Bargain Basement Debauchery

by Kevin Parkman

With the Greek system on its way out and alternative social options the words of the day, an expedition to the deepest, darkest heart of the Upper Valley’s social universe seemed in order. In the interests of journalism, it was determined that White River Junction’s watering hole and strip club, Cactus Jack’s, must be explored.

From the moment we entered the establishment it was clear we were in a different kind of place from the average Dartmouth venue. From the wagon wheel hanging from the ceiling to the obscure country music stars enshrined on every inch of wall, a different cultural mood was clearly evident. The blacked out windows suggested a debauchery that was surprisingly lacking. But the giant Molsen and Miller ice blocks suspended above the pool tables, along with the inevitable inflatable Budweiser can, reassured us that we were indeed in the right place.

Had we any doubts remaining, our fellow patrons would have settled them: Joe Cool Guy, in full guido effect, black leather jacket over black t-shirt, with gold cross prominently displayed below the full Travolta-style mane; the tag team of the skinhead and the guy in the black leather cowboy hat; groups of women in faded jeans and horizontal striped shirts.

We knew immediately this was a special kind of place. As one of my companions insightfully remarked, "This is the kind of place where they’ll just kick the crap out of you instead of calling the cops." Indeed, it did have a unique feel to it. Perhaps it was the bartender’s inability to distinguish between Jack Daniels and Captain Morgan’s Spiced Rum. Perhaps it was the manager who informed us before our first round of drinks was ready that if we wanted to see the "dancers" a cocktail waitress would have to bring our drinks in for us. But we knew this was a place more down-to-earth, more real, than any fraternity basement or Collis night club.

Reluctant to leap to conclusions, we continued to soak in the atmosphere. We were intrigued when a young woman in a black leather dress emerged from the back door. And then saddened as she went up to two new female arrivals and, greeting them, said, "Wow, everyone I know is here!" Judging from the 10 people in the room, she was not leading the kind of fulfilling life we might all wish for her. Our concern for the well-being of patrons was briefly set aside in the quest for more drinks, in which we had reached our first stumbling block. Having sent a member of our party from our table to retrieve another round we were surprised to see him return with only one beverage. He explained succinctly: "Speaking of stupid local laws, I can only carry them [the drinks] one at a time." Very disappointing.

Feeling a little cheated by these draconian regulations, we stopped after three more rounds and proceeded to take the manager’s advice and head, sans alcohol, to the "dancing room." To our surprise the back door to which we had been pointed entered into the adjacent bowling alley, billed out front as a "family entertainment center." Apparently it had been decid±ed that forcing joint bowling/strip club patrons to go through a bar to get from one to the other might offend their sensibilities. In any event, we were quickly admitted to Naughty N’ Nice Exotic Dancers at Cactus Jack’s. The need to shorten "and" remains a mystery.

The sight awaiting us put the bar area to shame. Economy perhaps best conveys the overall impression presented by the high school woodshop-esqe stage and the purple-bulbed electric chandelier. To our right was a long screen covered in airbrush attempts at woman’s faces. The rest of the walls were covered in wood paneling often found in a suburban rec room. To our left was a closed off bar. In front, the stage and the patrons, of varying levels of sketchiness. Some sat slack-jawed up against the stage; others maintained a somewhat more reserved demeanor. One sat smoking, content in his imitation Dale Earnhardt Jr. pit hat, while several of his friends congregated over their beers in plaid hunting shirts, listening to the announcer attempt to lower his voice, with marginal success, to Barry White levels. We crossed quickly to the deserted far side of the bar, sat at a table away from the stage, and ordered a round of drinks.

The show was a farce. The first stripper’s name: Wednesday, who turned out to be the girl we had seen earlier rejoicing in the presence of all her friends. The musical accompaniment: Nirvana, Smells Like Teen Spirit. One gentleman sang every lyric to her at high volume. Another gave her a vigorous handshake before stuffing a dollar in her bra. Things only became more absurd. As Jewel replaced Wednesday, we noticed Johnny Strip Club take his seat across the way—not a day short of fifty, in a black and white plaid jacket, tipping big. Or big for Cactus Jacks where $10 total a dance seems to be an exceptional take for the stripper. This tipping level certainly made us wonder whether the exotic dancing business was as profitable as one might imagine.

Another stripper, one we hadn’t seen dance, strolled over to us at that point, to query us on our transparent attempt to separate ourselves from the rest of the crowd. On being assured that we were just fine, she made clear that she "just wanted to make sure they hadn’t scared us off." If you only you knew, my dear, if only you knew.

We noticed the announcer/DJ behind a small window in the wall by the stage. It would be an understatement to say that we were surprised by his appearance. By his looks about 60, mostly bald but with long greasy gray locks hanging from the sides of his head down to his chest, where they met a similarly constructed beard; he looked like he would be more at home following the Grateful Dead than introducing Sugar, Legend, or Indigo. If nothing else came from our trip, we had at least learned where one Deadhead went after Jerry died.

The finale would be the high point, however. Lena took the stage, the last act of the night at midnight. Yes, even the strip clubs close at 12:30 in the Upper Valley. Last call was announced, for more than alcohol as it turned out. This was, it seems, the last opportunity to book a private dance with one of the ladies. Seeking to subtly entice, us the announcer said firmly, "Speak now or forever hold your dick." Inspiring words.

However, it was decided that any investigative report that didn’t include a private dance would be shabbily incomplete. Moreover, we were intrigued to know what it was that compelled our neighbor Johnny Strip Club to vanish four times in forty-five minutes. Taking one for the team, I approached the manager and requested a private dance. After relieving me of $20, he handed me a laminated card reading Cactus Jack’s 4-8, and informed me that Jewel would retrieve me from my table at the start of the next dance. I was afraid to ask what the 4-8 stood for, just hoping it wasn’t some kind of inside strip club joke about my physical dimensions.

As promised, at the start of "Come Down" by Bush, Jewel came for me, leading me back into the private room, that room turning out to be behind the screens we had noticed earlier. Suddenly the single red floodlight shining there made sense. Quickly removing her clothes amidst a bit of get-to-know you chit- chat, Jewel began her lap dance. We quickly proceeded from names and places of residence to more serious matters:

"What are you wearing? You smell nice," she asked.

"Tiffany for Men."

"Oh, that’s different."

"Well, I try to be different," I said suavely.

A short pause followed, after which she remarked with a smile, "Yeah, me too." Indeed.

An entertaining four minutes followed, my time with the soft-spoken young woman extended by the unfortunate fact that the CD experienced two prolonged periods of skipping. At the end of the song, she ushered me out, accepted my thanks graciously, and went to retrieve her clothes.

My comrades had had an entertaining time themselves. Lena had an impressive body, despite having a solid four decades of life behind her, and watching that body attempt to be sinuous as "Come Down" started to skip was most impressive. We left as they closed down, being sure to grab a card (hot pink) on the way out. Apparently they do private parties AND bachelor parties, which I assume aren’t usually private, at least among your average Cactus Jack’s patrons.

Is this a legitimate alternative social option, at least for the 21 and over crowd (sorry kids, they card)? On the plus side, the drinks were cheap as hell, and the weekend country and western karaoke promises to be good for a laugh. On the other hand, the atmosphere makes frats look good, and the place is as tame as any strip club/bar is likely to get. In fact, it’s almost sad to think that this is the best the Upper Valley can do for debauchery. Overall, we rate it one star out of five for a long-term social alternative. However, everyone should go at least once. Much like having sex in the stacks, no Dartmouth career is complete without a trip to Cactus Jack’s.