5. It took two and a half days — and about the same number of panic attacks about towing a trailer through multiple mountain passes — to make it from Portland to Williston. Friends had told me it was impossible to get a hotel room in Williston, not because they were booked solid, but because recently they'd had problems with some of the traveling strippers. One in particular had let tricks linger in the hallway while they waited for their appointments, resulting in complaints from the other guests. Thereafter, the policy of the nicer motels (and they were all motels, nothing better than 2.5 stars was open yet) was to decline reservations to anyone showing up with acrylic tips and highlights. No problem for me with my shiny and comfortable travel trailer. And not once did a thought of fearing for my own safety cross my mind. The kinds of trailer parks we'd stayed in were the ones of vacationers and retirees, ones with pleasant landscaping and clean pools. Surely I'd be safe in this little town — and I was. Williston didn't look like much. Small. Quiet. Walmart and Applebee's were the major landmarks. The main drag led directly to the Amtrak depot, and therefore to Whispers, the very first business train travelers saw after leaving the station. Whispers didn't look like much either, but Brandy, a youthful redhead, welcomed me warmly and took me into the dressing room for my orientation. She made a little index card, like she had for all of the dancers, with my booking dates, contact info, and a Yes/No in one corner. I found out what that signified when she asked, "Do you date?" "I'm married," I told her. She looked at me and said, "No, I mean, do you trick?" "Oh! No, no, that's not my thing at all." "I don't care if you do," she said. "I just want to know." It was an open secret that some of the traveling dancers were working after hours. As a new dancer, I'd hear, "Do you date?" all week. The cards also listed the ethnicity of the dancers. The club aimed to maintain a ratio of two white dancers and one black dancer a week. Here is how the club worked in 2007: three dancers a week. Sometimes one would be late getting to town, so there'd be two of you. Or maybe the lone local ringer would fill in, or maybe Brandy would pick up the shift. But mostly, three dancers, alternating 20-minute stage sets from 5 p.m. until 12:30 a.m., giving lap dances when we weren't onstage. There was no DJ, just a CD player behind the bar that each dancer would pop a disc into and press play. This also meant there were no restrictions on what kind of music you could dance to, a policy that was exploited in full. The club would be its busiest on Mondays — when everyone in town came in to see who was on the dancer roster that week— and Saturdays. It was closed Sundays. We were told to cover our nipples, because the local law required they be "sealed" — but just the nipples, not the areola, and dancers would dot on a tiny bit of skin-colored nail polish or fabric paint right at the tip to be considered in compliance. When we took customers back to the tiny closet that served as a lap dance area, they were told to stick their hands through leather loops at the sides of the same kind of stacking chair that was by the stage. It was late spring, so the sun stayed up till almost 10 p.m., which meant people went to the bars later and later. This meant hours of sitting around in a quiet club and then two and a half busy hours when it was packed. It was impossible not to make money even though we were only keeping $15 from each $20 dance and there were no expensive hourly champagne rooms to sell. This is a typical arrangement for a small club, but strip clubs all have their own pricing structure and house cuts. In some, only table dances are available. In others, customers can buy dancers out by the hour for hundreds of dollars. What the dancer keeps varies from 100% to 40% of what the customer pays. At Whispers, dance cuts and tipouts usually amounted to 25% of my gross. Aside from the $5 per lap dance, we were told to tip the bartender, waitress, and bouncer $10 each. While at most clubs there is usually a suggested minimum, meaning that you're expected to kick back more on good nights, when I tried to tip more than that on my first night, I was told not to do so. That was the only time I've ever been told not to tip staff extra. That week flew by. I couldn't believe how little time I had; just enough to sleep, shower, eat, and go to work, then return to the trailer at night and crash before doing it again. At home, I'd work four shifts of five to six hours each; here I was doing six days in a row of nine-hour shifts. I was too exhausted to think about much. That Sunday, I decided to rest in town and do laundry before leaving. There wasn't anything to do, but I was happy with what I made and happier to turn around toward Montana. Through 2007 and 2008, I worked a total of five bookings in Williston. Each one felt like a triumph of spirit. The tough schedule, isolation, travel time, and mood of the town and club wore me down to the point where by the Wednesday of each booking, I fantasized about leaving early. The exhaustion exacerbated everything, and at times I'd snap at crude customers. Some were merely irritating, like the guys who would show up straight from work in dirty clothes and want lap dances. Some were ignorant, like the ones who would leave the rack when a black dancer came up to the stage. Some were horrifying, like the guy who told me his theory that all women secretly wanted to practice bestiality. I'd leave richer at the end of the week, but I always felt like I'd earned every dollar.