By: Michael Rodgers
Livingstone Dempsey hooked his finger and pulled lightly on the side of her G-string. He slid the twenty-dollar bill between the elastic and her bare flesh, held his hand against her thigh too long, and let the elastic snap back, trapping the bill against her soft mocha skin. “Be a dear and fetch me another double Chivas, would you Tiffany?”
“You sure you need another one Mr. Dempsey? I’m Amber, remember?”
“Yes! Amber. You’ll have to excuse me, Miss Amber. You remind me of Tiffany who worked over at the Palace before it burned down. Give me a little time and I’ll have all you girls straightened out, then maybe a couple of you darlings will return the favor, if you catch my drift.”
Amber rolled her eyes as she walked away, “One double, coming right up, Mr. Dempsey.”
Dempsey was enjoying his new wealth, though he never noticed that he piqued most women with his arrogance and crude mannerisms. He saw women as objects for his entertainment and gratification and little else. Any other value they contributed to his life would have to be measured in misery and betrayal. The notion never occurred to him that he might be the problem in his relationships. He would never admit it, but it was the reason he spent most of his spare time in strip clubs. Women were easier to relate to if you paid them first.
He had managed to marry once. It was a turbulent affair that he referred to as the lost eight years. An unfortunate by-product of those years was a daughter he hadn’t seen since she was fourteen. Dempsey assumed his ex-wife, Sheila, finally got tired of fighting him for child support or maybe she found another man’s life to ruin. Whatever the issue, she disappeared along with their daughter ten years earlier.
There was a time he felt he loved Sheila, but never gave two shits about her, why can’t you stay home at nights and help with the baby, attitude. He couldn’t figure why she turned into such a bitch. She could choke on a pretzel or get tossed off a high building for all he cared now, so long as she stayed away from his bank account. She reminded him of his ungrateful ex-best-friend Steve, who he fired a few weeks earlier. Still, he did wonder about his daughter from time to time…like now. It must be the Chivas talking, he mused. He struggled to recall her name. Kaitlan, is that it? He thought it was. Naturally, he blamed the breakup, and the modicum of guilt he felt for not staying in touch with his only child on Sheila. After all, she’s the one who disappeared. None of it mattered now. Kaitlan will be fine, he rationalized, after all, she’s a Dempsey.
***
That is not to say Dempsey didn’t have it good. He did. He had been fortunate most of his life and had been the benefactor of a lot of help along the way. Those who helped would rarely suffer receiving any credit though, and more often got a proverbial kick in the crotch for their deeds. In his world of self importance, Dempsey considered himself a dominant force in a world of peons and underlings, felt entitled to live for his own pleasures and believed others should fend for themselves. A perfect collation of this attitude would be the way he treated his only friend, Steven Merritt, aka Little Stevie.
Although some distance had grown between them as adults, they had been thick as thieves in their early days and when they were old enough to go to work, they both got hired on at his father’s company, Dempsey Iron. It was a small, but respectable business that built a variety of steel products, but most of the business focus was on building trash dumpsters. Stoner was also an only child. Years earlier, his mother left for parts unknown with some hillbilly guitar player and Dempsey never forgave her the transgression. When his dad died of a heart attack at sixty-three, Stoner was left to handle the reigns of the company. At forty-one years old, he had spent little effort learning either the business or the manufacturing end of things. While Stoner spent most of his nights drinking and his mornings coming in late, Little Stevie Merritt spent his evenings going to school to study business and engineering. Stevie offered Stoner advice on occasion, but was just as often harshly dismissed, “This is my fucking business now, and I’ll run it the way I see fit.”
And run it he did, right into the ground. When the company’s accountant suggested selling the business as the only means of avoiding bankruptcy, Dempsey finally turned to Little Stevie for help. “I thought you’d never ask,” Stevie said, “I’ve been thinking about this place for a long time and I have some ideas I’d like to run by you.”
What Stevie managed to do with the business in five short years was nothing short of miraculous. He negotiated extensions with creditors, laid-off most of the office staff and crew and cut salaries with the promise of hiring everyone back when the business got reorganized. When they did start hiring again, everyone was hired at a lower salary with a profit sharing incentive, which pissed Stoner off to no end. Stevie explained that it would buy the company the time it needed to get back on its feet and that people would work harder, steal less and come in on time if they felt they had a stake in the game. Stoner hated the idea, “They should do whatever I tell them to as long as their paycheck clears every Friday.”
“Yeah, maybe they should, but how has that been working out for you lately?”
Who does this sawed-off little shit think he’s talking to? Helping others always felt like rolling naked in raw fiberglass to Dempsey. Knowing he had no choice only made the irritant more irritating.
The reorganization managed to save the business, along with a revolutionary new dumpster designed by Stevie. Ever reluctant to change, Stevie was surprised when Stoner readily agreed to a new company name that was voted on by the profit sharing workers. Dempsey Dumpsters had a friendly, pleasing ring to it. Soon the company was selling the new dumpsters to nearly every waste management company in the tri-state area. They could barely keep up with the demand. When an engineering firm had to be hired to double the size of the small factory, Dempsey’s accountant sat down with him and explained that he needed to start finding some tax shelters for the company profits. “Exactly why would I need to do a thing like that?” he asked.
“Well, I’ve been examining the books and the projected long term company growth. As near as I can estimate, you are going to become a millionaire by the end of next year and millionaires need tax shelters.”
The following week, Stevie received the accountant’s official projections and approached Dempsey with a proposition that would finally allow him to start reaping some reward for his effort. He laid out a reasonable and workable plan that garnered him a fair, yet considerable increase in salary and a small percentage of the business. Dempsey rewarded Little Stevie Merritt by firing him on the spot. “I’ve just about had it up to here with you and your ungrateful attitude. You’ve been trying to steal this company from me for the last five years and I’m sick of it. This is my fucking company, remember? Look, I don’t need your services anymore. You’ve got two hours to clear your office and get off the fucking property or I’ll call the cops and have you thrown off. Now, get moving and don’t look back.”
“Steal the company? What are you talking about, Stoner? I’ve been underpaid since your dad died and I’ve poured my life into this place. What else do you suppose I’ll do for a living? The economy is crap right now and I‘ve got a wife and two kids to feed, for crissakes.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s a tough one for you, but you’ve got talent. You’ll find something. I hear City Waste is looking for drivers. Do what ever you want to do. I really don’t give a shit. All I know is your career at Dempsey Dumpsters is over. Now, get out!”
***
Dempsey drained the last of his fifth double, got to his feet with a slight wobble and headed for the restroom. On the way by the bar he motioned to Amber, “Hey, Tiffany. One more double and I’m out of here.”
“It’s Amber.”
“Whatever. One more double, then you can cut me off.”
He found and empty stall and pulled the vile from his jacket pocket. He never bothered with those tiny spoons anymore and tapped out a small pile on the back of his hand between his thumb and index finger. This oughta take the edge off the Chivas, he thought as he raised his hand to his face and snorted the white powder.
As Stoner worked his way back to his table, the DJ was introducing the next dancer, “So let’s hear it for the newest member of The Sticky Nipple’s erotic dance team. Come on all you manly whore-dogs, give it up forrr Jaaaasssmiiinnne!”
Dempsey eyed the stage as the lithesome young blonde gyrated and dipped around the dance pole. Damn what a body, he thought; she looks just like Sheila in her younger days. He was just making it back to his table when Amber showed up with his drink. “Are you sure you’re gonna be all right, Mr. Dempsey?”
“I’ll be fine, Darling, don’t you worry about old Stoner. I just had a little pick-me-up, if you catch my drift. Here’s a twenty for the Chivas and another twenty for you if you can get a message to that smoking little number on stage and tell her Mr. Dempsey might need a private dance when she’s done with her set. I’ll tell you what; I’ll give you another twenty if you can set me up in one of the private booths and send her over when she’s done.”
“I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Dempsey.”
Jasmine busied herself with tying the sash on the feather-trimmed robe that barely covered her thong panties as she approached Dempsey’s booth. She opened the curtain, entered and booth and pulled the curtain closed behind her, “You say you were interested in a table dance, Mister?” she cooed.
“I’m interested in whatever it is you’re sending out tonight, Baby. Why don’t you have a seat right here next to Mr. Dempsey, and we’ll talk about it?”
For the first time, Jasmine looked at Dempsey and froze as she recognized the name, then the face. She felt repulsed and nauseous, then quickly regained her composure, “It’s one hundred for two songs, Mr. Dempsey. Paid in advance.”
“A hundred bucks? The other girls only charge fifty.”
“I’m not one of the other girls, Mr. Dempsey.”
Kid Rock’s Cowboy, started playing in the background as Jasmine started rolling her hips from side to side.
“That you are not. You’re a real show stopper.”
“The music’s playing and you’re burning our time, Mr. Dempsey. Dance or no dance?”
Dempsey groped every inch of the stunning young woman with his eyes and weighed the possibilities. “Here’s a hundred.”
Jasmine did not disappoint as she gyred, slithered and slinked around the tight cubicle in ways that would make a dead man hard. She was down to her G-string by the time the second song was through the first verse. Dempsey pawed at her the whole time like a puppy with a new squeak-toy.
Jasmine warned him for the fourth time, “Look, the rules say no touching the girls. One more time and I’ll buzz the bouncer.”
“I’ll make it simple for you, Sweetie. I’ll give you a thousand dollars if you go home with me and let me treat you like a rag-doll,” Dempsey countered as he reached for the small gap between Jasmine’s legs.
Things happened quickly after that as Jasmine hit the buzzer, yanked the curtain open and began to shake, “I don’t think that’s going to happen, asshole.”
“Aw, what do you mean? You look just like my ex and I thought we could get together and pretend we were–”
Jasmine grabbed what was left of the double-shot of Chivas Regal and tossed the contents square in Dempsey’s face. His eyes burned as he tried to rub the toxic liquid from his eyes. “What the fuck is your problem, bitch?”
“You don’t recognize me, do you? I’m your daughter, Kaitlan. Remember having a daughter?”
“Yeah…huh? But, I thought your name is Jasmine?”
“ Jasmine is just a stage name, you idiot. I swear I wish Mom were alive to hear this one. She wouldn’t fucking believe it.”
“Sheila’s dead? How–”
“She died from breast cancer almost nine years ago. Nice of you to be concerned. Didn’t you find it strange when the subpoenas quit coming? My God, you’re dense. I’ve been on my own ever since and had to make some hard choices, no thanks to you. You couldn’t be bothered with family issues, remember?”
She turned to walk away. Dempsey stood and grabbed her arm, “Kaitlan, wait–” he never saw the bouncer approaching as he snatched Dempsey’s hand from Kaitlan’s arm. The man was built like a rodeo bull and twice as hairy.
“Nobody touches the girls, Sir. Club policy. Is this guy bothering you, Kait?”
“Bothering me?” There was fire in her eyes, “Only since I was born. He’s my father. The heartless prick doesn’t even recognize his own daughter. Can you believe that shit? Throw the son-of-a-bitch out in the alley. He’s not good enough to be tossed out the front door.”
Dempsey felt a sharp pain as his left shoulder met the corner of the dumpster. “And don’t come back,” the bouncer said as he slammed the back door of The Sticky Nipple.
Dempsey shouted at the closed door, “See you tomorrow, then. Send my love to Jasmine and the girls for me…and don’t forget to write, you steroid shooting freak.”
Dempsey started to get up, then thought better of it and crawled over and sat, shaking against the wall in the dimly lit alley. He was sure his shoulder was dislocated. Just look at yourself, Dempsey. What a frigging mess you are. You look like you could use another bump, then we’ll call it a night. This has been too weird even for me. He dug into his pocket and found the vile, then realized he couldn’t move his left arm to help with the cap. Grabbing the cap with his teeth, he twisted the vile with his good hand until the cap separated. He spit the lid across the pavement. I won’t be needing that any more.
He held the vile up to the alley light, almost empty. He rolled the vile in his fingers like a prospector might hold a nugget to the sun, and then threw the vile across the alley where it crashed against the dumpster with Dempsey splashed across the side. Hmph. One of mine. Don’t that just figure. His thoughts swirled as he struggled to make sense of his life. Sheila, the business, Kaitlan, strippers, his father, his love for Chivas Regal, his mother, his stupidity, cocaine, how he managed to plunger his life down the crapper along with all those he was supposed to care about. He sat there for what seemed like an hour, shoulder and soul equally aching and hoping time would offer relief, but relief would not come. He descried his life as a calamity of self-indulgent errors. For the first time in years, Livingstone Dempsey hung his head, broke down and heaved the sobs of a broken man.
***
He didn’t know how long he’d been out, his face sticky with the remnants of emotions both foreign and new to him. He wiped his face with the jacket sleeve of his good arm, his left arm still immobile and throbbing with every heartbeat, yet somehow he felt better than he had in years. It was still dark as he managed to get to his feet. This could take some getting used to, this caring about others, he thought.
Dempsey rarely gave religion a second thought, but he looked skyward and spoke aloud, “If you’re up there, I swear to you as my witness, I’ll find a way to make it up to Kaitlan and everybody else I’ve screwed along the way. I don’t want people remembering me as a heartless prick.” He turned toward the end of the alley and walked slowly as the pulse in his shoulder began to wane and his tight muscles loosened. He noticed the traffic picking up as he made his way down the adjoining street. Early commuters were sleepily making their way to work. Must be getting close to daybreak. I’m going to need to get this shoulder looked at. Maybe I should call the office and leave a message that I won’t be in today.
He fumbled inside his jacket for his iPhone. Still feeling fuzzy, Dempsey began dialing and never notice the curb as he stepped off, tripped and fell into the street. The brakes on the City Waste truck locked up hard, but it was too late to help Dempsey. Inside the cab, the driver reached frantically for the two-way radio, “Dispatch call 911, and hurry! Holy Mother of Christ on a cracker, this is Little Stevie in truck two-forty-three. I just ran over some drunk. He just fell right in front of me and I think he’s still under the truck.”
