In order to understand this, you must first learn who Noah really is.
He fiddles nervously with the lit cigarette, knowing he had to take a puff of it soon for appearance’s sake. He tried to inhale as little of it as possible but he is still uncomfortable with all those carcinogens hanging out in his mouth. Noah was on the wrong side of fifty to be taking stupid risks, but cigarette breaks were the only excuse he could think of to escape the insanity inside the club for a few minutes. So he tried to breathe in as little smoke as possible while enjoying the peace and quiet of a dark alley smelling comfortingly of stale cabbage.
He runs his tongue against his back teeth, trying to drive away the memory of his fillings vibrating with the beat of the bass. It hung there in his mouth, a phantom itch that had quickly become part of the job. Two weeks now doing this and it hadn’t become any less ridiculous. But then the whole situation was ridiculous.
Not too long ago he was a husband, a father, a pillar of the community. Now he’s an emcee at a strip club in a no name town, shady enough to pay him in cash under the table, because credit cards are traceable and banks need real names. So he’s Noah now, because for all intents and purposes, his old life is under a few thousand feet of water. Unfortunately the god whose wrath had rained upon them was one that he’d personally pissed off.
He checks his watch then quickly puts out the cigarette before heading inside. Maybe I should invest in a pair of earplugs he muses as he’s hit with the noise of the club, so loud it’s an almost physical blow. He nods to some of the ‘talent’ waiting to go on as he makes his way to his booth, trying to keep it as professional as he can with so little clothing involved. He always thought that the whole stripper with daddy issues cliché was just that, a cliché. But he supposed clichés were there for a reason. So he kept it friendly but impersonal. Although playing it distant was probably not the best choice when it came to making some of these young women lose interest.
He makes it to the relative safety of his booth, nods a quick thanks to the waitress who serves him a fresh drink. Boozing at work took a little getting used to, although he supposes it’s expected of any grown man who’s effectively run away from home. He pulls the mic closer to introduce Cherrie Blossom to the stage, cringing at the racist undertones. As he observes Grace make her way to the stage, barely recognizable underneath the geisha inspired get up, he wonders if anyone cares that the scantily clad girl was actually Korean. He sighs to himself as he watches racist undertones quickly turn into overtones. I used to be an accountant he thinks to himself. At least I found a line of work less likely to damn my soul to hell.