The Amateur Night THUR DAY sign had been on the sign of The Distinguished Gentleman bar in temporary black letters since Carol Balenski had delivered pizzas in college. It was seedy then and had somehow seemed to have not declined nor improved over the years.
It was Monday afternoon. She called The Distinguished Gentleman, and asked if they still had amateur night.
Almost all of her, almost, wanted the person on the phone to say no.
“Best amateur night in the state.”
“Anyone can get up and ummmm…dance?”
The guy on the phone said, “no, you need a dance card.”
“I thought it was amateur night.”
“Well, the rules are kinda loose as to what defines an amateur. We can’t let you up without a card”
“How does one get a dance card?”
“Go downtown, Central Police precinct. If you have no prostitution violations or outstanding warrants, eighty five bucks gets you a card.”
Carol winced at the word prostitution, shook it off, started to say thank you, then blurted “is there an age limit?”
She heard a humorless laugh on the other end.
“Twenty-one. We used to do eighteen but had a hard time keeping the girls out of the booze.”
“I meant…” Carol caught herself. “Is there anything else I should know?”
“Yeah,” the guy said. “Don’t get too hammered, we won’t let you up. Don’t want you falling and breaking anything. Save a full flash for the last minute of your song.”
“Full flash?”
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