Cry Me an Ocean

I remember nothing but the destination I was heading to. Before I knew it, I had arrived. And now, I am an ocean away from home.

I have been held captive in this cave for two and a half months now. I know because I’ve been carving the days into the walls of the cave with tally marks, making a new mark every day, wondering when I’ll finally get out.

I have nothing to eat but canned food and porridge. I have nothing to do but follow the commands of the soldiers. Almost every day, a gun is held to my head.

But I’m happy, because I’m with him.

Let me tell you how it started. I had always been fiercely independent since I was young. I’ve had no choice, because my parents were absent from my life. In fact, they were so absent that when they died a few months after my 24th birthday, I felt like nothing had changed.

Except, of course, the new pain that I felt, from the new hole in my heart. My parents may not have loved me, but it still hurt to lose them.

They died on a tropical vacation, by drowning in the waves. I wondered if it was painful for them. I wondered what drowning felt like. I hoped that they didn’t feel much pain—I should have resented them for how they treated me during my childhood, but I couldn’t bring myself to wish pain on them.

They had been sending me money—nothing much, just monthly checks for a thousand dollars. But now that they were gone, I got nothing. Just my job teaching at the elementary school, but it didn’t pay me much. I lived in rural South Dakota, in a low-income town, and the infrastructure of our school system was falling apart. They could barely pay the teachers enough to make ends meet.

I always wondered if I had made the right choice to get a degree in elementary education, or if I should have studied something else like health sciences, so that I could make a better living. Then, I remembered—I had a joint degree in dance. I could make use of it.

So, I applied to a job at the dance studio nearby, but they rejected my application because I had taken too long of a break. I no longer had the technique that I used to, and I wasn’t fit to teach their ballet or modern dance classes.

There was another job option for dancing, though. I wouldn’t work during the day, but rather at night. I could become a pole dancer at Sweet Illusions Gentlemen’s Club.

I believed I was pretty enough, at least to get hired as a stripper. I had clear skin, a slim body with soft curves, and fiery red hair. I didn’t think I was anything special, but I got enough compliments.

My greatest asset, I thought, was my resilience. I had been through enough, and I felt like I could endure anything that came my way. I was willing to work long hours—long days and long nights. I was willing to endure the stigma of having a career as a showgirl, as well as the disrespect I would definitely have to tolerate from all the men. I was willing to suck it all up and put on a brave face, for the sake of survival. I would do whatever my boss said. I would be a team player.

I applied to the job online, then went to the strip club for an in-person audition and interview. There were two co-owners of the club—Grant and Caroline. They looked to be in their late 30s or early 40s. Caroline looked nice enough, although rather stern. Grant had a scary look in his eye, like he was a bit crazy, which scared me.

“Karina,” Grant said. “Right this way.” I followed him to the stage. It looked strange in daylight, without all the neon lights on.

“How many years have you been dancing?” Caroline asked me.

“I danced from preschool all throughout college,” I said. “It’s been three years since I graduated, but I think I still have the skills down.”

“We’ll see,” said Grant coldly. “Do you know how to work a pole?”

“Yes, I do.” I had a very thorough background in dance, including acrobatics.

I took off my jacket, leaving me in just a sports bra, athletic shorts, and stiletto heels. The song that Caroline put on the speaker was a slow tropical house song, and I wrapped my legs around the cold metal of the pole, trying to do the best I could. They wanted me to improvise, so I did. I bent my head back, arching my back, pushing my chest up. I pointed my feet in the high heels, and I ran my hand through my long hair in a motion that I hoped was sexy.

I held onto the pole for dear life with my hands and my inner thighs, because if I dropped it, I would definitely fail the audition. I did some flips and tricks, but stayed away from anything too risky, because I didn’t have the skill that I once did when I was younger.

I tried to make my eyes look smoldering, giving Grant and Caroline my best fuck me eyes, as if I was performing for an audience late at night. I hoped I wasn’t looking too ridiculous. It felt like I was a little kid pretending to be a stripper.

But one thing I’ve learned is that you’ve got to fake it until you make it. Most of the time, people can’t tell the difference.

Grant looks impressed, allowing a little bit of approval to show on his otherwise impassive face. “That was great, Karina,” he praised me. “You said you took a break from dancing for three years?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I mean, I do yoga in my free time…”

“You’re impressive,” he said. “You look like you never stopped dancing.”

“Thanks,” I said, unfazed. Who knew if he was only saying this because he wanted to get me into bed.

We then moved onto the interview. Grant led me into a section of the club with red sofas, and he and Caroline sat across from me. Grant leaned forward, looking at me like I was a piece of meat to examine.

“Why are you interested in working for us?” Caroline asked me, her pen poised above her notepad.

“I love to dance,” I said. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the reason. I couldn’t tell them that I was only in it for the money, though. “I want to get back into dancing, and have a place to express myself.”

Caroline nodded, her expression unreadable, professional. She jotted down some notes.

Grant asked the next question. “What’s your availability like? What hours?”

“I’m available to work any hours. The whole shift, if needed,” I said quickly. I did some research beforehand, and I knew that the club was open from six PM to three in the morning, every day. I could force myself to stay awake for that long, if it meant I’d get paid for every hour.

“We’ll see how much our clients like you,” Grant said flippantly.

I wasn’t sure I liked this man. He seemed to think he was above everyone, like he was above caring.

Caroline rolled her eyes at him, not subtly. I was curious, what were they to each other? Were they romantically involved in any way? It was puzzling.

“Okay, let me explain some of the rules to you, just as a formality,” said Caroline. “I’ll send you an email with all the details, but for now I’ll just go over them real quick. You’re expected to always be dressed appropriately for the atmosphere. A tight dress is fine, or a two piece outfit with a short skirt. Glitter is preferred. I’m sure you can find this stuff at Goodwill or anywhere. We don’t like sequins, feathers or fringe—they look tacky. Our club is about sophistication. On certain nights, we will have specific themes, and I will let you know about them beforehand. You should always have your makeup done neatly. No overly long lashes, and no fake tans that make you look orange. Men don’t like girls who look fake. Curl your hair or leave it straight, it doesn’t matter. Make sure it stays long, and don’t dye it without asking us first. And, of course, you should always be wearing heels. Stiletto heels.”

“Okay.” I nodded. “I got it.” It was a lot of information, but at least she would be sending me an email later.

“You can explain the behavior expectations, Grant,” Caroline said, leaning back on the couch, massaging her temples like she was exhausted just from speaking.

“You’re expected to be pleasant and easy to work with,” Grant told me. He spoke confidently, like he had said these same words a hundred times. “You can say no, of course, but not to small things like if they want to kiss you. You don’t want to seem like a prude. Men come here because our girls are sweet.”

“Okay,” I said, scrunching my eyebrows. I mean, I wasn’t too uptight about these kinds of things—I wouldn’t mind if a man tried to kiss me or pull me onto his lap while I was working. It was part of the job.

It was just the way Grant said it, like he owned me now, like I wasn’t allowed to say no unless he said I could. It rubbed me the wrong way.

“You’re expected to keep your enthusiasm up all night long,” he continued. “Look alive. Be lively. You don’t want to seem like a cold fish. You’re here to entertain.”

I nodded. This was kind of obvious. I knew what was expected of me as a dancer in a strip club. I just wanted this conversation to be over already.

“That’s all I have to say,” Grant said, leaning back, satisfied with himself. He held my gaze for a while, and his brown eyes twinkled with amusement. I hoped I didn’t look like I was glaring at him.

“Your hourly pay will be 25 dollars,” Caroline said. “But hopefully, you’ll get more money from tips. We don’t charge any commission on tips. Any money you earn is yours.”

I nodded in understanding.

“I think you will be a great addition to our team,” said Caroline. “We want to offer you the job. Here’s a contract for you to sign.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a clipboard with a piece of paper, handing it to me with a pen.

I made sure to read the contract, quickly but thoroughly, making sure there wasn’t anything that stood out as a red flag. Then, I put pen to paper and signed my name. Karina Goldenstein, in flourishing cursive.

“That will be all, Karina,” said Caroline with a small smile. “We’re looking forward to working with you. I’ll text you your schedule for the upcoming week, and I’ll see you at your first shift.” She and Grant stood up from their couch.

“Thank you,” I said, standing up as well. “I’m looking forward to working with you guys.” I gave them a smile, and Grant smiled at me, too, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

I left the club and got into my black Nissan, starting to drive home. But halfway along the way, I realized that I had left my jacket on one of the chairs in the club. Ugh, seriously? Now I had to drive back. I didn’t trust it not to get stolen.

I drove back and parked in the front parking lot. I let myself in through the front doors, and at first, the place was eerily quiet. I couldn’t hear a thing. But when I rounded the corner to the room with the stage, I heard voices arguing.

It was Grant and Caroline. They were in the narrow hallway right outside the room, and they were talking animatedly with their hands, practically in each other’s faces. They seemed to be having some kind of big disagreement.

I grabbed my jacket and considered leaving, but I couldn’t help but pause for a moment, standing there trying to listen. My curiosity always got the best of me.

If they looked through the doorway, they would see me. But I doubted they would look, since they were having such a heated argument.

“You owe these guys money!” Caroline practically yelled. “You have to pay it back or—”

“I will pay it back,” Grant said. His voice was lower, but I could hear the agitation in his words. “I just can’t do it now. Give it some time.”

Caroline’s voice again. “You can’t keep doing this in the future.” You’re going to get all of us in trouble.”

“I made a bad call, okay? I admit it. But I will fix it. I’ve got it covered.”

“Do you really? Or are you going to get yourself killed one day? You don’t know what these men are capable of, Grant.”

Get himself killed? Who exactly did Grant get involved with?

“As far as I know, they’re not even in the country, so there’s nothing to worry about. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” He turned to walk directly into the room I was standing in. I was frozen, like a deer in headlights. There wasn’t enough time for me to move out of sight.

I put on my most innocent smile. “Sorry,” I said. “I just left my jacket here.”

Grant wasn’t amused. “Karina,” he said coldly. I felt his hand wrap around my arm when I turned to walk away.

“Yes?” I was still pretending to be clueless, like I didn’t hear the conversation between him and Caroline.

“I don’t want you to say a word about this to anyone.” His grip tightened on my arm, and it started to hurt.

I dropped my act. “I won’t,” I told him. “I promise.”

He gave me a pointed look, like a threat of what he’d do if I broke my promise. I stared back at him, and he finally released my arm. I fought the urge to massage it even though it was sore.

This counted as workplace harassment. It had to.

Then again, I was the one who was listening in on a conversation I shouldn’t have.

I went home, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Grant. He was a businessman, an entrepreneur. On the club’s website, it said that Grant Saddoris had owned the club for 15 years and was working on expanding his business. Had he been borrowing money from someone to fund these expansions? Or did this not have anything to do with the club at all? I didn’t get it.

I didn’t need to get it, I reminded myself. I would be going to the club just to work, to pay my bills. Nothing else.