The Tragic Gardens (the story of a stripper named Hope)

My whole life I’d never had any desire whatsoever to go to a strip club, and I told my friends’ this on many occasions. I said the whole thing just seemed very depressing. But one year on my birthday they absolutely insisted. They said the fact that I was turning 22 and hadn’t been to one before was "tragic." Nevertheless, it was my birthday, which meant I would never get what I wanted, so we ended up at a small club called Magic Gardens at 5:45 in the afternoon.

Portland has the highest number of strip clubs per capita in the world*, so it is known for having some of the most unique establishments, such as Acropolis where one can order a fine steak dinner while taking in the performance, and the Dancing Bare which has an illuminated sign with a picture of a bear crossed out, and a naked lady circled next to it, so as to avoid any confusion. Magic Gardens’ “thing” is that it boasts an impressive jukebox and the strippers get to pick their songs off it before they dance. My friends like to go there because instead of your typical “Cherry Pie” and “Pour Some Sugar On Me,” the strippers are more likely to choose some underground 80’s tracks or Pavement.



When we walked in the door an 80-year-old woman bartender (literally) gruffly asked what we wanted then plopped down what were supposedly rum and cokes but were actually just 8 straight oz. of Monarch. There were two other occupants at the establishment, a man near the corner of the stage seated on a stool that looked like he may have been sitting in that exact spot for the last 12 years, and one other man smoking a cigarette playing pool that seemed to neither notice nor care that a naked woman was hanging upside down by her ankles from a stripper pole.

We took our seats at the front of the stage while a stripper named “Hope” walked over to the jukebox naked to pick out her next song, then returned to the stage and redressed right in front of us, only to take it back off all over again in a few moments. After all the hype about the excellent jukebox I was anxious for her choice. And with the first stroke of the guitar strings, I instantly knew what it was. Sure enough, for an audience of three (not counting the possibly dead or asleep man on the stool and the pool player in the back), Hope clicked together her 7-inch heels and spun around the pole as “Please Please Let Me Get What I Want” by the Smiths played over the speakers.

Good Times
For a Change
See the luck I’ve had
Can make a good man
Turn bad

As Morrissey pleaded, “For once in my life, let me get what I want, lord knows it would be the first time,” Hope got tangled up in her panties and had to stop and free them from the sharp edge of her clear plastic heel. As the misery song came to an end Hope whispered a soft “thank you” as the three of us lightly clapped for her. Her breasts hung down, almost touching the floor as she crawled on all fours to pick up the three stray dollar bills laid out on the edge of the stage. I found myself desperately hoping that she would pick “Paradise City” next.

Three years later I told my roommate this story after declining a friend’s invitation to go to a strip club called “Jiggles”. I said as if I hadn’t already had reservations about strip clubs before, I certainly had no desire to attend one now after the depressing spectacle last time, that indie pop had no place in the company of a stripper pole. She said that reminded her of her boyfriend’s qualms about mushrooms, how for him, once was enough. “Bad experience?” I asked.
“His friends convinced him to take ‘shrooms when they were in Amsterdam,” she said, “and while he was high they took him to the Anne Frank museum.”
Some things in life just shouldn't mix.




*wikipedia