Mike, Brass, Strippers and Nuns

Mike was a talk show host and nobody liked him. Depending on whether you asked a stripper or a nun, you’d be told that Mike’s show ran in the latest hours of the night or the earliest hours of the morning. There were no nuns who listened to Mike’s show, and only a few strippers.
Mike’s show was about supernatural phenomena. For the first few years of his broadcasting career Mike worked with another personality called Ike. The name of their program (not to be written here) was obvious. It wasn’t to last however, because as you may recall nobody liked Mike, not even Ike. Especially not Ike. After Ike left, Mike hosted the show alone. “Midnight Mike!”
To make matters all the worse, Mike’s show aired on an AM station, so the listening audience was already limited to the elderly (asleep by 8:30pm), the collective body of the local FFA (teenage night crews who know better than to attempt a station change, risking the damnation of static), and strippers like Bernice (lucky enough that her vehicle possessed a radio, even if FM was beyond its reach).
Like many obnoxious people who manage to get away with existing in the real world, Mike kept his career afloat on the disintegrating reputation of his predecessors. Mike’s father had co-founded the network that aired Mike’s talk show. Mike’s father William died long before Mike took the job in broadcasting. Neither could have suffered the humiliation of having to work with the other. In William’s eyes, Mike was an appalling failure at life, and in Mike’s eyes this had been William’s fault. However, network owner Joseph Hardy (no relation to the fictional teen detective), owed his penthouse apartment, beautiful wife, even more beautiful mistress, and dynamite social standing all to William, so when Mike came looking for a job Joseph gave it to him.
This story doesn’t begin with Bernice the stripper, who went by the name of Lola Sapphire on stage, it begins with Mike the talk show host, who went by the name of Mike while behind the mic. At present, all that need be said about Bernice is that she drove home six nights a week between the hours of 4:00 and 5:00 AM, which put her in Mike’s clutches on account of his program running from 1:00 to 6:00 AM. Bernice didn’t think of herself as being in his clutches. She enjoyed his program.

Occasionally Mike had guests on his talk show. Sometimes a palm reader or mistress of the tarot cards, he’d also managed to find specialists on the topics of UFOs and Big Foot from time to time. One night Mike hosted a guest who called herself Madame Collette. Her real name was Jones, Mike never managed to get her first name because she insisted he call her by her “professional name.” On the air, by way of an introduction, Mike promised his listeners “a real treat this evening as we’re being joined by Madame Collette – interpreter of the abnormal and guide to the supernatural in all of us.”
Madame Collette spoke in a quiet solemn little drone, lingering on words at random to give listeners the impression that she was weighing her verdicts with the utmost care. Mike privately held the opinion that Madame Collette Jones was as monumental a failure as he was, but he responded to her declarations with all the appropriate reactions.
Said Collette, “without a doubt you, Michael, were an entertainer not simply in your previous life, but in many of your previous lives.”
“You don’t say? Is this my natural calling, then?”
“It is, yes. To be sure it is. I feel,” here she paused, “I feel that in some of your previous lives you were a revolutionary. Tell me, do you have dreams or fears of being murdered?” She pounced on the last word with some glee.
“Well, yeah, but doesn’t everyone have nightmares?” He feigned ignorant curiosity. He had never dreamt of being killed.
“Hmmmm, yes, I thought as much. Not so many as you might think Michael,” she paused again and occasionally hummed meditatively, “I’m sensing that you were killed once for having spoken out against some authority.”
“I wasn’t Jesus, was I?” Mike erupted in bursts of laughter at what he considered a gem of broadcasting humor. Madame Collette, too, allowed herself a brief deep chuckle.


In her break room at the club Bernice laughed as well. She rarely understood these sorts of intellectual/religious quips, but she was fairly sure she was entitled to laugh this time. Later, when trying to recount the setup and punch line to a coworker she would scramble the retelling, effectively killing the joke. She was a dancer; communication skills weren’t a prerequisite.


Mike, ecstatic following his Jesus joke, informed Madame Collette, and his listeners, that after “a brief word from our sponsors” the lines would be open for callers with supernatural dilemmas. While commercials played over the air, Mike and Madame Collette sat uncomfortably in the studio. A cardboard box sat at Madame Collette’s feet. It was unmarked and she had not mentioned it since bringing it into the studio with her. Mike took a somewhat exaggerated glance at it, hoping that this would prompt the woman to tell him its contents. She remained silent, but met his eyes with a look of vacancy, as thought the idea of expecting information from her was utterly ridiculous. The lights on Mike’s telephone began lighting up, and the last commercial drew to a close.
“We’re going back on.” He told Madame Collette. She nodded. The introductory audio clip played, informing listeners that it was time for more “Supernatural Insomnia with Midnight Mike” and Mike launched into his rehearsed speech about callers being limited to one question and only using their first names. Four and a half hours to finishing time stretched ahead and Mike hated his life, his job and the blank secretive guest in his studio.


At 4:30 AM Bernice stooped down into her car (it barely ran), turned on her radio (it only picked up one station), and began the drive back to her apartment (shared with four other girls none of whom could consistently produce one fifth of the rent). Bernice didn’t hate her life, but she was dissatisfied, and was constantly promising herself she’d sort herself out sooner rather than later.
Midnight Mike was still broadcasting, and Bernice remembered that he’d brought on a guest that evening. Madame Collette was in full swing as Bernice pulled onto the freeway. Callers joined the program, telling their first name and asking Madame a question, and she was quick to tell them about their previous lives and what they could expect to find in their near futures. Her proclamations were greeted with murmurs of approval and occasionally shocked whimpers of “how did you know?” and “do you really think so?” Always Madame Collette insisted that she was absolutely confident. Mike interjected whenever there was a room for a noncommittal comment. Bernice followed an exit ramp down to a four way stop and decided she was going to get on the phone and find out what the future held for her.
Not having a cell phone, or a landline at her apartment, Bernice decided she would have to use a pay phone if a working one could be found. Scanning corner convenience stores and the patches of light beneath lampposts, Bernice continued home, listening to Madame Collette’s latest verdict.
“There is no doubt in my mind,” Collette divined over the frequency bands, “that you will find love within three months if you move out of your wife’s house before this coming Wednesday.” Bernice wondered if she would be given such drastic instructions.
“Oh!” Bernice yelped, sighting a dilapidated payphone protruding from the stucco wall of a Laundromat. With a sickening rattle of loose pieces, Bernice’s car climbed into the parking lot and halted straddling a faded yellow line. Without waiting to hear how the disgruntled husband received Madame Collette’s advice, Bernice shut off the car and hustled over to the payphone, dialing the number she had heard countless times.


Mike reminded himself that there was only one hour remaining until he could thank Madame Collette for her appearance and bid his listeners farewell until the following night. He looked at his computer screen, scanning the information that his screener had collected about the next caller.
“Lola, welcome to the show!” Bernice had used her stage name.
“Hi, hello. Is this Mike?” She was nervous and beginning to have second thoughts.
“This is the one and only Midnight Mike, what’s your supernatural dilemma?” Bernice was really regretting the call at that point; she didn’t even have a dilemma, just a question about life.
“I don’t think I have a dilemma, I just wondered if Madame Collette could tell me what to expect.”
Mike began to poke fun at Bernice, deciding that she would be a chance to coax a few laughs out of his audience before moving to the next real caller. “Expect people to screw you over at every turn, never fails. How’s that for an answer, Lola?”
“Oh,” Bernice could not decide if he was laughing with her or at her, “I thought Madame Collette was taking questions, isn’t she?”
“Lola… Lola, like the song.” Mike wasn’t going to give the girl a chance to ask specific questions. “You’re not a man are you?”
She laughed, embarrassed. “No, I’m a girl”
“A showgirl?” Mike started singing. “With yellow feathers in her hair and a dress cut down to there.” He was having a grand time, mostly because he’d kept Madame Collette from inserting herself into the conversation.
“I guess I’m sort of a showgirl.” Mike stopped singing.
“Some kind of actress? Hoping to get your break?” He loved eager young performers because he could assume they’d one day fail just as he had.
“No, I’m just a stripper, but I’m quitting soon I think. That’s why I’m calling really.” Mike had a mild twinge of panic, this was the part where Madame Collette overthrew him again and took back control of the program to deal with the caller. He cut Lola off before she could continue.
“Good for you sweetheart, you don’t need that job and the best of luck to you!”
He intended to hang up but before he could press the button, Lola said, “Oh.” And Madame Collette cut in, her voice monotonous but dominant.
“That would be most unwise.” Mike rolled his eyes, hating the old fraud for speaking up. Lola gasped quietly into the phone and begged for more details.
“How do you mean unwise? I hate the job, and isn’t sort of, you know, demeaning?” She half whispered the last word, not wanting everyone to know how much she hated herself for her career choice.
“My young child, you are loved in what you do. I sense that you have always been a comforter of people and a beautiful woman, in all your previous lives, but this has been the calling all along!” Mike hated the Jones woman as he stared at her. He was sure she never called younger women “my young child” in real life.
Bernice was surprised at this advice; she had assumed that forsaking the skin industry could only be viewed as admirable. “Don’t you think though that there’s a better way to comfort people? I mean, without taking my clothes off?”
“Dear, people are, at their basest, animals, and like all animals they need basics to survive. You don’t feed them food or water, but you are filling a need for them. Is that not love?” She paused here for emphasis. “And is love not the highest calling?”
Bernice was very confused now, she thought love was great, and loving other people was a good thing, but she wanted to hear Madame Collette tell her to leave the strip club and work in a soup kitchen or read to blind children or something. “I suppose I’ve never looked at it that way before.”
“We rarely do child, we rarely do.” Mike hated Madame Collette Jones or whatever the hell her name actually was and he wanted her out of his studio. He also hated Lola, but only because he felt sorry for her. He had been to strip clubs before and he’d never felt loved. Madame Collette continued her advising. “You are a brave girl, Lola, and I can see that you have been the comfort to many lonely souls. Hold on to your bravery.”
Mike expected Madame Collette to continue speaking. He felt as if the girl hadn’t been given any real advice to speak of. The old woman sat back in her chair and gazed at him serenely. He took it upon himself to bid the caller farewell.
“There you have it, Lola the showgirl, keep up the good work!”
Bernice said, “Thank you.” into the receiver, but the line was already disconnected. She was not thankful for the advice. When she entered her car again and turned on the radio, she heard the last advice from Midnight Mike once more, “…Lola the showgirl, keep up the good work!” Then it was on to the next caller. Bernice shut the radio off and drove to her apartment in silence. Her eyes burned, and she realized that she was at the bursting point of tears. She shook her head slowly and breathed heavily through her nose. The urge had passed by the time she arrived home. She could not sleep though, but lay awake on her mattress conflicted.


Midnight Mike was coming to the end of his program and he could not have been more impatient to be rid of Madame Collette. She was a fake and an incredibly boring one at that. He despised her slow speech and faux wisdom. Before she bid him farewell she had a gift for him.
“You may be wondering what is in this cardboard box, Michael.” Mike had been wondering, but didn’t want to give her the satisfaction, so instead he merely said,
“I can only imagine.”
“Imagine no longer!” With an unnecessary flourish she produced a brass birdcage from within the cardboard box. The cage was empty.
“Will you look at that,” exclaimed Mike falsely, “it’s certainly beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yes it is, but it’s practical too, you know, I suppose you must know that it isn’t as empty as it looks?”
“I had no idea. What exactly is inside?”
“Good fortune is inside, Michael. I’ve trapped it for you, and as long as you keep this locked up tight it will be yours!”
“I’m speechless.” He was speechless, from shock at the old woman’s stupidity, not from gratitude.
“Say nothing, except that you’ll keep it safe.” Even off the air Madame Collette appeared to buy into her own fraudulence, from what Michael saw, and he could not believe she was taking herself seriously.
“I’ll put it in my office at home, a prize possession.”
“And thank you so much for letting me be your guest.”
“Any time you want to return, just say the word!” Mike never wanted to lay eyes on the woman or her bullshit “gifts” again as long as he lived.


Mike sat in his car at the curb. 6:25 AM. He’d driven home. He had only to climb the stairs to his dumpy apartment and crawl into his bed to forget how much he hated his job and his life and all the people he’d ever wanted to be friends with. The old fraud’s birdcage sat in his passenger seat, mocking him with its worthlessness. Mimicking him with its worthlessness. He attacked it with a vengeance. He tore the small door off first, breaking the feeble lock, and then he tore the roof off and began tearing at the rods and wires that held the unimpressive cage together. He hated the woman so much, and he hated the birdcage even more. It didn’t take him long to dismantle it. Soon it was in pieces on his passenger seat. The sharp wires had etched slits in his hands and in a wild tearing motion he’d managed to put a gash in his already too-worn leather seat.
“Fuck!” He screamed as loud as he could. He held his hands in bloodied fists and beat the steering wheel repeatedly. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” His hands burned but he reveled like a twelve-year-old boy in the word he wished he could have shouted at the pathetic old fraud he’d been stuck with all night.
He gathered up the pieces of the shredded cage and dropped them in the curbside dumpster on his way into his apartment.


Bernice still couldn’t sleep. It was morning then, or anyway the sky was light outside. She snuck outside, careful not to wake her roommates. Not because she wanted them to get their sleep, but because if they woke up they would probably try to bum cigarettes off of her. She’d stolen a pack out of the owner’s office at work the night before, and she intended to enjoy each and every one exclusively.
There was no ashtray available, so she walked to the dumpster at the curb. The first cigarette was heaven in her mouth. It burned just a little, but that was alright. Like all first cigarettes it was gone too soon, so she lit a second. The second one she smoked slower. Bernice might have claimed it was the smoke that set her off, but it wasn’t. Sometime during the second cigarette the tears came and didn’t stop coming. They dripped down her cheeks and nose, clinging to her face and chin until they disappeared into her sweatshirt at her collarbone. She smoked a third cigarette and, as she had with the first two, threw the butt into the dumpster when the tobacco was exhausted. Worried that her spent cigarettes may have landed on newspaper and kindled a fire Bernice peeked into the dumpster before returning inside.
She forgot about the cigarette butts when she saw the curious mess of tangled wires and brass pieces. She thought that some of the metal looked like it was bloody. She didn’t know what possessed her to take it but she pulled from the mess two brass bars, the size of pencils and some loose wire.
Back in her room Bernice watched her roommates to make sure they were really asleep and without thinking much about what she was doing she bound the two brass pieces into a tee, winding the wire around the crossing bars. She shoved the creation under her pillow and crawled beneath her threadbare comforter again.


Bernice’s roommates never knew she was moving out until after she had done it. Somehow she’d managed to collect her possessions and vanish from the area during one of the rare times when all four girls were away from the apartment. They assumed she would be back. She never came back.
Her boss filled her late night shifts within a week. He didn’t care that she’d left without warning. She’d forgotten her last paycheck, and he strongly suspected her of stealing his cigarettes.
Bernice never heard Midnight Mike’s 1:00-6:00 AM broadcast again. Strippers and nuns keep overlapping hours, but there were only some strippers who listen to Midnight Mike, and there were no nuns.