The Last Temptation of Dougie

"Does it hurt?"

Outside, two cops stood in front of the Hurricane's doors. Dougie politely checked in with the doorman to ensure re-entry before sauntering up to the policemen, his dollars in full bloom.

"How does it feel," Dougie began in his nasal voice, "dealing with 10 percent of the population 90 percent of the time?"

"That's got to hurt like a mother," one cop answered.

"These dollars are like feathers of the American dream being plucked clean," Dougie told him. He tipped his hat to the cops and walked back inside. "Apparently I can't get arrested. I can walk around in my underwear as long as I have these going on." He swung his arms. "This is getting itchy. I can't wait till it's done."

A guy asked permission to take Dougie's picture, then checked it out on his digital camera. "Disgusting," he said when Dougie was out of earshot.

Not that Dougie would have cared. He made his way to the bar to chat up a brown-haired guy at the bar. "Whatcha working with?" he asked. "I'm a size queen. Wanna go to my office downstairs?" Just then, Roach introduced Nightlife Jones from the stage. "Oh, wait, I have to go on."

His cell phone, tucked into his underwear, rang. It was Sunshine. "I'm fully pierced. Where you at?" he asked. "I've supported you for all your shows. Please come. You're on the list. You looked great tonight. Be here or be rectangular."

Dougie snapped his phone shut and stuck it back in his briefs. He strutted to the stage and grabbed the microphone. Affecting a wisecracking gangster-meets-auctioneer voice, he said, "We're talking free money, yeah, see?" It was a little after midnight, and the 50 or so people shuffling around the stage were just drunk and curious enough to listen to the bizarre little man, covered in bills, snarl at them. "I am the carcass of the American spirit being plucked clean by consumerist vultures, y'all. That's y'all. Hey, how much did y'all pay to get in here?"

"Ten dollars," several voices called from the crowd.

"You can make it all back now and get a drink on papa, see?" he continued. "Make a way," he said, waving his arms like a feathered Moses, parting the crowd down the middle. He invited someone to give him a five-second countdown. "You ain't gonna pick a dollar before it happens, but you're gonna pick it after, 'cause you know why? If not, I'ma hit the switches," he said, thrusting his pelvis before the crowd, to cheers. Some people in the audience donned white surgical gloves from a box that Dougie had provided at the bar.

Dougie jumped from the stage. His head disappeared beneath a surge of people. For no more than six seconds, there was a flurry of hands and a ripping of dollars. Then, the crowd parted. Dougie emerged from the scrum open-mouthed, his pin-covered arms outstretched in victory. Tif ran away from Dougie with a fistful of dollars, yelling "I got eight, bitch!"

And there was Sunshine, coming forward to engulf Dougie in a hug. They twirled around like kids at a school dance. "I been screaming all night," Dougie admitted.

"I know you have," Sunshine said. She could understand his pain but was unsympathetic: two Halloweens ago, she had her back pierced eight times in order to thread a ribbon through the rings like a corset. She guided him downstairs, back into the Hurricane's dank basement, where Tif freed him from the 100 empty pins. The band It's Over had taken the stage upstairs, and the wails of guitar crackled through the basement speakers. Dougie wiggled out of his underwear and stood naked, his prized possession dangling uselessly, framed by an expanse of shaved skin. Tif continued to work with a piercer's indifference.

"I was screaming like a bitch, but I ain't a pussy," Dougie said. "You're looking at a salvationized motherfucker ... I feel refreshed, invigorated, clean. I feel like I can meticulously pick apart this planet and kiss every part that needs to be kissed and throw away every part that needs to be in the dumpster. I feel respected."

He looked down at his naked self. "I may not have the muscles that you go to the gym for," he said. "But I got the muscle women fall in love with."

Sunshine sighed and touched her temples with her hands.

On a rainy Sunday night in July, Dougie arrived at the Peanut barefoot. Tears coursed down his face as he double-fisted Coronas. "She comes home with her busted-up pussy and wants me to kiss it," he said. He pounded the beers — not his first two of the night — and staggered out of the bar, plopping himself in a stairwell leading to an underground parking garage outside. Rain spattered the shelter overhead as Dougie wept about the week he'd had. He explained that he had sprawled on the ground in front of seven city buses, but none would hit him. He said he ate glass.