Jazmine

“What’s your name,” I asked him as we helped him down the stairs.

He lost his concentration and nearly fell as the next performer sauntered past us. Thankfully, one of us was fully focused on the job at hand and caught him before he went down. We slowly made our way down from the upper level of the club, taking in the sights when we made it to the first level.

Our patient seemed unconcerned with the vomit that covered the front of his velour warm-up suit and sneakers. He had a glazed, dreamy look on his face. I asked the bouncer what happened.

“He was getting a lap dance, everything was fine, then he stopped moving and threw up on the dancer.”

“At least she won’t have to wash her clothes,” I mentioned as we walked under the “All Nude Room”” sign at the bottom of the stairs.

“He’s been drinking Heineken’s and Lemon Drops.” the bouncer stated as we walked into the brisk afternoon air.

The fresh air did all of us some good, the perfumed atmosphere of the club ruined by the lemon scented vomit on my patient. One of the dancers who had finished her shift walked past us. She did her best to attract some attention but without the soft lighting and music the magic was gone, she became just another average looking woman trying to make a living.

“Buddy, what’s your name,” I asked again once we had him in the truck and on the stretcher. He stared at the fluorescent lights on the roof of the rig, closed his eyes, smiled and said,
“Jasmine.”

From my book, City Life, Post Hill Press, 2016

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