Open Mic
I stepped up on the stage at 8:00 sharp, as I always did. I placed my guitar case at the back of the stage, and I looked out at the audience. It was mostly scattered individuals who were sitting at their own tables, waiting for their chance to get up on-stage and perform. I stepped up to the microphone.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to another wednesday open mic night at The Haystack Bar. I’m Morgan, your hostess of the evening. Hope everyone is ready for a fun night of performances…”
It was the same basic spiel that I had been giving for a while now. I had started regularly attending these open mics at The Haystack a couple years ago, and I became friendly enough with the management that they gave me the role of organizing the event after their previous host moved across the country a few months back. It wasn’t too much responsibility. I still got to play a set of my own music, I just had to introduce all the acts and help them set up. Earned me a couple free drinks every wednesday.
“...I see some of our regulars, as well as a few fresh faces, so let’s get started…”
Looking around the room, I had spotted some familiar faces. Sitting in the back corner table was Pete, an early 20’s guy who typically brought his own acoustic guitar and used it to play sappy originals—typical singer-songwriter kind of stuff. Sitting at the bar was Barry, a fat dude in his mid 30’s whose standup always got some laughs—for those in attendance who didn’t hear his routine every week.
Elsewhere were people I didn’t recognize. What stood out to me was the guy sitting at the table closest to the stage. He looked like he was about my age—mid-20s—with shaggy brown hair and angular features. He had a gigantic book on the table. I was used to seeing people bringing in notebooks for poetry, but this looked like an ancient tome. It had the yellowy, brittle-looking pages, and an ornately drawn cover, with a faded black and purple swirling design, and ornate lettering in a language that didn’t look like English.
“Everyone gets 15 minutes to perform. I will help you set up if you need it. I’ll play a few songs to get the evening started, and then we’ll go in order based on the sign-up sheet…”
As I was talking, he had opened up the book delicately and placed it in his lap so that it leaned open towards him against the table. What had really caught my attention was that he had started muttering to himself. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, and I was used to hearing people practicing their acts to themselves before they performed, but this muttering had a strange intensity to it.
“And be sure to tip your bartender. He’ll treat you well, so be sure to treat him well. Without further ado let’s get started!”
My monologue finished, I continued to hear the muted muttering of the guy in front of the stage. Definitely sounded like whatever he was saying wasn’t English. Was he going to read foreign poetry? His current rendition sounded far too commanding to be poetic.
Resigning myself to just stop wondering and wait for his turn on-stage to find out, I turned around to fetch my guitar and get it out of its case to perform my songs. However, it was not where I placed it! It had disappeared! It’s impossible someone could have gotten up on-stage and taken it without my noticing.
I was so confused, and then a strange sensation overcame me. It was sort of like this small shifting sensation, as if there was a TREMOR in the earth. Except this tremor was happening to more than just the earth. As if...reality was shifting a little bit. I don’t know how else to describe it. For a moment, I couldn’t quite tell what was happening, as if all my senses had lost their balance.
When it stopped, there was now a boombox where my guitar should have been. That’s odd….how did…
Then came a second sensation, also hard to describe. It was like there was a breeze happening inside my mind, complete with a small WOOSH sound. Then it stopped. I looked again at the back of the stage
Oh, thank god, my boombox is there! I thought I had lost it for a second.
I went over and pressed play on the boombox, and mentally prepared myself for my act. I was planning on doing karaoke. I always did karaoke.
I walked up to the microphone, waiting for the song to start. I could still hear that guy muttering to himself, louder than before. I looked his way, and he had this look of astonishment on his face. He was excitedly glancing between the pages of his book and up at me on stage. I frowned a little. It was a bit disrespectful to be talking while someone else was singing, especially in such a distracting way.
TREMOR
There it was again. That tiny shift. I had to shake my head a little to catch my bearings.
And the microphone was gone. There was a pole in front of me. A shiny, silver pole, stretching from the floor of the stage to the ceiling. What the fuck? How was I supposed to sing without a microphone?
I looked out at the Haystack, and noticed some other changes. The lighting had become a bit more dim. The tables had become smaller and the chairs a bit bigger, and were now made of leather. And everyone was watching me a bit more intently.
The music on the boombox started playing through the speakers on stage. I was expecting backing tracks for my folk-rock songs, but instead it started playing some shitty trap song.
What was happening? I looked around some more. My attention shifted to the guy sitting in front of the stage. He was STILL reading something from that fucking book. His voice sounded more rapid and excited than before. He seemed to be the only other one reacting to these weird changes, although he didn’t seem nearly as confused as I was. Did he know what was going on?
I turned towards the stage’s exit stairs. I needed to meet up with him if he knew what was happening.
But then, another TREMOR. I froze as I tried to catch my balance. When I came to, my body felt different. It felt like it wasn’t in the T-shirt and jeans that I was wearing when I got here. My clothing had changed! I looked down to see that I was now in a golden-sequined bra and a black thong, with fishnet stockings and long black heels.
WHAT. THE. FUCK.
I whipped around, tottering on my enormous heels. I barely ever wore heels, and it was not helping that these heels had appeared out of thin air.
That guy was still talking, even more excitedly. And now he was pointing at me. Ok, no doubt now, he had something to do with this, whatever this was. I looked around the room to see if I could flag down someone to help me stop this guy. There were plenty of regulars here, so surely they would know this is not normal.
My eyes first glanced at Barry sitting at the bar, close to the stage. He’s the closest to the guy besides me. I gotta shout over this god-awful trap music to get his help. Stop whatever this guy is doing to me. Doing to this place. Although Barry doesn’t seem like he’s too concerned. He’s watching me pretty intently…
WOOSH
That second sensation came back again. That sound, and that breeze blew through my mind, clouding my thoughts for a second. When the fog lifted, I glanced at Barry again.
Well of course, all he is doing is watching me. He always just watches and nothing else. He’s not gonna do anything.
I glance over at Pete, sitting in the back of the club, watching me from afar. Maybe I can get him to come over and help me.
WOOSH
He’s always a good tipper, so of course he’ll help me.
...Wait, what? A good tipper? I’m not the bartender, how would I know-
WOOSH
He always gives me good tips after I dance.
Yeah, he does. If I’m gonna get his help, I’ll have to dance first. That’s how it’s always worked here at The High Stacked Strip Club.
I saunter confidently in my high heels over to the pole. This trap song is my favorite one to dance to. I reach up high on the pole and and begin circling it, making sure to accentuate my hips and ass as I step around it. As I complete my turn, I face the customers and lean against the pole, gyrating my hips as I lean backwards, drawing attention to my flat stomach wriggling in fine, controlled motions.
I then squat down and open up my legs, letting everyone get a good peak at my barely covered crotch. I bounce up and down to the beat of the song and flick my head, letting my dark hair whip to the other side of my head. I start going down onto all fours, crawl forward sensuously, and lower my legs and stomach to the floor, peeling up my upper body to give a great viewing of my jutting cleavage.
I was a pro at being a stripper. And I had finally shut up that customer sitting near me. He wasn’t reading from his boring ol’ book anymore, but was just watching me. Finally! Why read when you can watch a beautiful experienced stripper like myself do what she does best?