I Met My Wife At A Strip Club

She was dancing up on stage. Not much to look at really, but then none of them were. Oh, not my wife, my wife didn't work at the strip club, I just met her there. The girl I'm talking about is some nameless, faceless being from back during my days of youthful indiscretion. And she isn't much to look at, really, because this isn't an upscale down town strip club with Martinis and mink-lined booths in VIP lounges that I'm sitting in. This is a strip club in Umatilla, OR that caters to migrants, truckers, and people who just got out of the WA state penitentiary - legally or otherwise. They ain't what you would call picky. I'm sitting at the blackjack table trying to avoid either getting hustled or discovering something sticky, and waiting for my friend to come pick me up. What am I doing here, if this is such a seedy dive you ask? Well. . .

I went to school in Walla Walla, and before the yuppies found it and screwed it up it was a quaint little town with about two square blocks of 'down town' area. There was a Safeway, a few bars, a strip mall, and a little old lady who sold cookies off of her back porch, who was simply referred to as 'cookie lady'. So, on your average Wednesday night, this meant that the town pretty much closed its doors and rolled up the sidewalks at about 8pm. If you're bored after 8pm, and your roommate can't be bothered to put his book down, then you pretty much have three choices:

1) Sit in the wheat fields and drink, drink, drink.
2) Play pool with the fat old biker down at the Polar Bear Club
3) Drive, drive, drive, and hope you find something over the next hill

After many nights of #1 and #2, I found this rat's nest of a strip club pursuing #3. Heck, it's only 60 miles from campus, and as far as that sounds like it must be, you have to understand the lay of the land to realize that it's really the closest thing around. Allow me to Yahoo for you:



Now Waitsburg might seem tempting there, but don't overlook Milton Freewater - it's a blast. Is the issue more apparent now? Good. So off to #3 I go. Tonight it will be the seedy strip club to leer at ugly women, practice my Spanglish, and maybe not lose money at blackjack. It's west down (12) there a ways past the edge of the map.

Now, I thought that I may have heard something weird under the hood, as I pulled out of the gas station in Walla Walla, but I wasn't sure. In the last 6 months that I had owned this Fiero, I had learned a ton about auto mechanics, due to all the crap that went wrong with it. It was also a 1984 four cylinder model - the kind with the spontaneous engine fires, so it was cheap, but also quirky and unreliable, even as Fieros go. Under the hood was always a cramped and convoluted mess, I really hated getting in there - and yet there always seemed to be a reason. So, unbeknownst to me at the time, the alternator belt, which had been a tad squeaky for the past week, decided to go as I was pulling out of the gas station that night. About 30 miles into my trip I noticed my headlights growing a bit dim, and quickly surmised what had happened. From past experience I knew that the car would only be running for a short time after a failed alternator belt, and I also knew that if I shut off the engine or if it stalled at this point, there would be no restarting it. I had no cell phone - not that you would get service out here anyway. Please review map above and note potential issues with this situation.

There was a full moon out that night, so what made sense to me at the time, since I knew that there was no help for 30 miles behind me, was to turn off the headlights and everything else, and proceed with all due haste, full speed ahead, in the dark that night. It was maybe only 20-30 more miles to the rat's nest, and there might be a gas station or something along the way that I had forgotten about, or maybe I would be lucky enough to get pulled over by the police. Funny thing about that, I can never find one when I want one, but they're all over me if I try to turn right on red.

So of course there are no gas stations along the way, or even a light that I remember. There may have been a flashing yellow one at an intersection of two rural highways, but that didn't exactly do me a lot of good, and I didn't pass any other cars in the last 25 miles anyway, so waiting there would have been pointless as well. I pulled into the rats nest probably a whole 15 minutes (do the math) later, and killed the car. I got out and confirmed that no, it wasn't the battery, it was the belt, which was miraculously still in one piece, but it had just twisted and warped from the heat, and fallen off the guide wheel. What's the big deal you say? Just put on a new belt you say? Would love to. Did you know that with a Fiero, you have to jack the whole thing up above your head to get to the part where you need to loosen the crap to get the old belt off (not an issue anymore) and slide the new belt on (still an issue)? Well, now ya do. Where am I going to find a hydraulic lift in Umatilla at 10pm on a Wednesday? So I go into said rat's nest and pay my $5 cover to use the (eww) pay phone to call one of my roommates.

*ring ring*
Vince: 'Yellow?'
Me: 'Hi Vince, how's it going?'
Vince: 'You're not in jail are you, because I don't have any m-'
Me: 'No, not yet. I'm stuck. Can you come get me?'
Vince: 'Uh, okay. Where are you?'
Me: 'Umatilla.'
Vince: 'Uma-whatta?'
Me: 'Umatilla.'
Vince: 'In Oregon?'
Me: 'Yeah.'
Vince (hanging up the phone): 'ROAD TRIP!!!!'

Vince was always up for helping a guy out, especially if it involved cars or some kind of rescue op. This one, involving both, was surely like a wet dream for him. Note to self: If I ever open a strip club, I'm calling it The Wet Dream. Anyway, knowing that help was on the way in about an hour, and knowing that there was nothing else that could be done tonight, I decided to ease my way over to the blackjack table and have a sit. I would have told Vince where I was in Umatilla, but there are only three buildings, and Vince is pretty bright.

Everyone please welcome 'Shyla' to the main stage!
Me: 'Deal me in please.'
Dealer: 'Changing $20!'
'Shyla' looked anything but. If someone had called animal control and pointed them her way, they probably would have assumed that someone had shaven a gorilla and put a sling on it as a joke. Tranquilizer darts and hilarity would have surely followed.
Me (12 showing): 'Hit me.'
Dealer: 'Thaaat's 22 - oh too bad!'

Let's give it up for 'Dallas' folks!
'Dallas' was a favorite with the truckers and farm boys alike. She was pretty heavy, but had recently got her hair colored and had all her teeth to boot. If I had to pick one, it would have been Dallas, but I'm also thankful that I didn't have to pick one.
Me (hard 18): *wave off dealer*
Dealer (6 showing): 'That's 16, and now 5 for 21!!! Woo hoo!'
Big hairy arm around my neck. 'CARE for a DANTS HoNeY??'
Oh God, it's Shyla. 'Thanks sweety, but I have to win it from this guy first!' I say. I hear her stumbling off, bleating 'Dants? Dants!! Anybody wants a dants??'. Good lord. No matter how bad your day is going today, at least your name isn't 'Shyla', eh?

And now let's hear it for 'Maria', she's going all the way tonight everyone!
What, 'Maria' couldn't think up a stage name? How about 'el toro loco'? As I was about to share my private little funny with the rest of the table, a guy sitting next to me leans over and motions at the guy closest the dealer and whispers 'That's Humberto. That's his sister.' I look over, and Humberto looks like he has exactly nothing to live for. So I shut the hell up.
Me (*sigh*): 'Hit me.'
Dealer: '22 again! Not your night!'
Me (pissed): 'If they ever change this game to 22, I will own your ass.'

Joining us once again is 'Starla', how was your vacation Starla?
'Starla' is, well. . . Anorexic might be putting too fine a point on it. Starla, in fact, looks like a skeleton trying to hide an Ewok. I debate whether starting a side pool at the blackjack table concerning whether 'Starla' will faint during her first dance or her second would be gouche, and as I am bringing it up I learn that 'Starla' just got out of jail, and that was the joke that the DJ was making about her vacation which earned him the finger. 'It was for drugs though, not prostitution' I'm assured. Of course it wasn't for prosititution, I think to myself, how could.. Who would.. But then I look around and realize that. . . Well, probably most of them. . .
Dealer: 'Wanna hit?'
Me (12 showing): 'No!'
Dealer (tipping his cards to show me a pair of jacks): 'Are you sure?'
Me: 'Fine. Hit me.'
*KING*
Dealer (laughing): 22!!

Everybody put your hands together for BROWN SUGAR!!!
And here's where you came in, sitting at the blackjack table, avoiding sticky things, and trying not to get hustled. Since you are wondering, 'Brown Sugar' is indeed brown, and is kind of like a refined version of Shyla who hides Ewoks more successfully than Starla, and she's got the prettiest gold teeth. She ain't much to look at, but then none of them are really. . .

So I push back from the table. It's been about an hour now, and Vince will be coming shortly. I head outside just as Vince is pulling up. Buuut, Vince is not alone. Vince has brought spectators, including Sally, Jeff, Frank, and Suzie (names changed to protect the innocent). They came in Sally's car, which was a 1992 escort sedan, and they managed to cram all five of them in there. I have no idea where I am going to sit on the way home. Dammit.

Vince (innocently): 'Well, they all wanted to come.'
Me (not looking a gift horse): 'Okay.'
Vince (popping the hood): 'So what's the, oh yeah, there it is.'
Me: 'Uh huh.'
Vince: 'How did you do that??'
Me: 'It's a Fiero.'
Vince (having owned a Fiero in the past): 'Ahh, yeah. That'll do it then.'
Vince: 'We need to find a garage.'
Me (gesturing wildly up and down the street): ...
Vince: 'Maybe we can get the belt back on somehow and power it up enough to move it. It doesn't turn over, does it?'
Me: 'Nope.'
Vince: 'Even a click?'
Me: 'Nooope.'
Vince: 'Damn.'
Suzie: 'Why is that van rocking like that?'
Everyone else: ...

Suzie was, in all seriousness, a church-going virgin of a girl (at 20) and may have seen her first pictorial diagram of a p-p-p-penis in biology last semester, at which point she probably felt guilty, called her mom and cried, and then went to confess her sins. Suzie has no idea what is going on right now, and that's sweet, in a convoluted 'life is going to destroy you once you leave college' kind of way. Vince gets Suzie turned around and interested in all the little thingees inside the engine just before Dallas emerges from the van all sweaty and still half naked, along with the help, who is screaming 'yee haw!' in true Dukes of Hazard fashion.

Vince (rambling): 'Okay, so here's the plan... We get the jumper cables out of Sally's car, and we'll hook them up to your battery. You turn it over, and I'm going to wedge this screw driver in between the guide wheel and the belt. If all goes well, we can pop it back on there and it might give a charge for a little bit...'

Sally: 'What if it doesn't go well?'
Me: '. . .screw driver might shoot out and go through your windshield and impale someone. . . Well. . . That's worst case really. . .'
Vince: * nod *

And everyone gets out of Sally's car, and hides behind it. And Vince and I go to work.
Vince: 'Okay, turn it over!'
Me: * ruhr ruhr ruhr *
Vince: 'AUUUUGH!!!!'
Me (stopping): 'What! What?!!'
Vince: 'Just kidding. Okay, do it again!'
Me: * ruhr ruhr ruhr *

And the belt somehow, magically slips back on. It's warped and twisted, but it's on, and we turn the engine over and it starts. And we start to pull out of the parking lot, and it dies. The belt just won't do it. It's done. It's over.
Van: * squeak-a squeak-a squeak-a *
Jeff: 'There goes that Van again.'
Van (muffled): 'O Gawd!'
Suzie (becoming suspicious): ?
We all stop and watch the van for a few more seconds, and then we leave the car, with plans to come back for it later.

Sally (not her real name) lets us borrow her car the next day, and with her driving it and Jeff sitting in the driver's seat of the Fiero steering, Vince and I manage to wedge ourselves in-between the two cars and we take off down the road to a place with a hydraulic lift a few miles away - holding onto the Fiero with our arms, and using our legs as suspension between the two cars. Yes! This is a great, fool-proof plan isn't it? You cannot make this stuff up!

Fortunately, nothing went wrong until we pulled into the service station.
Me (walking up to some guy): 'Hi there, can you guys change an alternator belt?'
Otis (according to his shirt): 'It ain't fer that Fiero, right?'
Me: 'Well...'
Otis (spitting): 'I don't work on Fieros. You can use my rack if you wants to do it though.'
Me: 'Uhhh... Yeah. Sure, okay then.'
Otis: * spit *

A few minutes later we have it up on the rack, and I'm under the car, literally hanging off of a long-handled wrench in mid air, bouncing up and down, trying the break the nut holding the alternator wheel thingee in place. The car is shaking side to side in a rather jovial fashion, and I'm just waiting for it to come down on top of me and end this misery.

Otis: 'I seen you at the club last night. That Dallas sure is a looker, ain't she?'
Me (still hanging in mid-air, looking over at Otis, and actually not lying): 'Oh yeah, she's my favorite!'
Otis: 'Let me have a look up in-air. Well, I'll be dammt.'

It turned out, upon closer inspection, that someone had previously welded the damn thing together, so Otis took pity on us and used a cutting torch to help us out. Replacing the belt was easy after that.

Otis: 'I wouldn't just do that fer nobody, you knows. Dallas is my girl, so if you like her, you guys is okay with me. That one you got out yonder is quite a looker too. She dants?'
Me: 'I don't think so.'
Otis: 'Oh well.'
Me: * nod *

And we get a new belt, charge up the battery, and we're on our way. And who would have known that would be the first time that I ever met my wife. NO! Not Dallas!! Sally!!! Although, when people ask, I usually just tell them we went to school together.

:)