In a dirty and run down part of town, down a barely-lit side street once named after a tree but now simply called Peelers Alley, is a flickering lamp high on a post that barely lights a dented, scratched door. Welcome to Jethro’s
Those of a philosophical or spiritual nature might find meaning in Jethro’s, in its poetically tragic nature. But Jethro’s is a simple place, and any insight into the nature of the universe here would be as meaningless as a Rock Hudson love scene.
Inside, the air is dank and close, a heady mix of cheap sex, cheap booze and expensive decay. A naked dancer lazily sways on stage set in the middle of the dark room. Close inspection would reveal her scars and tracks, would reveal the deep desperation and desolation inside her, but from a distance none of that is apparent.
Time stands still inside Jethro’s, an eternity passes as one woman on stage supplants another, as one song runs into another. Nothing changes, everything stays the same. This is the nature of Jethro’s. It has no meaning, it just is.
Everything stay’s the same, one empty girl after another up on stage for the entertainment of low men, until one girl, mid-way through a song and half dressed, suddenly heaves and coughs. With blood still running from her nose, she leaves the stage. Each platform stiletto step heard pulling away from the sticky floor beneath her, the sound of pieces being torn from the fabric of her soul.
Catcalls and jeers fill the smoky, fetid air The lights on stage dim, and the music fades. A pregnant, terrible silence grips the room, and time fails to move on as it always has at Jethro’s. It stands still. The air is heavy, as if the weight of world’s hangs in the balance. Nobody breaths, nothing moves.
Then the spell is broken. A voice comes over the sound system, announcing that Candy isn’t feeling well. More jeers, a beer bottle is hurled on stage and smashes against the black velvet backdrop behind. The universe spins on as it always has.
Two girls are rushed out on stage, unprepared, to placate the spectators. They writhe and grind against each other’s naked bodies. The cat calls subside.
From a distance, their scars and tracks, their desperation and their tears, are hidden. One low girl after another sells her soul to empty men, one song runs into another, and slowly, surely, Jethro’s settles down into its eternal rhythm.
In a dirty and run down part of town, down a barely-lit side street once named after a tree but now simply called Peelers Alley, is a flickering lamp high on a post that barely lights the crushed remains of hopes and dreams.
Welcome to Jethro’s