Decò, ep. 7–Chichi’s Disgustingly Tragic Story

Chichi Disgustingly Tragic Story Jitney Books
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Decò sat in the chair and watched as Chichi [shee-shee] strut the catwalk. Her hips swayed to base-heavy dubstep. Decò’s grilled-out jaw totally dropped for she looked every bit as beautiful as the last time he’d seen her. He also felt utter shock to see Chichi dancing the lunch shift at a strip club. How on a green earth could this have happened?
Lazaro, in the meantime, also felt aroused with the exotic dancer. He stepped up to the stage and made it rain—no, pour—on the stripper, flicking dollar bills fast and precise like a Blackjack dealer at the Hard Rock. Chichi [shee-shee] left the money on the floor, too proud to pick it up. She had someone do those remedial tasks, usually the deejay.

Lazaro walked back to his partner.

“Bro, who wants a lap dance bro.”

“That’s my ex-girlfriend.”

“B-r-o-o-o-o-o-o-o—”

***

    Chichi [shee-shee] walked over and began a seductive Salome-esque performance for the two hard working gentlemen in for lunch. Naked down to her sling back Dino stilettos, she gyrated, nonchalantly, slowly titillating her perky titillating devices. Lazaro looked long and hard at Decò, who wondered if she truly did not recognize him. Decò said nothing and watched her dance over a dubstep mix by Drake. Chichi [shee-shee] walked to Lazaro, who gave her a hundred dollars to dance with his friend, and then he immediately walked off to the bar. Chichi [shee-shee] then turned towards Decò and began to get closer, straddling one of her long buttery legs around his thighs. There was a dull, dark, hollow emptiness in her eyes that he did not recognize.
“What? You don’t know me now?”

After a long gaze, her listless eyes slowly came to life.

“Woof,” she said.

“Chichi—it’s me, Decò,” he said. “Anybody home?”

“Decò? Oh my gawd. I did not recognize you.”

“I am the same.”

“Ugh—you look like a thug.”

“And you are a stripper.”

“What is it that you do now?”

“I am still working hard. I distribute Coke. It is very lucrative.”

“Have you even thought of your Chichi?”

“I have thought of you plenty, my darling. I lost your number. Besides, you tore my heart in two when you left me so abruptly. I was forced to move off the beach to a distant and strange land where I’ve been very busy learning the art of schmoozing and also how to grow a proper moustache. I’ve also been extremely hectic in the accumulation of many ideas into which I will write countless novels and screenplays. I’d be doing such actions right now if not for a bizarre accident on a bicycle, which lead me to my current job with my bro Lazaro who has been a very good bro and mentor. Although I am very much still in love with you my Chichi, I am also currently with Lazaro’s cousin, who is also with my child. Life has become a little complicated, I am afraid.”

“Ugh–life is so-o-o-o complicated, Decò.”

“Please, I must know why you are a stripper?”

“Fine. Chichi will speak. The story is an unjust tale. It began on my twenty-second birthday when the agency Wilhelmina rather abruptly terminated my modeling contract. Ugh-h—there existed a clause, in the fine print, immediately calling for the dismissal of a model the second they were no longer twenty-one. Without suitable representation, Chichi immediately lost all of the oversea runway gigs, commercial and film work, plus all of the corporate print work. The invitations to the hottest affairs stopped and I was left to scrounge for work wherever.

I modeled at pop-up fashion shows in the most suspect of beach neighborhoods, Decò—like above 71st street—ugh-h—and at independent salons owned by fierce feminists with wild and loose fitting clothes; I modeled lingerie at Irish bars and even sold cigarettes at clubs where we were once waited on hand over foot; g-r-r-r-r—Chichi also posed for cheap ads running in alternative newspapers and even partook in photo shoots for aspiring photographers who were merely looking to build up their portfolio. They could not even afford to pay, but only in trade, specifically the pharmaceuticals Xanax and Kolonopin, to which I now absolutely need to deal with this newfound and heinous anxiety.

Of course Chichi could no longer hit the shops she loved so much; in fact, I have been forced to shop, ugh-h, at outlet malls and department stores like Ross and Marshalls, and dare it bare repeating, a thrift shop or two. I briefly thought about getting an education, going to college, perhaps learning a trade like Nursing or even becoming a teacher, but without the type of money to attend a decent school like the University of Miami, what was the point. The only option was to enroll at Miami-Dade College and the mere thought of that sent me to apply at this club. Chichi had no intention of accepting the position, but the final straw occurred when it was no longer affordable to shop at Whole Foods. Grocery shopping became a nightmare. Ugh, I was forced to patronize Publix, Decò. Ugh. So now, with the help of Xanax, and the countless cocktails people buy me, I can perform this extremely hard work, believe me. And you only know half the story. I will reveal the exact details of what Chichi does in those back rooms; in those secret back rooms they call the Champagne.”

Read Chichi’s Other Episodes:

J.J. Colagrande

J.J. Colagrande has written about Miami culture for fifteen years, first with The Miami Herald, then Miami New Times and Huffington Post. He is the author of Reduce Heat Continue to Boil and Deco 2.0.