The Honey Trap

Ruby

I drop my beaten-up work bag on the floor as soon as I enter my dark apartment. Next to come off are my equally battered shoes, jacket and mittens. I leave the heap of discarded items in the front entry, too exhausted to put anything away properly.

It's just before 4 a.m. on a Wednesday, so as usual, my building is quiet save for the hum of my near-empty, outdated fridge and the clang of the radiator.

I know it's nearly empty, because I'm staring into it now. The bright white light of the fridge casts a weak glow around my small kitchen. There's a bottle of soy sauce, a wilted head of lettuce, and a few miscellaneous take-out containers from when I've taken food home from the club. I don't bother investigating the takeout; I know it's gone rotten. Instead, I reach for the unopened roll of Pillsbury cookie dough in my freezer.

I don't bother with the oven; I never do. It's an old oven, in an old apartment, in an even older building, and my electricity bill is high enough without it. I take care when unwrapping the light blue packaging, being careful not to waste even a crumb of the dough. This needs to last me at least until Monday.

I leave the dough on the counter to soften as I make my way through my tiny apartment. In my room, I flick on my bedside lamp, avoiding the overhead light, and peel off my sweats and sweater, revealing the skimpy, lacey purple set I have on. The walls of my room very rarely see my work outfits, but I was too exhausted to bother changing at the club.

After stripping off, I head straight for the shower. I crank the tap to the hottest setting; not caring that it'll cost me more, I just want to be warm. I stand under the weak flow of the tap, waiting for the smell of liquor, men, and cologne to spiral down the drain. Then I wait for the warmth to seep into my bones. Wait for the grime of the day—of my life—to wash away.

Ten minutes later, feeling no cleaner than before but mildly warmer, I towel off and throw on my ratty flannel pyjama bottoms and a sweatshirt. I throw my hair into a bun, and I fold onto my couch, cookie dough in hand.

I don't have a TV. I barely have a working phone, so I sit in my dark, silent place, savouring the silence as I spoon off tiny chunks of still rock-hard dough.

When I was little, my mom used to scoff at pre-made cookie dough. "How lazy can people be? Cookies are the easiest!" She'd said once as we hurried through the grocery store.

She was right, of course; cookies are easy, and I am lazy, but my body aches, my feet are sore from wearing heels all night, and I can't afford much more than a $3.79 roll of dough every once in a while.

I place the dough back in the freezer and return to the couch. I rarely sleep in my bed; it's been a habit for years. And though my sofa is lumpy, understuffed and decrepit, it beats a bed every time.

I unfold the top sheet I keep by the couch, along with my pillow and any blankets I can find, before finally collapsing for the day, thankful it's over.

I bury myself in a heap of cotton, polysester and fleece, wishing I could just stay here. Where it's warm and fuzzy. I try not to think about my shift at the club or my shift later on. I try not to think of my bills or my increasingly worn body. I attempt to clear my mind entirely, hoping that sleep will simply overtake me.

Eventually, my exhaustion wins out, but by 9 a.m., my neighbour, Carl, is banging around in his apartment next to mine, and I know I'm up for the day.

If Carl's abuse of the walls isn't enough of a wake-up, the cold floor of my apartment sure is.

I’ve lived here for over a year now, and it still shocks me how poorly insulated the building is. Most of the tenants, Carl included, live off disability cheques, welfare, or whatever scraps they can get their hands on. The landlord, Gary, knows none of us can afford to fight him on anything, so he doesn’t bother fixing a damn thing.

My rent is cheap, though, considering it's not far from downtown and is in a mostly safe area. I even have a parking space.

Opening the curtains, I look down at the dismal street below me. It's mid-November, the streets are as bare as the trees, and the only sign of life comes from the parking garage across from me. I watch as a car reverses out of its spot while another pulls out of the lot completely.

Without realizing it, I watch cars come and go, pull forward and back up, for over an hour.

Eventually, the ache in my feet starts to outweigh the excitement of the view.

I shuffle around my apartment, picking up yesterday’s clothes from the front hall, rinsing out a couple of mugs in the sink, and throwing away the mouldy takeout containers in my fridge.

I make the place look as decent as I can. Not because anyone is coming over—they aren’t—but because if I let things pile up too much, my apartment starts to feel like it's closing in on me.

By noon, I’ve texted a few of the girls from the club.

Message

Paris: U working tonight?

Me: Yeah. You?

Paris: @10

Me: Need a ride?

Paris: Nah im with Kyle tonight

Me: Booo

Message

Me: You need me to pick you up tonight?

L: Please girl

L: Im broke till friday and dont wanna uber again

Me: No prob. 8:30?

L: Perfect, thank you, angel

After that, I strip my sheets off the couch cushions and shove them into the washing machine in the basement, along with last night's outfit. Half the machines are broken, but I get lucky and find one that works on the first try.

When I get back upstairs, I shower again.

This one isn’t about warmth.

This one is maintenance.

I shave everything carefully, exfoliate until my skin stings, and rub moisturizer on my legs, stomach, chest, and arms. I spend extra time on my knees and elbows, making sure there aren’t any dry patches. Men notice everything. Especially when they’re paying.

After, I stand in front of the bathroom mirror wrapped in a towel, tweezing my eyebrows and inspecting myself under the harsh yellow light above the sink.

There are faint bruises along my thighs from the stage pole. A burn on my wrist from my curling iron. My ribs show a little more than they used to.

I look tired.

I always look tired.

By two, my stomach is growling badly enough that I pull on my coat and shoes and make the seven-block walk to the grocery store. I could drive, but that would require gas money and cleaning the snow off my car.

The cold burns at my face and makes my eyes water. I keep my hands shoved into my pockets as I pass the laundromat, the pharmacy, and the shitty little pizza place on the corner.

At the grocery store, I walk slowly through the aisles, taking advantage of the free heating and adding up prices in my head.

A box of instant oatmeal.

Bananas.

Ramen.

A loaf of bread.

Peanut butter.

I even wander down the overpriced prepared food section. I get as close to the heat lamps as possible, wondering, briefly, what it would be like to swap places with the chicken tenders for a day. How warm and peaceful it must be to simply lie there, not moving, not thinking.

By the time I get back home, my fingers are numb from carrying the bags, and my toes have long since frozen in my runners.

The rest of the afternoon passes quietly.

I fold my laundry. Eat a packet of maple brown sugar oatmeal standing at the sink. Scroll through my dying phone. Ignore a text from Paris about Kyle. Ignore a voicemail from an unknown number that is probably debt collection.

By the time the clock hits seven-fifteen, I know it’s time to start getting ready.

I’m not scheduled on the floor until ten p.m., but club policy is to be there by nine. It’s a rule I never understood, given that we’re expected to show up ready, save for changing clothes.

Rick says it’s so we can “settle in” and “help the club get busy.”

What he really means is he wants us there early to walk around, flirt with customers before we are technically on shift, and help the bartenders and servers if things get busy.

We’re not paid for it, of course.

But Rick likes to remind us that if we are not “team players,” he can always give better stage times and private room rotations to girls who are.

Some girls don't care; they can afford a 5 p.m. stage time, but I can't.

So I smile at men nursing watered-down whisky and domestic beer. I lean over tables and laugh at bad jokes. I carry drink trays when the bar gets backed up. I sit beside lonely men and let them talk at me while they buy me fake shots of watered-down cranberry juice.

All unpaid.

All expected.

Rick calls it “building relationships with customers.” The rest of us call it what it is: working for free.

The Honey Trap is full of rules like that.

Like most clubs, you pay house fees to work. You tip out the DJ, the bartenders, the bouncers, and the servers, even if you barely make enough to cover it. You get fined if you’re late. Fined if you miss a shift. Fined if your shoes are scuffed, if your outfit doesn't match the dress code, if you forget your stage song, or if Rick decides you had an “attitude.”

Rick always says there are a hundred girls lined up outside who would kill for our jobs.

Maybe he’s right.

Maybe there are hundreds of girls out there desperate enough to do what we do.

I try not to think about that too much. Try not to think about all the women like me—cold, broke, tired and cornered into lives they never would have chosen if they’d had any other options.