It was late October; harvest season was winding down across Iowa. Mick Shelly, a laborer at the Cambridge grain elevator, was busy off-loading corn, working truck scales and shooting the breeze with local farmers. With the harvest almost complete, Mick’s time at the elevator was coming to an end.

            Cambridge is one of about a thousand small towns in Iowa you’d miss if you weren’t paying attention. When he came to town, Mick’s intention was to work a little, then leave. He knew no one. After he landed a job, he found an apartment behind the local hardware store. It was a clean, one bed room place, rented on a weekly basis. His apartment was close to everything in town. Then again, in Cambridge, everything in town was close to every other thing in town.

            It was Saturday night; at Godfrey’s, the only bar in town, it was “Stripper Night”. Mick figured to make one last visit before he hit the road. He showered to clean off the residue of his day’s work and shaved off a week’s worth of stubble. Putting on neat clothes, he got ready to walk to the bar. The word around the elevator was “that a real piece from Des Moines” was performing. Those who had seen her before said she “moved like a cat”. Expecting a crowd, Mick left early to get a good seat.

            Godfrey’s was in a long, thin building. The bar stood to the left, running along the wall until it reached the kitchen door. In the back, next to the kitchen, was the “ballroom”. It was a large space that had the stage for shows and some tables and chairs. You had to pass through a beaded curtain from the barroom to get in. The cover charge, collected there, was split at the end of the night with the girls. The performances started at eight.

            When Mick arrived, some of the guys pointed out the young lady who was the star attraction. To Mick, this girl seemed out of place. She didn’t mingle with the crowd or chat with the other dancers. With the performances about to begin, it was time to pony up the five buck cover and grab a seat.

            After the other dancers got the hayseeds “in the mood”, the bar owner, acting as MC, introduced, “Shelly from Des Moines.” Mick’s ears perked up. “So her name is Shelly too,” he thought. Tonight would be as good a night as any to try out that hook to meet her.

            When it was Shelly’s turn, he sat back and watched. Each of her movements was fluid and strong. She grabbed the pole, mounted it, using her leg to assume an upside down position. Then she twirled around and around, getting those too close to the stage dizzy. With Shelly, there was no inadvertent twitching, no flopping around, no phony bedroom moves. Her motions were economical, effortless. The other dancers didn’t compare. Shelly didn’t play to the crowd. She danced with a vacant, unfocused stare. Mick had seen that look so many times before. He was sure she was detaching herself from a trauma of some kind.                   

            It was clear to him; Shelly had professional training involving complicated, rhythmic movements. “This girl is no weekend stripper. There’s more to her than that.  How’d she end up here? I gotta find out,” he thought.

            At the conclusion of her first set, she grabbed up the dollar bills on the stage floor. Mick noticed she never allowed anyone to get near enough to stick dollar bills in her G-string. If a guy got too close, she moved back and pointed to the floor as the place to put the money. At the end of her set, wrapping herself in a sheer robe, she came off the stage. Walking through the beaded curtain to the end of the bar, she was about to order a drink as Mick approached her.

            “Hi, I’m Mick Shelly. I loved your performance. You’re much better than the other girls,” he said. As the words left his mouth, he thought, “That was weak”.

            Shelly looked him in the eyes and said, “Beat it.” This happened to her too many times before. She was there to work, not get picked up. But there was something about Mick that made her reconsider. He wasn’t a “hick”, she knew “hick”. Mick wasn’t that. He was out of place. She sensed it because she was too. Curious, she reconsidered. As he was walking away, she said, “Hey was there something you wanted?”

            “Yeah, how long before you have to go back on? You got time for a drink?”  

            “Yeah, I got some time,” she said. They grabbed an open table near the end of the bar and sat across from one another.

                “Is beer OK?” She nodded. Mick ordered.

            “Like I said, I’m Mick Shelly. I work at the grain elevator.

            She laughed, “So your real last name is Shelly and my stage name is Shelly. What an interesting coincidence. You’re making that name up, aren’t you?”

            “Nope, that’s my name. I’ve had it all my life. Wanna see my driver’s license?” Mick said.

            She surprised him and said, “Yeah.” He took it out and handed it to her.

            “It says here you’re from Chicago. What are you doing in this dump? Did you murder somebody and now you’re hiding out?” She smiled.

            “No, nothing like that, but I guess you could say I’m hiding out, maybe, it’s more running than hiding.”  He said nothing more.

            “Oh no, you can’t leave it at that. Which is it?”

            Mick thought he may have opened a door best left closed. If he shut it now, she’d leave. He didn’t want that so he started his story.

            “I was a Captain in a medical unit in the Army, a doctor. I served in Afghanistan. I saw a lot of suffering.”

            “You’re a real doctor? Not a medic?” She asked.

            “Yeah, I was a surgeon.”  She pulled back her chair a little and folded her arms. Mick thought something was off but he continued.

            “When I got discharged I wanted to work in Chicago at the VA hospital to try to help the returning vets. A lot of them had PTSD, drug problems and trouble fitting back into civilian life.” Hearing that, she leaned back in to get closer.

            “Did you get the job?

            “I got it but pretty quick, but I found I couldn’t help the vets.”

            “Why?”

            “The VA drug rehab programs were crap. The wait times were long; there were few counselors, and no jobs programs. Most of the guys, hooked on heroin and other drugs, couldn’t get into the VA methadone program.”

            “I’ve heard that. What’s the problem with VA anyway?”

            “The excuse was, ‘we don’t have the budget and the staff’. In the meantime, the vets were on the streets; some killing themselves, others committing crimes, most were homeless.”

            Shelly could see this memory was making Mick angry. “These soldiers, broken by their service, were now refused the help they earned.” As Mick continued, Shelly moved her chair around the table, a little closer to Mick.

            He continued, “I met a guy who ran an “off the books” methadone clinic for vets. He moved the clinic site around a lot to avoid detection. What he was doing was illegal but he found doctors and counselors who were willing to volunteer time to help our guys.”

            “How’d he get the drugs?” she asked.

            “I was one of his sources. Since I had a DEA drug number, I could get methadone. I tried ordering as much as I could without drawing attention from the pharmacists at the VA. It was stupid but I had to do something. Anyway, long story short, I got caught, accused of stealing.”

            “What did they do to you?”

            “No charges were filed because I paid to get the drugs replaced but I got fired. They reported me to the state medical board. At my hearing, the Medical Discipline Board listened to the reasons for my actions. In the end, I lost my license to practice and had to get out of Chicago. The wind blew me here. When the harvest is over, I’ll be leaving.”

            Shelly stared at Mick for what seemed a long time, then said, “Do you have family and friends in Chicago?” She said.

            “Yeah, I did. This whole thing was tough on them too. They wanted me gone. My so-called friends ran for the hills. Now, I move from place to place, taking whatever jobs I can get.”

            Mick looked away from her, then into his beer glass. Shelly’s eyes locked onto him. Then he smiled and said, “Hey, enough about me. I have a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

            Shelly said, “Shoot.”

            “You move like a well-trained athlete, not some wannabe, weekend stripper, how come?”

            “Wow, somebody who pays attention. These other idiots just stare at my body.”

             Before she said anything else, she thought, “Do I want to tell this guy?” It was a risk but he seemed genuine. She decided, “I’ll do it.”     

            “Since I was a little girl, I trained to be a dancer. I got better as I got older. So good, in fact, I ended up on the US Gymnastic Team as a rhythmic dancer.

            “I knew it,” Mick said. “Now it all makes sense.” Before he could say anything more, she held up her hand as if to get him to stop. It was important for her to keep talking or she’d lose her nerve. Mick got the message and shut up.

            “I had to be examined regularly by the team doctors. The doctors told me it was for ‘my own good’. The exams were nothing more than the doctors feeling me up. They did other things. I didn’t want this but there was no one to tell, no way to stop it. If you wanted to be on the team you had to go through the exams. I was just a kid so I went along.”

            Mick thought, “Jesus, she’s been abused by doctors and I tell her I’m a doctor. Nice move.”

            Shelly then said, “I’m sure you heard about all this. I was one of the many girls molested and abused by the team doctors. I told the coaches. I told my parents but nobody believed me. I got thrown off the team for being a troublemaker, a liar.”

             “My God, I’m so sorry.” Mick could see it was hard for her to admit.

            “I found out me being on the gymnastics team was more important for my parents than it was for me. After this, I had to get away. It took some time but I left home as soon as I could. I haven’t talked to my folks or family since. My only friends were teammates. I lost them too.”

            Mick saw tears in her eyes. He said, “You did nothing wrong.”

            “Does it matter? It feels like I did. I wonder over and over what I could have done differently. I guess it doesn’t matter. I’m alone, a stripper working for tips and part of the cover fees in dumps like this instead of competing to be a world class athlete.”

            “We trusted the wrong people,” Mick said. “I guess we’re both running and hiding.”

            Before he could say anything else, a loud voice came from behind the bar, “Shelly you’re up again.” She waved to let him know she heard him.

            As she got up, she said, “Mick, you’re sweet. See ya.” He took it as a goodbye.

            She headed back to the “ballroom”. He followed. As she walked up the stairs and onto the stage, she looked back at him, flashed him a sly smile and then grabbed the pole. As the performance began, her stare returned.

            Mick was angry, “The people and systems that did this to us should be suffering the consequences, and instead, we are.”

            He watched her dance a while longer then figured it was time to leave. He stood up, looked at the stage and managed to catch her eye. He gave her a small wave goodbye, went through the beaded curtain, walked past the bar and went out the door.

            He wasn’t very far down the street when he heard a voice. “Mick, wait up.” It was Shelly.

            Turning to look, he said, “What the hell Shelly, where’s your clothes?” She was wearing only her red pumps, a G-string, and a shear robe. It was cold. She shivered in the crisp night air.

            “I didn’t want you to get away. My shift was nearly over anyway. Can I come with you? “

            “Sure. You’re freezing.” He slid his arm around her. She leaned into him. Mick said, “Let’s go get your clothes and your money.”

            They walked back to the bar together. Mick waited by the front door. After a few minutes, carrying her coat and dressed in blue jeans and a sweater, she walked from the dressing room to the front door. Mick watched her the whole way. “She has a fluid walk too and she looks great in clothes; as good as she did with practically nothing on,” he thought.

            As they left the bar, Shelly locked her arm around his. She leaned into him as they walked toward his apartment. A chilly October wind swirled around them, neither noticed. They both wanted the same thing, to feel good again about something . . . anything.

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Edward N. McConnell started writing flash fiction and short stories in 2020. His flash fiction and short stories have appeared in Literally Stories, Terror House Magazine, Mad Swirl, Down in the Dirt, Rural Fiction Magazine, among others. He lives in West Des Moines, Iowa with his wife.

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