The second time I had a snag with a dancer was at the Market Street Cinema. It wasn’t a classic fight; it was a classic looting. Market Street Cinema was ghetto as fuck, and the girls hated anyone who worked at Mitchell Brothers, which was a notoriously difficult place to get hired and was known as the highest earning club in the country at the time. I wasn’t stupid. I never mentioned that I also worked at Mitchell Brothers but that didn’t stop a girl from cutting my padlocked duffle bag with a knife and stealing my money and designer jeans. It did stop me from ever keeping my money anywhere else but on my person though. It was silly of me to think that my bag was safe because it was five feet from the DJ and the zipper was locked. A good ol‘ fashioned slashing was not on my radar. And my jeans too? What the shit was I supposed to wear home? I was incensed, not only to have my hard-earned cash stolen but because of the total disregard for the rules and respect. I went down the long-ass staircase to the basement dressing room and yelled, “Whoever fuckin’ stole my shit, I hope you OD on the smack you’re going to buy with my money!” Yes, it was dramatic and yes, it was a tad cruel, but when I see red, I see red.
My best friend, Andrew, came down to the club near the end of the shift to hang out because I needed to make up the dough I had lost. I left at 2 a.m. with his flannel shirt tied around my waist.