I'm happy that a woman comes out of the strip club. The dancers at this place have always given me good tips.
I ask her how her night went, and she says not very good. The past two nights she hasn't been able to make money; the other girls have been doing disgusting shit and undercutting her.
I ask her how that works.
"I'm a prostitute," she says, "but I'm a prostitute with morals."
It turns out that the place I picked her up at on the east side is more brothel than strip joint. She breaks it down for me: They don't serve alcohol, so they aren't regulated by the OLCC. There's a pole and a stage, but the real business is "shows." Men pay $150, and they go in a room with the girls with a couch, a towel, and speakers playing the country music from the main room. And they have sex with the girls. The girl gets $100, the club gets $50. But some girls will fuck for less, meaning the others get less business.
I pull up in front of her place. I want to turn around and tell her that she has so many other options. She seems a lot more reasonable and perceptive than half the people I deal with.
Instead, I tell her that it's $17. She only gives me a dollar for a tip. As she gets out, I tell her to take care of herself.
Nobody died and named me Travis Bickle.