, because she and his girlfriend were good friends, so, in foolish hope, I added my phone number to the note. He then mentioned she would probably be hanging out at Dantes, so, just when I thought the night might be coming to a close and I was prepared to accept the mission as a failure, another destination arises, and hope springs eternal.
Were out, and with me now in the drivers seat, its a quick, straight route back to Dantes. All the while Drunkie is testing the limits of anyones patience, bickering, bitching, and punching me in the arm for no apparent reason. I put a temporary stop to that with a solid swing to his chest, and we return to the exact parking spot where we began the night several hours before. Inside Dantes I ask a barback with a shaved head and a tattooed neck if he happened to know Emma. He had not seen her that night, but allegedly, she is often there on Sundays. So, we leave.
At this point, there was an insistence on the part of Drunkie to return upstairs to the Centerfold Suite and see exactly what goes on up there. The stairwell was lit now, so the sense of danger was gone, and I just felt like a dirtbag. We get to the top and ring the bell once more. Were led into a small living room that is candle lit in some sadly failed attempt to provide romantic intimacy and mystique. Its explained to us that it is forty bucks to come in, an additional forty for a dance, and tips for anything beyond that. Without chance for discussion or reply, we are led deeper into the apartment through a dim hallway with a single red light bulb hanging above us. Before I can object, James disappears into a room with a particularly unattractive middle aged woman. I stop the rather heavy blonde that has led us this far and begin to question/protest the situation. She is unsympathetic to my odium and escorts me back to the stale cigarette scent of the makeshift foyer that is the top floor stairwell. I take a seat on the repugnant well-worn lounger just outside the door and give myself a moment to assess the situation. My friend, who is fairly clean and a reasonably respectable guy is in a whore house with one of the least attractive money makers the world has ever seen. Hes drunk and he has a wallet full of cash. I text message GTFO!, which is douchebag for Get the fuck out. I remind myself that he is twenty eight, a divorcee, and a fucking doctor; he should know how to take care of himself by now. So I text him that I am heading across the street in a retreat to the comparatively clean, family oriented environment of the Cabaret, along with one final GTFO! Now!
Once safe in a seat at the Cabarets bar, the barkeep asks if we had found success in our search. I briefly summarized the story and made it about halfway through a beer before James stumbled through the door rather amused with my previous alarm over his predicament. He had paid the initial fee of eighty dollars and received a brief dance before having the sense to get up and leave, happily pointing out that, by standard stripper calculations, he had received a one for four. (One dance for the price of four.) Drunkie then pointed out that one of our fellow patrons was another SG. I cant remember who, thoughblonde dreds, really cute. We closed the place with ongoing commentary of just how strange, stupid, and utterly amusing the entire evening had been. Being the west Texas gluttons that we are, we stopped by a taco stand on the walk back to the car. This was a move we would both regret the next day, as we both spent a significant amount of time on the toilet and I had to clean the console in his new truck because of my carelessness with tamale juice.
6.
I started the next day hungover and hungry for Thai foodstrange and seemingly conflicting combo, but I was happy with my decision despite any potential shortage of toilet paper. We headed back down town early in the evening out of boredom and halfhearted hopes of finding the focus of the previous nights adventures. For simplicitys sake, we again parked adjacent to Dantes where we caught the sound check for a nice young group of loud people, then headed to Berbatis, where our pool game was bad but their calamari was worse.
Eventually we made our way back to Dantes in time for the Sinferno, which is strippers-meeting-fire dancers on a plush and intimate stage, or, put simply, the greatest performance art I have seen in quite some time. The evening was opened with SG Stormy and progressed, as promised, into splendid fire and burlesque shows. We were treated to the twirling talents of a man named peach, the lovely dancing of twins in a Chicago style tease, and interludes of SGs London and Marie(?) to keep the crowd cozy between shows. The highlight was a reverse drag religious experience. A fire dancing femme portraying Jesus was stripped and beaten in a wonderful array of S&MSacrilicious. Exhausted, with the dark looming threat of a full day of flying and airport toilets (and of course, James job), We call it a bit of an early night and head out. Before doing so, I asked Chris, the previous nights barback, if he had seen Emma around. He said he had not, but she had been in about ten minutes after we left the night before. Goddamnit
So, more than a week later, I still find myself wishing I could have caught up with her, as I have no idea when, or even if I will be returning to Portland. I also feel a bit concerned I might have terrified this young lady, as she no doubt received countless reports of some short dreadlocked guy asking about her all over town. So, London and anyone else reading this in Portland who might happen to know Emma, please reassure her that though I would truly love to have seen her again, this experience was largely for entertainments sake and no cause for concern. Hopefully it has served to entertain someone besides James and myself.
1.
In the winter months that marked the beginning of 2005, two semi-employed, bitter friends from a small west Texas town began an adventure in the quaint little town of Austin. After the long, drawn out process of a high-school-sweetheart divorce, James, a twenty-seven year old chemical engineering doctoral graduate of the University of Texas, realized that he had missed out on every bit of debauchery that ten years in college has to offer. Disillusioned and deeply depressed by both the recent divorce and the lack of immediate interest from prospective employers, he began to focus on a relatively new hobby, drinking. Enlisting the assistance of an old high school friend with a reputation of drunkenness and excessive free time, the two soon realized that beer goes down much better when surrounded by naked women, and thus began a three time a week habit that would last for the next six months.
The majority of this time was spent at a local adult entertainment establishment known as the Expos. This lovely little place is located less than four miles from either of the apartments in which he and I (the willing accomplice in this part of the tale) had lived at the time, allowing for the ease of visitation which facilitated our frequent patronage. Skipping over the vast majority of detail involved in the many occasions of drunken spending, I developed numerous infatuations with both entertainers and servers, as they represented the only female interaction I had during the time, aside from the girls in my realtors office who were all married or involved. Though so many of these girls were irresistibly beautiful and quite unique, one young lady in particular stood out far above the rest, which is probably poor wording, as she was, quite possibly, the shortest.
I, being a hopeless coward, probably had no more than two conversations with this girl throughout the months I saw her. I was, nevertheless, quite enamored with this fit, petite brunette sporting a great number of tattoos, including red daisies on her elbows. (Why that particular ink stands out in my mind, Im not quite sureI suppose its the pain involved in tattooing thin skin over bone.) Some time before the end of our stint, we had stopped seeing her there at all and simply assumed she had gone to work at one of the other bars here in town.
Eventually James received a fairly lucrative job offer with Intel in Portland and moved away, ending our frivolous expenditure, but not before one final blowout with many friends in tow to send him off. My attendance dwindled, as I had a hard time finding a replacement to accompany me in my depravity. I still made it a point to go on occasion to see a server I had developed something with (or rather, been manipulated by) and had a few growing friendships with the management, servers, and dancers (one of whom, Chanel, I am still quite fond of). For the most part, however, the habit was broken.
2.
Recently, James came down for a visit during his sisters Birthday, and, inevitably, we returned to our old haunt in search of strong drink and friendly entertainment. I, of course, devoted my attention to Chanel, while he befriended a girl I was not familiar with. I believe her name is Teri.
Later in the weekend, we had decided to barbeque at my house. For those of you not familiar with the barbeque stylings of west Texas natives, it usually consists of a couple of assholes pretending to know what theyre doing while everyone gets drunk over the period of an entire afternoon during which people get tired of waiting on the two assholes to finish fucking around so everyone can eat. (In our case, its usually myself and a second generation family friend, Jeremy our fathers were actually roommates in the late 60s, and our moms were in high school togetherhow sad.) Attending this event was my tax attorney, also a west Texas native, who had airline mileage soon to expire. He quite aggressively insisted I use it to join James in Portland for a weekend, and I happily accepted.
After everyone had had their fill and all but a few had departed, James and I both hinted at a return to the Expos. Jeremy wanted nothing to do with it, knowing his own weakness toward seeking solace in the arms of willing young women at the bargain price of twenty dollars every two an a half minutes. So, as I wanted nothing to do with the fourth remaining guest, I told them both to get the fuck out of my house, and James and I proceeded with our trip to the beloved tittie bar.
Once inside, we secured our beer order and James found Teri. The night was fairly unexciting for me, because none of the people I knew were even there. The following day, however, I find out from Dr. Pancho (James alias) that Teri had been friends with Emma (the aforementioned petite, tattooed brunette), and that she had also moved to Portland. I left it to James to find out where she worked before my arrival in his new nonnative home. He failed miserably.
3.
Having been unable to find the time (or accompaniment) to go once again to the Expos to ask around, I arrived in Portland Friday (03/24/06) with no clue as to where we might find Emma. From the airport, James drove us to his suburbanite community of Hillsboro, where he took me through his day to day drinking life which eventually led to two rather disappointing adult oriented organizations.
He had mentioned in prior conversations that Oregon law apparently creates a cockfight like environment in which performers are in something of a bordered arena rather than atop an elevated stage such as I had become accustomed to in Texas. I found this, as well as other strange etiquette, to be a bit unnerving and, therefore decided to dollar-toss the dancers in a deliberate drunken attempt to get us thrown out. (The dollar-toss is a rather demeaning act of actually throwing a wadded up dollar bill at the performer. Though it may not necessarily have been invented by him, it was popularized by the Monty in the tittie-bars of Dallas and Killeen, and later, Austin.) This attempt was disregarded entirely, and we grew excessively bored as James computer geek colleague had disappeared for an exceptionally long spell of purchased affection. Once he reappeared much later, we managed to leave, and I finally got some sleep.
4.
The next morning, we stumbled around, slightly hung-over, before finally going to lunch and then to the Japanese Garden, which was my main priority for this entire trip. (The gardens were amazing, by the way.) We went to some slightly Bohemian district to wander around and eventually eat again, then returned to his apartment to rest and shower before an evening of downtown exploration.
Before leaving, I made a quick call to Ray, the manager of the Expos back here in Austin, to see if he knew where my tiny infatuation might be working. Unfortunately, he had no idea, and with little hope, I figured we would drop in to a couple of places and simply ask. Once downtown, we found parking adjacent to a place called Dantes, which had advertised burlesque shows involving several different suicide girls. We stopped in, finding that they were not yet open, and continued down the road hoping to find a pool hall or at least a pool table. We passed several closed bars, leaving me with the odd conclusion that northwesterners dont start drinking on Saturday until after 7:00.
Eventually, we came to rest at an Irish pub called Kells, had a couple of Guiness, and were accosted by a middle-aged woman who insisted I say hello to whoever was on her celphone with no explanation as to why. We asked our server where we could kill an hour or two and maybe play a game of pool. She recommended a place called Berbati's. I adjourned myself to the restroom to find a rather odd poster of a crab and a lobster attacking a bass that held a cucumber with his flipper. The caption read My Goodness, Wheres My Guiness? I returned to find James was growing irritated with the server who felt obligated to give us her life story in response to the subject of bitterness after a break up. After which, the basement accommodations of this bar began to lose all appeal, and so we ventured out into the evening chill where the nights endless possibilities seemed to allude us. Berbati's was closed, and it was around this time that James revealed to me he did not know that much about downtown Portland, and there did not seem to be much hope for an exciting evening.
We returned to Dantes to a near empty bar with a trash barrel fire pit, and, more importantly, a pool table. I made it a point to ask the cute young bartender if she knew which of Portlands numerous strip joints employed a high percentage of tattooed entertainers. She offered little help, as she simply recommended we start with the nearest cabaret, aptly named the Cabaret. I thanked the girl and complimented her lovely eyes. James and I each grabbed a beer and proceeded to entertain ourselves with a game of pool, only to find that there was a second cue ball in place of the missing eight ball and the table was nowhere near level, which allowed for some interesting, if unintentional, trick shots. Boredom was inevitably creeping in, so I decided that the search for Emma would now be the main focus of the entire evening. We would travel bar to bar collecting clues, kind of like a scavenger hunt. (Twisted, I know, but entertaining, nonetheless.)
5.
Assuming the joint upstairs had some affiliation with Dantes, we ventured up to Centerfold Suite, expecting a nudie-bar of some type, only to find an unlit stairwell. We made our way up, step by creaky step as the ceilings seemed to lower with each additional flight, at the top of which was what appeared to be a simple apartment door (which was closed) and a doorbell with a sign that read Ring hear and win a prize. With some hesitation, I rang, not quite knowing what to expect, but somewhat suspicious that this was no tittie-bar. A rather heavy blonde in a white negligee peeked out of the door explaining that they were full at the moment, and we might want to come back a little later.
Taking the bartenders advice, we crossed the street to Cabaret and took a seat at the bar to survey the place. There was no immediate sign of Emma, but there were a couple of girls with excessive ink. I asked the bartender if she knew of a tiny brunette that might be working there and it did not ring a bell, but we decided to enjoy this place for a bit as it was still rather early, and we might get more information from the performers who were there. James found himself smitten with one of the two well drawn on ladies. She was otherwise quite plain, sporting glasses and somewhat geeky, which was no surprise as this seems to be the type of woman he tends to prefer these days. I sat and drank, eventually sidling up to the stage to tip a dancer with a slight resemblance to the Mini Driver character in the film Sleepersa cute, mousy face of unknown ethnicity with a great deal of curly, almost frizzy hair. The young lady eventually stopped by our table to solicit a private dance while James was tipping whoever happened to be on stage. She sat down and began with the usual small talk that tends to be the norm at any place such as this. I informed her of our quest and asked for her recommendations as to where we might go. She said to try Marys, just down the block, and Union Jacks, just over the river. She also pointed out that the DJs would probably be the best people to ask about any particular performer. The small talk continued as my cohort was still tending to his on stage fascination. I learned that this Mini Driver had, only three months before, given birth to premature twin girls that were still in intensive care. Not being one to judge (out loud), I said nothing, and once James returned, we left.
Recrossing the street to Marys with already dwindling hopes, I realized James was feeling the effects of what little booze we had had thus far. I let him know that we should expedite this whole process by asking around before settling in. We were abruptly stopped by the bouncer at Marys who apparently thought we were going to try to avoid cover when James began to rush past him to use the restroom. I assured the gentleman that we would not do any such thing and then gave him a description of the lovely lass we were looking for. He said that we had missed her by about an hour
Astonished, I asked if the girl in question was named Emma, and he said he thought that was right. This felt a little like leading the witness, so to speak. He might be telling me what I want to hear just to bring in future business, so, while James went to use the facilities, I asked if I could run the question by the scantily clad woman sitting at the bar. Careful not to give anything away, I simply asked if she knew an Emma that worked there. She gave a perfect description and asked the bartender when she was scheduled to work again. To my grave disappointment, it was not until Monday when I would be well on my way back to Austin. The lady then told me that Emma also worked at Union Jacks and provided us with more comprehensive directions on how to get there. So, off we went.
Once we found Union Jacks, we circled the block in search of curbside parking. There was none to be found, and James began to pull into the parking lot of a closed office building, the Oregon Industries For The Blind, where I pointed out that he might be towed, but he ignored the warning, alluding to their inability to even see us there. It was a quick walk around the building as the excitement of the quest was setting in. We met resistance at the door when a strange accent questioned the slight difference between our Texas drivers licenses. James had renewed his more recently than I, and his had the capitol building printed on the background. There is also the fact that I was sporting a rather bumlike beard about halfway to ZZ Top at the time of my last renewal nearly six years ago. I had also been about six months into the long grueling process of natural dreads, so my ID photo is essentially a scraggly furball. The door man seemed determined not to allow us in, though by the end of the day I look closer to forty than twenty. I mentioned having my passport in the truck and he began to send me for it, but suddenly had a change of heart as there was an impatient crowd growing behind us.
Finally inside, I scanned the place and immediately noted the significant improvement over the first two spots of the night. The interior is a nice blend of rockabilly and punk over fairly clean-lined modern architecture, providing more of a club feel than that of a sleazy dive. We made our way around the center bar in search of the evenings quarry which was nowhere to be seen. A couple of beers and James made himself comfortable at one of the stages while I asked around. The first girl I approached, a tall, gorgeous brunette was second or third in line at the DJ, and I leaned in to ask if she recognized the general description I had already grown used to giving. She knew her right off the bat and let me know that she was working at Marys and a place called Sassys. Without further provocation, this wonderfully accommodating woman began to call Emma for me and make the whole hunt come to a close. After a moment, the performer concluded that Emma must be working if she didnt answer her phone and gave me the general location of Sassys to be 12th and Morrison.
After a quick examination of Union Jacks toiletries (quite nice with everything done in diamond plate) we were out the door and on our way once again, happy to find the car had not been towed. Without paying too much attention, I happily allowed James to take us over the bridge once again, but began to question his sobriety in light of his increasing belligerence and lack of direction. He crossed up and down the streets adjacent to 12th and Morrison with no sign of any Sassys, eventually settling in a parking lot several blocks up. We walked our way back to the intersection in question until we encountered a couple of excessively friendly locals who advised us not to go to Sassys at all. Once I explained to them that we were in fact looking for one person in particular they informed us that it was on the other side of the river. Apparently Portland numbers their roads in both directions away from the rivernow thats quality urban planning.
Around now, it became abundantly clear that James was well beyond his limit and that he was even less familiar with downtown Portland than he had previously let on, as we were heading several blocks away from Morrison when simple logic would tell you to follow the road back across the river to the opposite 12th st. Several miles upstream, he finally managed to cross. An inadvertent tour of at least two neighborhoods followed before finding the way back to Morrison, locating Sassys, and promptly parking halfway onto a sidewalk. (This being the point when I took his keys.)
We get inside and I immediately ask the bouncer if there is a tiny little brunette named Emma. He did not think she was working that night, but we made our way in anyway in hope for a lead from the bartenders or DJ and out of general curiosity toward the entertainment itself. The place had the feel of a small Texas dive bar that might be largely patronized by NASCAR Fans. With an entertaining assortment of eighties cock-rock and seventies southern hits, it felt, almost nauseatingly, like home.
It was a few beers and a couple of song-long tips later when I approached the ridiculously blue-eyed DJ for information about the eves objective. Its a rarity that I am significantly taller than anyone, but this guy was really small. Cute, though, like a miniature Jared Leto. My questions were initially met with momentary hesitation, but, after explaining I had known the young lady here in Austin, he tells me she also worked at Marys (where we had already missed her) and some place called Magic Gardens that the earlier friendly locals at the opposite 12th and Morrison had mentioned.
Frustrated and losing interest, I went outside to just call Magic Gardens and ask if she was there. I was informed that she was no longer employed with them, and I went back inside to check up on James, who I was now addressing as Drunkie. I joined him along side the stage to update him on the most recent disappointment.
Out of beer, I went to the bar and grabbed a pen and paper along with my refill. Briefly recapping the evening and wishing her well, I closed the note with something ridiculously cheesy along the lines of Austin misses you. I asked DJ Jared Little-Leto if he could pass the note to her the next time she was in. He said that would be Tuesday, but he might actually see her before then, because she and his girlfriend were good friends, so, in foolish hope, I added my phone number to the note. He then mentioned she would probably be hanging out at Dantes, so, just when I thought the night might be coming to a close and I was prepared to accept the mission as a failure, another destination arises, and hope springs eternal.
Were out, and with me now in the drivers seat, its a quick, straight route back to Dantes. All the while Drunkie is testing the limits of anyones patience, bickering, bitching, and punching me in the arm for no apparent reason. I put a temporary stop to that with a solid swing to his chest, and we return to the exact parking spot where we began the night several hours before. Inside Dantes I ask a barback with a shaved head and a tattooed neck if he happened to know Emma. He had not seen her that night, but allegedly, she is often there on Sundays. So, we leave.
At this point, there was an insistence on the part of Drunkie to return upstairs to the Centerfold Suite and see exactly what goes on up there. The stairwell was lit now, so the sense of danger was gone, and I just felt like a dirtbag. We get to the top and ring the bell once more. Were led into a small living room that is candle lit in some sadly failed attempt to provide romantic intimacy and mystique. Its explained to us that it is forty bucks to come in, an additional forty for a dance, and tips for anything beyond that. Without chance for discussion or reply, we are led deeper into the apartment through a dim hallway with a single red light bulb hanging above us. Before I can object, James disappears into a room with a particularly unattractive middle aged woman. I stop the rather heavy blonde that has led us this far and begin to question/protest the situation. She is unsympathetic to my odium and escorts me back to the stale cigarette scent of the makeshift foyer that is the top floor stairwell. I take a seat on the repugnant well-worn lounger just outside the door and give myself a moment to assess the situation. My friend, who is fairly clean and a reasonably respectable guy is in a whore house with one of the least attractive money makers the world has ever seen. Hes drunk and he has a wallet full of cash. I text message GTFO!, which is douchebag for Get the fuck out. I remind myself that he is twenty eight, a divorcee, and a fucking doctor; he should know how to take care of himself by now. So I text him that I am heading across the street in a retreat to the comparatively clean, family oriented environment of the Cabaret, along with one final GTFO! Now!
Once safe in a seat at the Cabarets bar, the barkeep asks if we had found success in our search. I briefly summarized the story and made it about halfway through a beer before James stumbled through the door rather amused with my previous alarm over his predicament. He had paid the initial fee of eighty dollars and received a brief dance before having the sense to get up and leave, happily pointing out that, by standard stripper calculations, he had received a one for four. (One dance for the price of four.) Drunkie then pointed out that one of our fellow patrons was another SG. I cant remember who, thoughblonde dreds, really cute. We closed the place with ongoing commentary of just how strange, stupid, and utterly amusing the entire evening had been. Being the west Texas gluttons that we are, we stopped by a taco stand on the walk back to the car. This was a move we would both regret the next day, as we both spent a significant amount of time on the toilet and I had to clean the console in his new truck because of my carelessness with tamale juice.
6.
I started the next day hungover and hungry for Thai foodstrange and seemingly conflicting combo, but I was happy with my decision despite any potential shortage of toilet paper. We headed back down town early in the evening out of boredom and halfhearted hopes of finding the focus of the previous nights adventures. For simplicitys sake, we again parked adjacent to Dantes where we caught the sound check for a nice young group of loud people, then headed to Berbatis, where our pool game was bad but their calamari was worse.
Eventually we made our way back to Dantes in time for the Sinferno, which is strippers-meeting-fire dancers on a plush and intimate stage, or, put simply, the greatest performance art I have seen in quite some time. The evening was opened with SG Stormy and progressed, as promised, into splendid fire and burlesque shows. We were treated to the twirling talents of a man named peach, the lovely dancing of twins in a Chicago style tease, and interludes of SGs London and Marie(?) to keep the crowd cozy between shows. The highlight was a reverse drag religious experience. A fire dancing femme portraying Jesus was stripped and beaten in a wonderful array of S&MSacrilicious. Exhausted, with the dark looming threat of a full day of flying and airport toilets (and of course, James job), We call it a bit of an early night and head out. Before doing so, I asked Chris, the previous nights barback, if he had seen Emma around. He said he had not, but she had been in about ten minutes after we left the night before. Goddamnit
So, more than a week later, I still find myself wishing I could have caught up with her, as I have no idea when, or even if I will be returning to Portland. I also feel a bit concerned I might have terrified this young lady, as she no doubt received countless reports of some short dreadlocked guy asking about her all over town. So, London and anyone else reading this in Portland who might happen to know Emma, please reassure her that though I would truly love to have seen her again, this experience was largely for entertainments sake and no cause for concern. Hopefully it has served to entertain someone besides James and myself.
VIEW 8 of 8 COMMENTS
serendipity:
probably...I'm there a lot.
sluttygoodgirl:
Sounds awesome