Jiggles. The word conjures up thoughts of better times and places, where you can smell the dew of a soft spring morning, and feel the rising sun gently kiss your cheek. The proprietor of Jiggles, then, a nightclub located in Hawthorne, NJ, settled on a most accurate and fitting name for his up and coming high end establishment.
You might have heard the stories… Infinite champagne flowing freely from the bosom of a beautiful woman. Bejeweled goblets filled repeatedly to the brim with rare and prized ales. A throne of marble and gold, fit for a king, available to each and every customer. Myself and several associates decided to save our doubloons for a fortnight so we can take a trip into this den of glee and have a taste of the good life, even if only for a fleeting moment.
The outer facade of Jiggles is quaint and humble. It sits nestled between several family homes, telling of it’s inviting nature. Several feet from it’s entrance, a simple, lonesome sign sits perched atop a flagpole. It’s muted red letters arranged at a downward angle from corner to corner spelling out its namesake. A beacon in the dark for weary travelers. As you travel through the entranceway, a sickly sweet combination of cheap perfume and despair wafts into your nostrils as a snake slithers into a burrow to its awaiting prey. This, we thought, could not be the stuff of legends that we were led to believe. However, we kept up hope. A drifter may have recently taken his last breath in this very archway, corrupting the awesome beauty that awaited us.

In the antechamber, we began to hear, nay feel, the presence of thunderous music. A steady, pounding drumbeat as if the gods themselves had descended into this domain to reward their faithful worshippers. Crossing the antechamber into the main hall, purple light and fog envelops you. All of your senses are rendered withered and weak as your body attempts to recover from the shock. As our eyes adjusted to the fog and blinding lights, we were able to make out a long bar, stretching from the front of the hall to the rear. Behind it a stage, where scantily clad women puttered about, seemingly making no effort to arouse or pleasure their aging clientele. We must have entered the wrong establishment, we thought, but we persevered, and seated ourselves along the far end of the bar.
Directly to our front was the stage. Several women in various stages of age and disrepair acknowledged our presence. The first, appearing to be in her late 20s, uttered a phrase in a distant, unintelligible language, and made a motion with her right hand as if she was repeatedly sheathing a blade. We dismissed her as a fool.
A thick, heavy set women of darker skin approached behind me and caught me by surprise, reaching at my shoulders as if she was to attempt strangulation. I showed her a look of vague disapproval and she surrendered, continuing on her way with heavy, labored steps. The barkeep asked our orders and we responded in kind.
“Only the best ale of the house for us tonight! This eve we are royalty!”
He disappeared and returned with our bottles. They were warm to the touch and carried a film of some sort, which felt sticky on our fingers. If this was the best ale of the house, we had almost definitely made a mistake. What past failures could have brought us to such a house of ill repute? With our bland, warm drinks, we continued to try and make the best of things.

The next woman who approached can not be adequately described in words. Her face heavy with age or mistreatment. Her cheeks folded down over themselves as if attempting to retreat the cold dead eyes that resided above them. A shiny, leathery forehead draped with thin, almost translucent hair. Her body was frail and thin. I believe her bones to be made of some kind of condensed powder, rather than the strong, dense material of other men and women. She looked deep into my eyes, then into those of my long time friend seated next to me and said, in a high, thin, heavily accented voice, “Him, you, me. Same time. Let’s go.”
We looked at each other and laughed briefly, until we realized she was as serious as a monk in a monastery. We politely declined, not wanting to disrupt the flow of business, but the hag remained. She conversed with us about our lives, our wants and desires. We placated her, but I feel as if she knew we were being less than honest. She continued trying to convince us to purchase her sexual services, several times using the quote, “no one wants to live forever.” I feel as if she was trying to convey to us that she had a terminal illness, that could be passed by the sort of activity she wanted us to engage in her with. This terrified us to no end.
A woman who appeared to be ‘dancing’, of a sort, on the stage behind the ghoul, had noticed our attitude of smug bemusement. She berated us in her native tongue, as we tried to defend our behavior. I offered her a monetary gratuity, which she quickly accepted and apologized for her outburst. It seems we were now in her good graces. I excused myself to use the rest room, along the way glancing behind a torn curtain hanging in the hall. What I saw there would be imprinted in my memory forever. A single seat of soiled cloth and rusted steel, placed upon ground that seemed to be covered in tar. Was this the regal throne of lore? I began to feel sick, and rushed to the restroom. To begin with, there was no door. No barrier between human excrement and the outside world. This contributed to the menagerie of odors already present in the main hall. The toilet was dirty, as if previously covered with stickers, yet I knew that was not the truth. It too, was in the open, in full view of all spectators in the main area. The sink was in similar disarray, and the establishment provided no soap whatsoever. Vile and repugnant.
As I rejoined my party, they began to bid farewell to the ladies of the night that had come to take a liking to us. I believe this to be because we were younger and better groomed than the other customers sitting at the long bar, despite that we were more reluctant to share our wealth with them. As three of us left, I remained. Petrified by the medusa like stare of the old hag, which had now settled directly in front of me, attempting to convince me to stay. I refused yet again, and apologized profusely, hoping I would be able to escape. Alas, my efforts were futile. Her distorted, carved face approached mine slowly and menacingly. I braced myself as best I could and closed my mouth with the most force I have ever mustered in that part of my body. She made contact. She was trying to kiss me. With my lips tightly persed, I began to pull away, but she remained connected as if by a strong substance. Finally she pulled away and asked me what was wrong. I had no words for the atrocity that I just experienced, but she looked at me longingly. As if by a miracle of god, my companion returned to the main hall and whisked me away to safety. For this I shall forever be in his debt.

Outside, my cohorts beat me and shoved me into the fallen snow, for they believe this night to be a betrayal.
Jiggles, as it appears, is not the utopia we were once led to believe it was. It is where dreams go to die. I will be returning again shortly.