*     *     *     *     *

     As I’ve mentioned before, “Time is money.”  In exchange for the “Benjamin” I laid on Angel, she normally should have given me three to four songs, keeping our session from 12 to 15 minutes.  Instead, forty-five minutes later, Angel and I leave the cabana.

     It’s been my experience, dear reader, that by simply giving a hard working dancer a modest amount of pleasure, it will tend to cause her to lose all track of time.

     Angel and I then enter The Kopenhagen next door.  My Thai massage isn’t finished.

     As I’ve described before there’s a huge horseshoe-shaped couch that borders this room upholstered in burgundy velvet, while the velvet drapes and deep pile carpet are rendered in black.  Needless to say it’s rather dark back here.  We find a comfortable section of the couch, where it bends and offers support for Angel’s back, and we close the heavy velvet curtain for privacy.  Luckily it’s between shows, so nothing’s going on back here; the room being completely empty.

     Angel has replaced her bra and thong, but remains barefoot, and I place my windbreaker and ball cap next to me on the couch.  I have Angel swing her feet up onto my lap, and I take out some packets of “wash & dries,” from my jacket pocket, which the club provides in all its rooms.  I wash and disinfect Angel’s exhausted feet with them, cooling and moisturizing her doggies.  Then I commence to give her a Thai foot massage.  At this stage Angel is putty in my hands.

     As I work on those tired puppies, we chitchat regarding life in general.

     “Last year my dad past away,” Angel at length mentions.

     “I’m s-sorry to hear that,” I say.  “Were you close?”

     “Not really,” Angel replies.  “I was such a bitch in high school...he put up with a lot of crap from me.  My dad was a real hard worker...he had his own gardening business.  It’s funny...I actually miss him.  I wish I could talk to him.”

     “Yeah...I know what you mean,” I concur, “I have the s-selfsame wish...”    

     “My little sister’s too much of a handful for my mom,” Angel continues, “she’s in high school and is pulling the same stuff I used to pull on my parents.  I had her move in with me.  Now I have to be the bad guy and keep her in line.  It’s strange how things you got away with as a kid, will come back to bite you in the ass.”

     “Like they s-say, Angel: ‘What goes around comes around’.”

     “Ain’t that the friggin’ truth, Uncle Petie.”

     “Not to worry, Angel, you’re g-gonna make a great mamacita.  I promise.”

     “Madre Dios, I hope so,” Angels sighs, in that soft J-Lo voice. “I love her dearly and hope to hell she doesn’t screw up her life.  She’s a dynamite gymnast...maybe even better than I was...and I think she’s prettier than me.”

     “Chica!  That’s impossible!” I exclaim.  “J-Lo would kill for your face, and especially your b-body!”

     Angel reaches over and squeezes my arm, saying, “Pete, that’s one slick way to pump up an hermana.  Gracias, mi corazón.” 

     Then she leans back, and after a moment’s reflection, explains, “I’m encouraging her to go out for cheerleader as I did.  It could build her confidence and light a fire under her to do well in school.  Except she’ll be going up against the Anglo-girls...you know the type, with all the money and privilege because their families got here first.  It’s spooked her.”

     “But Angel you went up against the s-same thing, and broke through, right?”

     “Yeah...only I had to swallow a heap of bullshit, Pete.  But it did make me grow up...and I got a lot better grades in class.  You see I’ve got this burning need to perform in front of a crowd.  That’s what drove me in high school.  That’s what makes me work here.  It’s not just the good tax-free money...it’s the dancing.  Getting on that stage, letting the music set my soul on fire, moving to it, and the high from owning the room.  I’m a performance junkie...pure and simple.”

     Angel checks her expensive wristwatch, and then says, “Damn...the time really flies when I’m with you.  I’ve got to get ready for my next number.”

     Hence, comparable to Cinderella on her way to the ball, I slip on her Lucite high heels, buckle them up, and escort her back to the dressing room entrance.  Whereupon she gives me a generous hug, and says, “Thanks for taking such amazing care of me.  I’m a new vaquera.  Bring on those broncos...I’m gonna break some ass in this rodeo!”

     We both laugh as she slips her small hand into my inside jacket pocket, and pulls out her wad of cash I’ve been holding for her.  Then she does something a dancer here is never supposed to do, Angel motions for me to bend down, and plants a big kiss squarely on my mouth. 

     Consequently she turns and vanishes into the heavy drapes masking the door.  Standing there a bit stunned, I hear the metal door open and clank shut.

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