For the last two nights I've dreamed about work. Weird, because I haven't been to work in almost a week -- hideous weather, a gnarly throat infection, and a doting boyfriend having conspired to keep me home.
The first night I dreamt I was dancing at a club darker and weirder and seedier even than the Crazy Lady where I made my stripping debut so long ago. The stage was tiered like a wedding cake and painted shiny red and shiny black like Japanese lacquer. Being on stage embarrassed me in a way it never has in real life. Jay was there, an old customer of mine -- former Pittsburgh Pirate, current talent scout, prodigious philanderer and cokehead extrordinaire. Seeing him made me feel safe. I've certainly never felt that way in real life, either.
Last night I was in the same club, more or less. To get to the DJ's booth you went through the locker-room. Men's Club in Dallas was set up this way, too. A body had recently been dismembered and stashed in a locker. Blood had leaked out and gotten all over the floor. Shiny red, like Japanese lacquer. A crew was there, cleaning it up. They were in my way as I tried to get to the DJ booth to pick music. I didn't want to get blood on my shoes. It wasn't horrifying, just another hassle. The body parts looked like mannequin pieces.