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I was down in the dumps.

Sitting at the local strip club, sulking in a rum and coke. Relationship problems.

Cliché, I know. But, my marriage of 25 years had come to a close. No cheating or abuse or anything salacious. The relationship had…run its course, I guess.

I sat there looking at my phone swiping left and right after being tied up for a quarter century, not really paying attention to the environment around me. I felt out of place and, also, like a ghost. A specter floating in the background. Ethereal.

While I was at a strip club, I wasn’t there to stare at ass or get lap dances. I needed people. Activity. Vibe.

Eventually, like an angel’s clarion call, a woman across the bar signaled to me. “Hey.” I cruise over, drink in hand. She was a tall, voluptuous brunette wearing a low-cut white knit top. Her dark hair flowed to the straps of her top. She had a slight accent. I shyly introduced myself, and asked where she was from. “Ukraine,” she said with a smile. She told me that she moved back and forth between there and the United States but had been back for a while.

I didn’t want to seem presumptuous, so I asked her a question: “Are you a dancer?” Admittedly, sometimes I don’t pick up on clues very well. The most gorgeous girl in the club just happens to be sitting at the bar and beckoning me. I asked if I could buy her a drink. It was the first time in my life I ever asked a woman that.

What came after, over the next few hours of conversation, would change my life…

…in a rather odd way.

Let me tell you some things about her.

People might get the wrong impression because she’s an exotic dancer. But before that, she was an accounting teacher. She is also a writer and has self-published a book. She told me she had written another book about her experience as a dancer that was nearly picked up by a literary agent for publishing. The publisher told her that it was too long and needed more salacious details.

“They wanted sex. All I had was innuendo,” she sighed. As for the editing, she kind of made it sound like it was a War and Peace length book.

I asked if she thought about editing it down. But she told me that it emotionally drained her to think about doing it. And she really didn’t want to revisit it.

I mentioned that I was a journalist by trade.

“So you know about writing?” she asked. I nodded. She then told me that she went to a writers’ retreat in Maine. I told her that was where Stephen King was from. She told me she had seen his house while there, but that the retreat was overwhelming for her. She admitted it wasn’t the experience she was hoping for. I start to think maybe she was a writer who doesn’t take feedback well.

Some writers can’t.

Lights behind the bar illuminated her face with a gentle glow. She had a youthful look, hiding what she would tell me are the storms of a tough life.

Few patrons were in the club, and it seemed like the dancers may have outnumbered the customers. The DJ was pumping some great 90s and 2000s rap hits. Women were dancing to no one near the stage.

A customer came to the bar with a winning video lottery ticket.

The manager told him, “I’m going to have to sell more drinks to cash that.”

The smell of stale beer and discount body spray wafted through the air.

Accepting my offer, she ordered red wine. “It’s good for your brain,” she explained, as we made eye contact and smiled at each other in recognition. I asked for a whisky on the rocks. I didn’t mind that my drink would be mind-numbing in comparison. I was seeking that escape.

I asked how to say hello in Ukrainian. She told me, but said she speaks more Russian than Ukrainian because of where she’s from in Ukraine. I then said hello in Russian. I only knew that because of an obsession with Russia, when I was 14. The interest was brought on by my love of Tom Clancy books. I’m old enough to have lived in a time before the internet, so I read travelers’ language books to get the basics. I also met a nice older Russian couple who had defected to Boise, Idaho, of all places. Apparently, the man (I don’t remember his name) was a top gymnastics coach in the Soviet Union. As for the language, I only remember how to count, say hello, and order a beer.

She didn’t seem to mind.

Through the makeup and the glitter I could see she and I were roughly the same age, from the last few years of Generation X. I asked her about the Chernobyl nuclear accident, when we were kids. She goes “that was the Soviet Union.” And that was that.

Not that I wanted to ruin the vibe, but I told her that my heart was breaking for her country because of Russia’s “special military operation.” She explained her parents were still there, but safe. Her mom told her that the war is being overblown by the Western media so the United States can take Ukrainian lands and products because of its status as the “breadbasket of the world.” While this sounded like a Kremlin talking point, I can understand how Ukrainians might fear that.

(Let’s be honest, the United States has a history of getting involved in other countries’ business for our nation’s own motives. Most recently, the Iraq war comes to mind). I pushed back a bit and said, “I am not sure that’s what the U.S. is aiming to do, but we could agree that Putin is an asshole.” I’m not 100 percent sure she agreed.

I remember working with a Russian expat (and great photojournalist) named Yuri at my first news station years ago. I asked him then about what he thought of Vladimir Putin. “Russians need a strongman as leader,” he declared. “It’s our nature.” I didn’t realize at the time exactly what he was talking about.

Years later, I do.

I asked how she liked living in America. She told me how foreigners who want to come here think it’s the land of opportunity, only to find it difficult to thrive. For her, a good day dancing can make her a few hundred dollars profit. But a night like tonight, she barely covers her expenses. “Americans have a leg up,” she told me. But, growing up in Ukraine, she says people were watching Hollywood movies and getting this misconception that “the grass is greener on the other side.” It made me think of comedian Yakov Smirnoff, who would point out a crazy thing about America and then quip, “What a country!”

So why is it so tough on immigrants? For one thing, experience and education of transplants isn’t recognized as being as legitimate as an American with similar qualifications.

I’ve seen this with other immigrants I worked with. One of my favorites was a guy named Miro. He was from Bosnia and came to the United States after the war. In Bosnia, he was a Registered Nurse. Here, he could only get a job as a psychiatric technician. Apparently, there was a lot he would have to do to get a nursing license. Practically starting his education over, even though he was fluent in English and was a certified medical interpreter. Not to mention the cost. By the way, back home, he didn’t have to pay for his degree. Some countries believe in that.

The Migrant Policy Institute calls the lack of qualified employment for college graduates “brain waste.” And while natural born citizens experience this, its numbers are more pronounced in immigrant populations. According to MPI, more than 1 in 5 immigrants in the United States are not working jobs they are qualified to do.

Some of this is cultural perception by Americans. Some of it relates to barriers built into the system. Employers are less likely to believe an immigrant is qualified, despite a degree. Partly, I think is an embedded doubt in the education systems of other countries.

Additionally, there is a different concept of work roles in the United States versus overseas. For instance, and according to her, compared to Europe, bosses and companies take more liberties against workers because most American employees have a “snap-to” attitude. For many workers, there is a fear of getting fired on a whim. We even have states that have empowered employers to do just that, leaving many who are living paycheck to paycheck a target for employer abuse. She says that in Europe, supervisors have more responsibility to their workers than authority over them.

“Also, I am a free spirit. I cannot deal with office politics,” she said.

I first realized the difference in European versus American attitudes when it came to work from Miro. He had a slim build and a quick sense of humor. Brown and gray stubble speckled his chin and cheeks. Miro, unlike her, seemed aged before his time. It’s most likely due to his time as a combat medic. Living through the horrors of a brutal war showed.

I remember Miro made some sort of mistake at the hospital where we used to work. Nothing really serious, but he had to go talk to the CEO. I was like, “Are you nervous about talking to him?” Personally, I would have been petrified at the thought of getting my ass chewed out by the top boss.

With a grin, and in his cool Bosnian accent, he replied, “Dude, I was shot at by tanks. He doesn’t scare me.” From then on, I always took that comment with me. A kind of mantra when things were bad at work.

“At least I’m not getting shot at by tanks,” I would tell myself.

While I like to hear honest opinions about the United States from those with different backgrounds, many Americans don’t. As kids, we have been taught about “American exceptionalism” and that we have the greatest country in the world. So people get offended when criticism or negative observations come from the outside, even when valid points are made.

Of course, these feelings don’t just apply to foreigners. It’s partly what’s also driving the deep political divide in this nation. This is also not new. “America. Love it or leave it,” as they say. This division is becoming an endemic problem where we vilify those who want to make change, even though, in many areas, change is clearly needed.

We have to admit we have a mass shooting problem. A police brutality problem. Poverty. Prescription drug price gouging. White nationalism. Rising violent crime. Misinformation. This is a short list.

And, as a start, Americans need to admit these problems exist. How do we work on solutions without admitting the problem? We can’t.

I also feel like the resentment of unflattering foreign opinions comes from the idea that being an American is literally a “birthright.” We have been told that we are special and better than those from abroad. And when foreigners come here, they are treated as interlopers, undeserving of the benefits and freedoms the country provides.

It’s hogwash. But, that is my observation.

I also want to be clear here. I am as patriotic as they come. Not the drive around with a big truck kind…you know, domestic beer in hand while he salutes his Confederate flag. But rather the kind of patriot who teared up when the drill instructors at Fort Sill played Lee Greenwood’s “I’m Proud to be an American,” just before Army basic training graduation. Hand over the heart at ballgames. Proudly recited the pledge as a kid. The whole enchilada.

So honestly, while I welcome different viewpoints on the United States, sometimes they still sting.

The DJ announced over the speaker that she was on deck.

“It’s time for me to dance,” she said.

She headed to the stage and I followed to sit down in front. Here, while it’s called a strip club, it’s actually a bikini bar. The religious majority outlawed nudity in public places that serve alcohol. I watched as she started to dance. I was the only one at the stage and pulled out a crisp $20 and gave it to her as a tip. This was the first time I’d ever been to a club like this, really.

So what happened next was…unexpected.

She took the money, said thank you, and then started gyrating in front of me. She leaned back from the stage and licked my ear. Then crawled off stage, knocking my drink over. But without hesitation or notice she straddled me. She gyrated to the music and rubbed her chest on my face. She was soft.

In this moment, I felt a multitude of things. I was grateful for the attention, though pecuniary. And on the other hand, I felt uncomfortable. I was two days removed from a long marriage—it felt like cheating.

She wrapped up her set and we met back at the bar. Before she even sat down, another dancer was twirling upside down and giving a potentially religious experience to someone. Alas, this sermon too was without a congregation.

I said to her, “You’re a pretty good dancer.”

“Not really,” she shrugged. “Not like her,” pointing to the stage. “I don’t have the core to do good pole work.”

I asked how she got into dancing. She was down on her luck and looking to make rent. A friend of hers who danced told her she could make a lot of money. “It’s easy, all you have to do is keep your tummy flat.”

She worked at the same club as her friend for a couple of days without knowing much of what to do. She made some money dancing in private rooms those nights, but didn’t get to see what the other girls were doing. Then her friend invited her over to show her the tricks of the trade.

She told me her friend put on music from a boombox and started dancing. “She was licking her nipples and rubbing on her crotch.” She mimicked her friend’s motions. “I was shocked! What is going on here? I had never seen anything like that before.”

But, despite her shock, she put her newfound tools to use and made even more money.

“Would you like a private dance?”

“How much is that?” I asked.

“$25 a song,” she replied.

“Let me think about it. I would need to go smoke a cigarette first,” I said.

Then she tells me to have the bartender watch my drink because both men and women are getting drugged at clubs. With the men, thieves wait until they pass out and then use facial recognition on the victim’s phone to rob their bank accounts. She places a napkin on top.

When I come back, we talk a bit more about the dancing industry. It sounds cliché, but she tells me many of the dancers are single moms trying to make a little extra cheese. As for making money, some nights are hit and miss. And that can be a bad thing on slow nights.

At this club, they have to pay to dance. Then, she ends up having to tip the DJ, the bartender, and the manager. To me, the system seems exploitative. And not just because the business model is based on the horniness of men, although she found that she could make more money and have a better time dancing than punching a clock.

She told me her best nights were when jaded men wanted to “destroy their bank accounts.” I’m guessing jaded men like me.

“So do you want a private dance?” she asked again.

Not that there were a lot of other guys she could be spending time with, but she was hanging with me. I know that people have to make their bread, so I bought a couple of songs worth of dances. I thought, maybe it will be cathartic.

She leads me to a back area and has me sit down. Again, giving me a lap dance and spanking her ass. And again, I felt weird.

I tried to enjoy myself. When I was a young man, I used to objectify women but being married for a quarter century to the same woman and having a daughter has changed my perspective. I was more inclined to have my kids see violence in the media at a younger age than sex. While I like sex, sometimes sexuality makes me uncomfortable.

But sexuality is what she does, and she’s good at it.

I had no idea what to do. This was literally the only private lap dance I’d ever had. The phrase “don’t touch the girls” ran through my head. She started slapping her ass, and nodded for me to do it too. I gave her a couple of whacks but later asked her if that’s something she really likes or just for show.

“I like it when a man takes charge sometimes. Be a little aggressive. Not to hurt though,” she said.

She gave me an extra song because the others were short. She’d have to explain it to the DJ since he was the one paid to keep track. I would have liked to think it was because she liked me. But I knew better. It was, rather, she liked to give great value—give a man his money’s worth.

When we got back to the bar, I asked more about her writing, and why she wasn’t interested in editing and rewriting her memoir.

“You know you won’t be able to do this job forever,” I told her. “Don’t be afraid to keep working on writing. Do a little bit every day.”

“I know. But I’m working all the time,” she said. “I have to survive.”

It was tougher for her, in a way, because she was living a transient lifestyle. She traveled back and forth between cities. Instead of an apartment, she floated between different rentals at $100 a day. She told me she ate sardines on pasta for a lot of her meals.

At this point, I had come to like her. And not in the “I just want to bang you” sort of way. I thought she was smart and funny, on top of being attractive. So I thought, what the hell? I’m going to shoot my shot and see if she’ll go to dinner.

“I know you probably get a lot of clients who ask you out. But would you consider dinner with me?” I asked bashfully.

“I have seen some men I have met at the club from time to time. But what usually happens is that they will take me out for a nice steak dinner then automatically expect me to f*ck their brains out,” she explained. “I have feelings too. I am a person too.”

I had to break it to her that it wasn’t just because she was a dancer. This was something I’d heard from multiple women about American men. “Feed you, f*ck me.” It’s a reprehensible attitude, but common.

“They come in here with ‘big d*ck’ energy, trying to impress me,” she added. “Then treat me like some kind of ho.”

Though she admitted we did have a real connection, she was also concerned that I was recently single. “Plus, you will get back with your wife. I know it,” she told me.

“The chances are pretty slim,” I said. While she didn’t come right out and say no, she didn’t quite say yes either.

We began talking about books and what she liked to read. She said she really likes Carl Jung, that his thoughts expanded her mind. I personally didn’t know much about him or his works, though I was familiar with his name. She told me the name of a movie she liked about the conflict between Jung and Sigmund Freud. “Freud invented psychotherapy to get people addicted to it to make money. And you know how Jews like money,” she declared.

Oh, that old trope, I thought. Doesn’t everyone like money?

To me, it was this mindset, deeply rooted in some Eastern European cultures, I had heard about but never experienced until now. Sadly, during World War II some Ukrainians treated the Nazi’s as liberators and greeted them with flowers and kisses. They also helped facilitate atrocities.

“Well,” I said, “It was more likely rooted in his need to buy cocaine.” She nodded her head in agreement but you could tell she believed something different.

The conversation stopped as she got called back to the stage for another dance. This time, there were a few guys sitting stage-side. I hung back. She had spent much of the night with me and I wanted her to make some money. As the guys watched her dance, they flicked dollar bills into the air.

While obviously I think the dancers should get tips, I feel like “making it rain” with singles is demeaning. But, money is money.

I bought her another red wine while she entertained others. As the bartender started to hand me the glass, I said, “Can you give it to her? I don’t want her to think I messed with it.” He nodded and put the drink behind the bar.

She met up with me after her session. This time, with a bucket full of dollar bills.

“It looks like a lot, but it’s not,” she explained. She buried about $40 in her purse.

She is big into astrology. She looked up our birthdates and star signs and discovered that we would be compatible, according to whatever website she was using.

“We have good spiritual energy together,” she read. “It says ‘Jesse would be supportive of your creative side.’”

I could be. But there were downsides. She told me she doesn’t like to listen to music. “Too much noise, sensory overload,” she explained, which seemed odd due to her chosen profession. To me, a day without music is like a day without sunshine.

I probed if she would like to check out the local art museum. She laughed, “I have been to big ones in Europe with art from the greats.” It seemed a little snobby.

Personally, I appreciate people expressing themselves in a meaningful way and sharing it. No matter the level.

Because I never got a clear indication earlier of whether she would like to go or not, I asked, “Coffee sometime maybe? Then you don’t have to worry about me expecting to take you home and f*cking your brains out.” Though, honestly, the idea had crossed my mind.

While she admitted we had a connection, this was the time to let me down easy.

“You know, I provide fantasy and a good time,” she said. I know what that means. To save face, I still wrote down my number.

“Here is my number, if you ever reconsider,” I said, handing over the scribbled-on napkin.

Time was winding down. The club was doing last call. She asked if I wanted one last private dance.

“Another night when there might be more time,” I said, nodding at her with my most gentle smile.

Then I bid farewell for the evening. She gave me a kiss on the cheek before I departed. I walked across the street to my hotel, collapsed onto the bed, and crashed.

The next morning, I had a whole new perspective on life. The initial anger from my separation had waned.

I called my wife. We didn’t reconcile, but ultimately it was for the best.

There are a few things I took away from the night’s experience:

First, we should never have preconceived notions about a person and their position in this world. I didn’t do this, but I could see how others would immediately devalue her worth just because she shook her ass for cash.

There is an assumption, I believe, that people who work in areas considered on the fringes of society don’t have the same worth as a doctor, firefighter, or even an accountant. But women like her do contribute to society in much more subtle ways. She gives attention to men who might need a little.

Secondly, as a society we need to reevaluate the dynamics in the workplace. If you’re a worker, use the tools in place to make sure you are being treated fairly. If you’re a supervisor, treat your role as more of a responsibility to your workers to achieve overall success rather than some authoritarian regime. If you are meeting the needs of your employees, success will come along.

And lastly, we have a problem with tipping culture in this country. However, that is the system we live under. So tip—tip your barista, your waitress, your stripper. Give generously to Uber drivers, cabbies, or the pizza delivery person when you can.

That money might be putting a roof over their head for a night or making sure they have enough gas to get them to work the next day. Maybe it’s giving them a chance to put food in their kids’ bellies. Don’t be afraid to give a little.

I don’t know if I will ever see her again, knowing how life works. But if I do, I’ll thank her again for such an enlightening evening.

And for launching my new life.

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