“That’s not a Dirty Sanchez,” he said. “That’s called getting your salad tossed. I saw it on HBO. They did this documentary from prison. Some crazy shit. This inmate was talking about how he liked to get his salad tossed. He put jelly on his asshole first. Then his cellmate licked it out.”
“Jelly?” Jesse laughed. “Who the fuck puts jelly on their salad?”
Darryl turned around. “Motherfuckers in prison, obviously.”
I frowned. “Well if that’s salad tossing, then what the hell’s a Dirty Sanchez?”
“I don’t know,” Darryl admitted. “But I guarantee you it’s something you white motherfuckers invented. Ain’t no brother gonna ask his girl for a ‘Blumpkin’ or a ‘Dirty Sanchez’. We just want to bust a nut. And if we did ask for one, the sisters would kick our ass.”
A tractor-trailer blew past us, spraying water and road grit all over my windshield. I flashed my high beams in annoyance and then turned on the windshield washer to get rid of the grime. It left streaks on the glass.
“Was that one of our guys?” Yul asked, watching the truck’s taillights fade into the distance.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think it was.”
“Asshole,” he muttered.
All of us nodded in agreement. Our drivers
There weren’t a lot of jobs in our part of Pennsylvania, so we were grateful for ours. We worked for GPS— Globe Package Service—specifically, at their distribution center in Lewisberry, Pennsylvania. The center served as a hub for all of the mid-Atlantic region, as well as much of the East Coast and southern states. We were only a few hours drive from New York, Baltimore, Washington D.C., Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, Trenton, Richmond and elsewhere. Because of this, our center was always busy. Darryl, Yul, Jesse and me worked the 4am to 8am shift. We called it the night shift, even though it was early morning when we came in. Only four hours of labor, but at sixteen bucks an hour and with no union dues to pay, plus health insurance once you’d passed your ninety-day probationary period, it was just like holding down a full-time job but on part-time hours. Darryl and I worked in Load Area Seven, loading packages into tractor trailers bound for Virginia. Yul was in Sorting Area Two, scanning the bar codes on the package labels and sending them down the correct conveyor belt so that they ended up in the right truck. Jesse worked out in the yard, jockeying trailers from one Load Area to another. Yul’s job was pretty easy, although he had to be quick and accurate and make sure packages went down the right conveyor belt. Otherwise, a box meant for Baltimore could end up in Boston instead. Jesse’s job was a piece of cake. He had lots of down time and plenty of cigarette breaks. You’d often see him hanging around in the break room, drinking coffee and shooting the shit. Darryl and I had the back-breaking positions. If you weren’t in good shape when they assigned you a Load Area, you would be by the end of your first week—or else you’d be dead. I’d been there almost a year, and had lost fifteen pounds. My beer gut turned into abs, and my muscles became hard and lean. No need to join the gym when you did what we did for four hours a day.
That night, we’d only worked half an hour. Started our shift at four in the morning. Twenty minutes later, the power went out through the whole facility. One moment, we’re busting our ass loading boxes into the trucks, and the next, everything got pitch black and quiet. The silence was the weirdest part. No conveyor belts rumbling or rollers squeaking or people shouting orders or forklifts beeping as they raced around. It was actually a little scary, though I’d have never admitted it out loud. These days, you just never know. Life is unnerving. Terrorists or disgruntled nutcases who want to shoot up their workplace lurked around every corner.
But it wasn’t either of those. We found out later that a car had skidded off the road because of the rain and hit a major power line. Our maintenance guys couldn’t get the back-up power going, so instead of paying us to stand around and do nothing, the company sent us home early. Despite the loss of hours, that was okay with us. People fucking cheered and shit. It was Friday. Even better, it was payday. And since GPS insisted on direct deposit for all of their employees, the money was already waiting for us in our checking accounts. All we had to do was hit an ATM.
Three day weekend, cash in pocket. Life doesn’t get any better than that. Thank you, whoever the hell it was that wrecked his car and got us out of work early. Hope you didn’t die in the process.
The strip club was Jesse’s idea.
Once we found out that we could leave, the four of us met up in the parking lot, debating what to do. The worst of the storm was over. A fine mist fell from the sky. Not enough to count as rain, but enough to be an annoyance. With the power out, the overnight security lights weren’t working and the only light was from the car headlights as our co-workers raced past the guard shack and down the road. Most of them were probably heading home, or to parties at friend’s houses. At that time of morning, the bars were closed.
“Early start to the weekend,” I said. “What should we do?”
“We could hit the Knotty Pine,” Yul suggested. “They got an after hours license.”
“No way.” Darryl lit a cigarette, shielding it with his hands so it wouldn’t get wet. “My ex hangs out in that place. So does her new man. We go there, I goddamn guarantee you they’ll want to start some shit and break bad on me. Prove he’s got the bigger dick. I ain’t in the mood for that tonight. Dude gets up in my face and I’m gonna knock him the fuck out. Don’t feel like going to County tonight for some bullshit.”
I nodded. “Fair enough.”
“The Tourist Inn?” Yul said.
I shook my head. “They’re closed for the night. Last call is at two.”
“What about Thads?” Darryl exhaled a puff of smoke. “They can serve people after hours, too.”
Jesse groaned. “Thads—the gay bar? Fuck that shit. I ain’t drinking in no mother fucking gay bar, even if they do have an after hours license.”
I sighed. “You know, dude, just because you have a drink with some gay guys, that doesn’t mean
“I ain’t homophobic.”
“Yes, you are.”
Darryl nodded in agreement with me. “That’s some racist shit, Jesse.”
“Being gay ain’t a race.” Jesse sighed. “It’s a sexual orientation. And besides, I’m not a damn racist like those Eastern Hammer skinhead and Sons of the Constitution motherfuckers. You’re black, Darryl. Yul is Asian. I hang out with you guys, right?”
Darryl took another drag off his cigarette and glared at Jesse. “Is this the part where you start listing all your non-White friends?”
“Fuck you. That ain’t what I’m saying.”
“Then what are you saying?” Darryl asked.
“All I’m saying is that I ain’t homophobic.”
“Well,” I said, “then what the fuck? It’s 2011, dude. You work alongside gay guys every day. You can’t drink a fucking beer with them after work?”
“It ain’t that,” Jesse said. “I got nothing against gays. I’m just in the mood to see some pussy.”
Darryl smiled around his cigarette. “Well shit, why didn’t you say so? Now you’re talking.”
Jesse returned the smile. “If I wanted to see dicks, I could just hang out in this parking lot with you guys.”
Somewhere in the dark, a fire siren wailed; probably another accident on the highway. I shivered, wishing we could decide soon so that we could get out of the damp air.
“What are you thinking?” I asked Jesse. “Where to? The Foxy Lady?”
“No. Too many gang bangers and slingers hang out in there. Fuckers got no respect for anybody. Been that way since the Italians sold it. You look at a stripper wrong and they’ll be up in your face. And besides, Foxy Lady closed at two. Ain’t got no after hours license. How about the Odessa, instead?”
The Odessa was a strip joint off Interstate 81, just south of Harrisburg and Camp Hill. Open nineteen hours a day, six days a week, according to their commercials on the radio. Closed on Sundays and a few hours each morning for shift change and clean up. Darryl, Yul, and I had never been there. Jesse went all the time, and never hesitated to tell us about it. It was one of his favorite hangouts.
“Sure.” I shrugged. “I’m down for that. Been meaning to check that place out.”
“We can’t drink there,” Yul said. “They don’t serve beer. It’s BYOB and we don’t have shit. I thought you guys
