My Kind of Crazy - Robin Reul Page 0,70

no one ever died from exposure to major boobage. And it’s not like I’m trying to sneak in and watch the show for free. Plus, really, nudity is natural, so what’s the big deal? If anything, I’m trying to help someone I really care about, so hopefully the big guy upstairs will look the other way on this one.

A bunch of college guys are jamming up the entrance, and the bouncer from the other day is scrutinizing their IDs with his penlight. Clearly none of these kids are old enough to get in, and they’re all scoffing and protesting, which makes it even more obvious that they’re underage. Bouncer Dude has his hands full. It’s perfect.

I take a deep breath to calm my nerves, stare straight ahead, and then stride toward that purple velvet curtain. I’m a man on a mission.

Bouncer Dude sees me. His hand, which is the size of a personal pan pizza, comes down on my shoulder, stopping me in place.

“Hold up, man. Where do you think you’re going?”

The lines in his forehead form a capital V. But I’m ready for him. “Dude, it’s cool. I’m with the DJ.”

Confidence is key. I look at him over the tops of my aviator shades, and I unzip the bag to show him all the CDs and wires. I bop my head along to the music like I saw the DJ do when Peyton and I were here and rezip the bag before he can ask any questions. If he recognizes me from the other day, he doesn’t show it.

One of the college guys slips the bouncer a twenty and tries to push inside, which pisses him the hell off. Like he can be bought and sold! He turns to the kid and starts ripping him a new one as he pockets the twenty, and in what may be the single greatest break of all time, he waves me through the curtain.

I’m in!

This place is off the hook. Every table is taken. The chick onstage runs her tongue down the pole as she twists one leg around it and spins. Holy crap. I’m guessing that’s highly unsanitary. The dancer runs her hands through her hair and shakes her ass. The crowd goes wild. I’m not gonna lie: I’m kinda hypnotized.

“You the guy covering for Jake tonight?” a voice shouts. It’s male, and I have no idea what the hell he is talking about. I turn. It’s the DJ dude.

“Huh?”

“You’re the guy Jake sent, right? I gotta take a piss, man, and I should have had a break a half hour ago. Where the hell you been? The playlist is on top of the CD player.” He slaps me on the arm, dragging me to the DJ booth, and then takes off, presumably toward the bathroom.

Okay, this is definitely not part of the plan. I try not to panic, hoping that the equipment is straightforward and nobody notices that I’m seriously underage and not actually a DJ. How hard could this be, right?

I quickly look over the setup in the booth. There are a playlist of songs, two CD players side by side, and some kind of receiver to toggle back and forth between them. Pretty basic. I scan the list to find the title of the song currently playing and load the next CD into the other player, keeping my hand on the switch so it’s ready to go. I can do this.

I glance at the stage. The tongue chick is still up there dancing, and the audience is going bananas for her. I bend my knees, dancing in place, trying to get a groove going to keep in character. This place is sensory overload.

The song ends and I start the next one. Some other girl crawls across the floor like a cat. She’s even wearing pointy ears and a tail. She begins to do this thing with the pole like it’s a scratching post, and I am so mesmerized I do not even notice that the song has ended until Catwoman is staring at me along with everyone else in the room.

Shit. Fuck. Shit.

I gotta say, few things are sadder than a nearly naked girl crawling on the floor pretending to be a seductive cat with no music to pull it all together. It’s like when Dorothy discovers that the Great and Powerful Oz is just a man sitting behind the curtain. The illusion is broken, which is actually useful because it helps me refocus. Folks start getting restless