Cheap Shots, by Brooke Pieschke

We had our rituals. Most of our evenings started with a cocktail. There was a pre-shower cocktail, an after-shower cocktail, pre and post makeup cocktail, and a small glass of water for good measure.

The outfit was one of the most important elements to an evening. I preferred to wear solid colors to ensure that I would not have the same ensemble as someone else. After hours of preparation and planning, my sister emerged from her bedroom wearing a deep V-necked shirt and jeans. As always, she could be stunning in a trash bag.

Hollywood Nights. Based on the name of the club, we wondered, What stars would we see? What will everyone be wearing? Will we even get in? Once in the parking lot, however, you realize you parked your 1988 Grand Am next to a station wagon with a bumper sticker that read “Baby on Board” and a Cadillac with a chain link steering wheel.  Thus, the more appropriate questions became: How is it so impossible for her to keep her thong in her pants? Does he really believe that he will be the next famous white rapper? Can they even spell? And, dear God, does anyone have a breath mint somewhere nearby? The only thing that hinted to a glamorous Hollywood lifestyle was the price of admission. Nevertheless, my sister wanted in and so did I.

I pulled my fake ID out of my purse to once again study the information, just in case I did not pass for the Middle Eastern woman in the picture. As we approached the door, I made sure to carry on a conversation with my sister who was behind me. Right above the bouncer’s head was a sign that read “Ladies Night”, cheap shots till midnight. I proceeded to make a joke and reference the sign to distract from my license picture. We made it through and entered the club just in time for the tail end of “Lady Marmalade.” How appropriate.

After several hours of simply watching an unfortunately desperate man air-hump an uninterested jezebel, we decided to make our way to another venue. We had no money and most bars close at 2:00 am. At this point, one can’t be choosey. As we jumped back into the car, my sister had an alarming grin on her face, which can only mean one of two things: either she has just peed in the pool or she has stumbled upon the greatest idea ever. Not only did she think of a place where we could get in for free, it was also open until 4:00 a.m. She looked at me and said, “two syllables” (she meant two words), and incorrectly using air quotes, she proudly lifted her fingers and said, “Déjà vu.” As she proceeded to celebrate her brilliance, all I could think was that I wished she had peed in the pool.

My sister is one of the most beautifully contagious people in the world. With great ease, she can convince you that her ideas are awesome. I decided that her plan, although ridiculously inappropriate, was our best option. We pulled into the parking lot and felt strangely welcomed. My sister tore off her seat belt and ran to the entrance of the strip club as if she were a child entering the gates of Disney World. I finally reached the door to find that her enthusiasm had reactivated the liquor in her body.  She spent a second or so in the bushes and emerged revitalized.

Certain roles are assigned to the members of a family. Being the youngest, I was always the scapegoat and punching bag. I had the great responsibility of doing the jobs my siblings didn’t want to do. If I chose to say no, then physical pain ensued and I had to do the job anyways, just with one good eye instead of two.

I knew my job would be to lead this expedition, so I marched to the door and pulled it quickly like a Band-Aid. A gentleman, who appeared thrilled at our presence, quickly herded us into a large red room. It took my eyes minutes to adjust. Various fabrics and materials were draped on the walls as well as the bodies. The place was packed with men chirping and waving dollars into the air. A unique blend of jazz-trumpet and hip-hop beats poured through the speakers. The lights changed and so did the mood. My attention was directed to the center of the room, to a stage with a single pole reaching from the floor to the ceiling. It was as regal as a pillar in the Colosseum and as shiny as a brand new quarter. Then the lights went out.

A paralyzing panic rushed over me—I had forgotten to watch my sister. I could only imagine the trouble she was in. What if I couldn’t find her because she was already in jail? The next words I heard did not quell any of my trepidation.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, put your hands together forrrrrr...”

There was a spotlight and an audience. It could have easily been my sister on the stage. But it wasn’t. It was someone else’s sister.  

Just then, the hoots and hollers started and I redirected my eyes to the stage. Like the undead, I stumbled to find a chair and collapsed in amazement. Clad in black, Heidi, hand over hand, climbed to the top of the pole. In one acrobatic movement, she whipped her legs upward and gripped the pole with her thighs. Hanging upside down, suspended in air, she lightly released and rapidly came sliding to the ground. Just as she was completing her downward dive, I heard a familiar sound, like a siren, ringing through the air.


“Wooooooooo,” my sister screamed and before I could grab her, she lifted her shirt and presented her majestic pearls to a man that we would later learn was the stripper’s boyfriend. Apparently one obligation of an onstage entertainer is to continue dancing until the song is completed. Heidi spotted the debacle and continued her routine as the professional that she was.

Once the song ended, Heidi ran towards the velvet chairs like a bull charging a matador. Thankfully I had reached my sister in enough time to take hold of her shirt and prevent a second round of mayhem.  What I could not prevent was the screaming contest that was currently taking place.

To show my loyalty to my sister, I got in the middle of the two squawking hens. I managed to pry their noses from one another long enough for Heidi to take aim. I somehow managed to line myself up perfectly as Heidi drew back her clenched fist, and I took a punch straight to the mouth.

My only experiences with fighting were from playing Mortal Kombat and seeing Jamie Nesbeth get his nads kicked twice for trying to French kiss Jackie Stale. I didn’t know what to do then, and I most certainly had no clue how to respond now. I simply nodded to Heidi in acceptance, grabbed my purse, my sister, and my free cup and we made my way to the parking lot. I could smell the alcohol working its way through her pores as I hugged my sister and walked her to the car.

I sat in my car and watched my sister sleep with a strange sense of pride--while I was the one that took a cheap shot to the face, she was the victim, curled up in the passengers seat, passed out. As I waited to sober up, my legs resting on the steering wheel, our toes warming the frost on the windshield, I lowered the rear view mirror toward my face. I stared at my newly acquired showpiece, my fat lip, and thought of how to explain it. My sister was the creative one, always giving elaborate reasons even when they were not necessary. I needed her help just as she had needed mine. I smiled at the thought of what she would come up with. Believable or not, it was better than the truth. We would figure it out in the morning.

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Next time on The Hindsight Bridge: Robbie Pieschke’s “Bus Driving” explores the rigors of mundanity, as an overqualified Bus Driver searches for fulfillment, only to find it in a dangerous and especially unlikely situation. Revisit on May 30, 2011 for more and be sure to tell your friends and family about The Hindsight Bridge.