It Happened To Me: Thanks To My ADHD, The Best Money I Ever Made Was At A Strip Club

Plus: Get Paid (A Little Less But Still Money!) To Share Your Story Here Too!

Hello readers and writers!

My top editor at xoJane, the lovely and funny and formidable (and kooky too - my highest compliment) Emily McCombs tells me I used to say, “Everyone has at least one good It Happened To Me story in them.” I do not remember saying it, but I figure it must have been every time we were scrambling to find another It Happened To Me to publish - so I would be going around the office harassing everyone by saying, “You can write an It Happened To Me. Your sister could write a really good It Happened To Me. And I would love (and I actually would) an It Happened To Me from the perspective of your dog.”

Now with AJPT, I am publishing IHTM stories much more frequently than the original monthly print schedule at Sassy and Jane magazines allowed (actually not monthly, but 10 times a year – I am sure we print editors were never fooling any of you with those “special” summer and winter “double issues,” right? It's called: June, July, January and February are slower months for advertising, so let’s combine those issues into June/July and January/February to cover those periods and save money on printing. And maybe use a little bit of that money saved for a splashy cover sticker hyping the extra special issue, just to double down.)

So along with running this new IHTM from Jackie today, I'm going to say the same thing to you that apparently I've been saying for years, which is that everyone has a good It Happened To Me in them. And in addition to the whopping $50 fee you get when we publish yours, there is huge potential for catharsis or revenge or menacing or pride or celebration or whatever you are looking to get out of the exercise. So send yours to me any time (jane@anotherjaneprattthing.com). I would love to see your story and I know all the rest of the readers here would too.

Two more related things: 1) I respond so fast when you send me something at that email, it will make your head spin. Try it, really. Even just to say hi. And 2) A little trade secret I have learned is that simply putting those four words "It Happened To Me” before the title increases the open rate on your stories substantially in almost all cases. So let's do it with yours if you like!

I love you! Happy Monday!

-Jane

Me at the 1720 club on my last day, up in the third floor dressing room.

By Jackie Dawes

The best money I’ve ever made didn’t come from jobs related to my college degrees. It wasn’t from my early days of waiting tables at Houston’s, managing the day spa at Roxanne’s, or even my epic gig at WHFS radio, (though the side hustle selling HFStival tickets was lucrative.)

Nothing compares to the money I made when I worked for six months at the 1720 Club, in Washington D.C.

The 1720 Club was an establishment of ill repute, just a few blocks from our nation’s capital.

I was shocked when my friend, Phoebe, suggested I go to work there.

“What are you talking about? I can’t work there!”

“It’s fine; it’s not bad at all. No one’s going to mess with you because I’ll be there,” she assured me.

“I have a college degree, damn it.”

“And your college job has made you broke, dumb ass. You can’t even afford to move.”

“I took Women’s Studies courses; I am a champion of women! As a feminist, I can not work there.”

“Seriously, shut up.” Phoebe insisted. “I already told them. Just be there at 10:00 AM on Monday. If you want to make the money to move to CA, then you need to do this.”

The building was dingy and ordinary from the outside. It had a grayish-beige row-house-like structure, but was an isolated stand-alone building with three floors and no windows.

At 10:00 AM, the inside just looked like a normal sports club. The pine-oak bar was the length of the first floor, crunched in by too many tables with beer and liquor signs yet to be illuminated. The smell of Pine-Sol, leftover from the early morning cleaning crew, filled the room.

Except for the small stage placed at the front of each floor, you would not have guessed it to be such a place.

Phoebe took me upstairs to the dressing room, which was not unlike the dressing room at my high school auditorium, showed me around, and introduced me to the other girls.

It was surprisingly pleasant, just like we were all getting ready to put on a show.

“Oh my god. What are you wearing?” Phoebe was not pleased when I took off my jacket.

“You said to wear my shortest skirt. This is my shortest.”

“OK, Mary Poppins. I didn’t say wear a plaid jumper and a turtleneck!”

Me in my turtle neck at my previous job working at HFS 99.1.

“Well, this is my shortest skirt and the shirt goes with the outfit.”

“Good God!” She turned around to fix her face in the mirror, but I could feel her eyes rolling.

“Ok, you are not making me feel inspired,” I said as I stored my backpack and changed my shoes.

“Ugh, never mind Jerky. Look, you already know how to wait tables, just follow everyone else and try to blend in. You’ll be fine. If I think you should stay away from someone, I’ll give you a signal.”

“Wait, what?”

Phoebe took off in a flash. She’s far superior at multitasking and making friends, so this was nothing to her. She could’ve had the Pope himself seated, fixed with a drink, laughing out loud and handing out dollar bills if she’d wanted. She just has it like that.

At the end of my first day, I thought I had done pretty well. There was one odd man that made me a little nervous when he asked me to sit with him, and another that clearly needed to be cut off, but other than that, it felt like any other waitressing job — well, except for the stages.

No one leaves at the end of the day shift until all is reconciled, registers are counted, and busboys are tipped out.

Skip, the manager/bouncer called me into the office.

“You are not going to make it as a waitress,” he said with deadpan delivery, not looking up from his count.

His flat tone went well with his intimidating presence. He stood six foot six and was all muscle, like a brick wall. Even seated, counting out the money, he towered over me.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought I did OK.”

Ben, the owner, who also owned the sister club to 1720, and the used car lot down the street, was standing nearby and decided to chime in.

“Let me explain it this way. How much money did you make today, honey?”

“After tip out, about $150,” I said wondering if that was good enough.

“Ok, Kiki come here, how much did you make today?” He was way less forbidding, but people jumped when he spoke.

“$450,” Kiki reported dutifully as she finished counting it out.

“You see, you aren’t going to make any money. You’re too nervous,” Ben explained.

I was too embarrassed to mention that $150 take-home a day was actually more than I was bringing home at my job at the radio station, and I had my own office there. So instead, I just conceded…

“Ok, well thank you for letting me try.”

“No, no, honey. Skip and Phoebe have an idea for you, and I think it will work,” Ben motioned me to look out onto the main floor.