by Forish, E.
“No,” I say without falter, staring directly back into her own eyes.
“Your eyes look glassy.”
“Whatever.”
“A mother can always tell —”
“And you wonder why I never come home.” I brush past her and climb the stairs to the space that had once been my bedroom and consider my true intentions for the evening. One last night on the town with my kindred spirit, and then I’m done with New England forever. In the morning Blake’ll drive me to Bradley, maybe even as far as JFK, and then I’ll catch a flight to L.A., maybe Oakland. Anywhere but here. I just need to start over and try again.
I open the closet, pull out a suitcase, and throw a week’s worth of clothing inside.
My mother follows me upstairs. “Where are you going?”
“New York,” I say curtly.
“What’s in New York?”
I turn to face her before I reply. “I don’t need to be fuckin’ interrogated by you every time I come here, ya know.” She opens her mouth to speak, but I continue. “Listen. I came here to say goodbye and let you know what’s going on, and you immediately begin with the accusatory bullshit. I’m fuckin’ tired of it.”
I zip up my suitcase and hurry back downstairs. Without pause I walk towards the front door and, reaching for the knob, call over my shoulder, “If you must know, Blake hooked me up with a writing job. I’ll be back on Monday.”
“A writing job? That’s great.” Her tone changes completely as she tries to prevent me from walking out the door. “Why don’t you tell me more about it?”
“Blake’s waiting for me. I gotta go,” I say as I cross the threshold.
“Alice?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
I sighed. “I love you, too, Mom. I’ll call you on Monday.”
Blake’s voice pulls me back from my thoughts. “Over there,” he says, pointing to a vacant parking space.
“I can’t parallel park.”
“You’re fuckin’ kidding me, right?”
“Nope.”
“Then how the hell’d you get your license?” he queries.
“It wasn’t a requirement on the Massachusetts driving test.”
“Another clever move by the state government.”
“Commonwealth, actually,” I respond with just as much nonchalance. Blake ignores my comment, so I just continue to drive slowly down one-way roads in search of an empty parking space.
“There’s one. And there’s no car in front of it. You can just back right in,” Blake says.
“Don’tcha think the reason that no one’s parked there yet is ‘cause it’s dangerously close to a fire hydrant?”
“You’ll be fine.”
“I’ll get towed.”
“No, you won’t.”
“And if I do?”
“You won’t,” he reassured me.
“All right.” I attempt to get my Camry as close to the curb and as far from the hydrant as possible. “Good enough?” I ask.
“Works for me.”
I put the car in park, and we step into the brisk night air. I spin around in a slow circle to orientate myself with my surroundings. 300º into the turn, my eyes spot the familiar neon sign.
“C’mon. Let’s go,” I say, lighting up a cigarette. We cross the street and walk two blocks before reaching our destination. I flick my cigarette onto the pavement and dig for my I.D. as we step through the doorway and into Mardi Gras.
“You didn’t tell me it was a strip club,” Blake says, reaching for his wallet.
“Ya’know ya’love it.”
“You into pussy now or something?”
Although completely capable of opinionated and malicious annotations regarding the given social context, Blake delivers his observations with such blank expressions and solemn tones that, at times, even the greatest amount of sarcasm seems undetectable, as though one can never be certain if he’s telling the truth or otherwise.
“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” He gives me a wink. I roll my eyes. “There’s no better place to pick up guys than in a strip club,” I continue, explaining my logic. “Think about it. There’s more guys in here than in all the other downtown bars combined.”
He shakes his head. “Thanks for clarifying.”
We stroll into the heart of the club, and I scan the poles and tabletops for my associate
[lxxiv] , but all the strippers look the same — huge sets of silicon tits complemented by bleached-blond hairstyles and an abundance of body glitter.
“Hey, Victoria! Over here!”
“Victoria?” Blake questions.
“She gets a stage name. Why can’t I?”
“‘Cause you’re not a stripper.” He pauses. “At least, not publicly.”
Rather than shoot him my typical glare, I allow his cutting remark to slide off my back like beads of water over wax as we weave through the crowd of bachelors and businessmen, engaged twenty-something-year-olds and under aged drinkers, claiming two vacant barstools near my associate.
As I shuffle through my belongings and situate myself upon the stool, my winter scarf slithers down from its perch around my neck and falls to the floor. As I reach down to retrieve it, Blake comments, “Nah, leave it there. You’ll feel more comfortable in here with less clothes on.”
Once again, I resist the instinct to reprimand his snide statement with a glowering expression and instead choose to ignore his voice and his words and his suppressed animosity towards being stuck in this situation, stuck in this situation with this crazy girl who takes too many drugs and tells too many lies and dreams too many impossibilities; stuck with this crazy girl who is fundamentally doomed for disappointment and disaster and distress; stuck with this crazy girl who causes his emotions to become ensnared in opposition because by tomorrow this crazy girl will leave his life, possibly forever, and although he never once loved this crazy girl, he can’t help but wonder what’ll happen to her out there; he can’t help but wonder if she’ll be okay without someone there to guide her emotions and hide her insanity.
But he also can’t afford to wonder for too long, for he simply does not care to imagine the answers. Her situation seems bleak before his crystallized eyes, and he deserves better than this. He deserves some semblance of normalcy in his daily existence, and, with her gone, perhaps that shall return.
Blake shakes his head and accepts that I must not have heard him this time. He turns towards the bartender and orders two Bud Lights
[lxxv] as my associate dances her way towards us, shaking her tits and ass purely for Blake’s enjoyment. He doesn’t seem to notice her moves as he shells out $14.00 for the two beers.
Blake sips from his bottle quietly, while my associate and I chat about money, stripping, and the L.A. bar scene.
“Oh my god, you’re gonna love it out there. I can’t wait to see you again!” she squeals.
“So, why the hell do you come back here to work on weekends anyway? Wouldn’t you make more money out there?”
“Well, yeah, but I can’t get the weekend shifts out there. They say that I’m not experienced enough.”
“She looks pretty experienced to me,” Blake critiques under his breath.
I swivel in the barstool to face him. “What the fuck’s with you tonight, man?” I ask.
He shrugs his shoulders in response.
I change the subject.
“Hey, where are those chicks that carry around those test tube shots?” I wonder aloud. “Ya know, the one’s that taste like cinnamon apple or strawberry cheesecake and shit like that?”
“Over there.” My associate points across the room.
“Well, why the fuck aren’t they over here?” I kill my bottle of beer. “Hey, Blake, hook me up.”
He looks up from the bottle and his eyes scream irritability. “What’d’ya want now?”
Blake usually knows to treat my psyche with the fragility required to maintain its equilibrium, for even the sli
ghtest hint of frustration in his voice can project my mind into a fit of manic hysteria, but tonight I do not interpret his tone as spiteful or irate. Tonight I accept his attitude as lighthearted and mischievous, for a fire sparks deeply behind his crisp, blue eyes, and it illuminates within me the same acceptance towards him that he grants unto me, thereby igniting the prosperity for pure, unbridled chaos to ensue between us.
“Spot me a ten,” I command.
He sighs before handing me a twenty-dollar bill, and I vanish, on the prowl for the test tube hussy. My associate follows closely behind.
“Here, lemme buy you one,” she comments as I order a fruity shot.
“Really? You’ll pay?”
“Oh, yeah, totally.” She reaches into her thong and pulls out a wad of singles.
“Wait. You don’t get drinks for free in here?” I question.
“Oh, god, no. But I need to be trashed before I go up on stage anyway.”
My eyes glimmer with despondency before raising my shot and toasting, “To a better future.”
“We may need more shots in order for that dream to be fulfilled,” she remarks.
“Couldn’t hurt,” I say before pouring the sweet elixir down my throat. “But let’s smoke a cigarette first.”
“Good idea.” I follow my associate through the crowd of male patrons and into the ladies’ room. More strippers congregate in the bathroom, smoking cigarettes, than assemble out on the floor, dancing for the depraved enjoyment of horny onlookers.
“So, are you fuckin’ him?” my associate inquires as she lights a Marlboro.
“Who? Blake?” I take a drag off my Camel. “Yeah. I mean, sometimes.” I exhale. “It depends who else’s around.”
“Not that good, huh?”
“Nah, it’s just not like that between us.”
My associate turns away from me and starts talking to her coworkers. I remain silent, soaking in pieces of the conversation around me until one stripper with long, dark locks turns to me and asks, “So, why aren’tcha workin’ here?”
“Me? Oh, I don’t have the body for it,” I reply.
“What you talkin’ about?” she says with a thick Puerto Rican accent. “Your tits are amazing. That’s all that counts.”
“No, thanks,” I comment.
“What? You think you’re better than us or somethin’?” she says.
“Starla, back off!” my associate orders.
I flick my still-burning cigarette butt at Starla’s clear, 3” spiked heels. She leaps towards me, eyes blazing with the intent to vehemently attack, but another stripper pulls her back and says, “Starla, it isn’t worth it. She’s not one us, remember? She’s a customer. You’ll get your ass fired.”
“And you’ll get the shit kicked outta you, too,” I add. “You don’t wanna lose your job and the fight, do you?”
My associate intercedes. “Victoria, you need to fuckin’ stop.”
“Nah, fuck that. I don’t even need to start,” and I stride out of the bathroom with an air of confidence that screams, “Yeah, Starla, I am better than you,” and even though I do not believe such sentiments, I fake it well.
As I exit the bathroom, I hear my associate’s voice above all the others. “Don’t worry, Starla. Just write her off like you do all the other drunks.”
* * *
I return to the spot where Blake and I had been seated only to find two empty barstools.
He’s probably just busy with a stripper or something, I think. As I wait for Blake to reappear from the shadows, I order two shots of Belvedere and kill them within the course of five minutes. With the twenty gone, I begin to scheme on how to afford my next drink, when to my surprise I notice my associate dancing her way across the bar and towards my seat.
“You need to watch yourself,” she says.
“Why’s that?”
“Don’t give me that shit, Vicki. What you did in there was not okay, and you know it.”
“What did I do? Piss off a stripper? Just like all the other drunks do?”
My associate’s face flushes as she quickly changes the subject.
“Whatcha drinking?” she queries.
“Belvedere.” A moment of silent tension passes between us before I sigh and continue. “Well, I was. My cash flow has vanished along with Blake.”
“Your buddy?”
“Yeah, I dunno what happened to him.”
“Well, if you’re doing shots of Belvedere, count me in. I gotcha back. We can kill time together until he shows back up.”
Although I know she has no one’s back other than her own, I accept her offer, for in the context of a strip club, it seems only appropriate to fall victim to hedonistic desires such as total intoxication. As my associate and I pound shot after shot of vodka, I soon forget about the whereabouts of Blake, losing myself in a state of alcohol-induced self-gratification.
“I think it’s time to switch it up,” I state.
My associate eagerly awaits to hear my latest suggestion.
I utter a single word. “Patron.”
“See, Vicki? Now that’s why I love you.”
She beckons the bartender over with her index finger and leans forward to whisper our order into his ear, her nipples brushing against his right cheek. He turns to face the bottles of liquor before selecting Patron Silver from the shelf and pouring it into two shot glasses. He places two slices of lime on a cocktail napkin and the double shots between us.
“Enjoy.”
“Will do,” I reply.
We raise our glasses towards the ceiling.
“To our future?” I suggest.
“As always.”
Clink.
Within seconds I place my empty shot glass next to the untouched slices of lime.
“Another round?” my associate asks.
“But of course.”
We take a few more shots of tequila, and as the liquor exacerbates the mania of my emotions, I am suddenly reminded of the fact that I lost Blake nearly an hour ago, but the alcohol causes my concern for his whereabouts to turn into pure resentment.
“Fuck him, man,” I say. “He wants a stripper, then he can fuckin’ have one.”
“Who? Your friend?”
“Yeah, man.”
“What the fuck’s his problem anyway?”
“I dunno, but I’m about to find out. Excuse me.”
“No prob. I should probably be working anyways.”
“Wait, can you spot me some cash?”
She hesitates before handing me a ten-dollar bill and then dances her way across the bar, vanishing from my line of vision behind the ogling eyes of her customers. With the absence of her company, I am free to wander the club in search of Blake, but instead I opt to roam outside into the brisk night air and smoke another cigarette. As I stagger down Taylor Street, I soon find myself inside another bar under the pretense that maybe Blake relocated in search of a more mellow atmosphere.
I approach the bartender and order a shot of Belvedere. Before he even has the chance to set it down, I snatch it from his hand. Two seconds later, the glass is empty.
“More please.”
He stares in awe. “I don’t think so.”
“You’re refusing to serve me?”
“I have the right.”
“I’m not gonna be driving or anything. I gotta chauffeur.”
“Yeah, right,” he said condescendingly.
“Do you know who I am?”
A handsome man in his early 30s intervenes. “C’mon. You don’t need to take this shit,” he says in a genuine British accent. “We’ll take our business elsewhere.” He places his hand on the small of my back and gently guides me outside.
He lights a cigarette before he speaks.
“Who are you?”
“Alice.”
“From around here?”
“Originally.”
“Where are you now?”
“Cali.”
“L.A.?”
“B
ay Area,” I respond.
“What brought you there?”
“A dream.”
“Literal or figurative?”
I pause. “Both.”
“Not much of a talker, huh?”
“I write.”
“About what?”
“Life.”
A moment of silence passes between us.
“How long you here for?” he asks.
“I fly out in the morning.”
“A shame. You seem like the most interesting person I’ve met this entire trip.”
“You can’t expect much. You’re in Springfield.”
“So are you.” He flashes me a seductive smile. I counter with a knowing wink. He takes the final drag from his cigarette and tosses the filter to the ground. He opens his mouth to speak, but then his cell phone rings.
“Excuse me,” he says.
With his attention no longer focused on me, I lose interest, and my thoughts return to Blake. “I gotta go,” I say abruptly and turn away.
“Wait a second,” he says, but I already vanished into the red and blue flash of distant police sirens that scream accusations of another’s crime, breaking the nighttime serenity of my own big city dreams, and as I prowl through broken alleyways, every passing minute creates a greater distance between Blake and me, for our friendship frays more and more with each shot I take, each pill I swallow, each line I bump, each lie I believe, progressing ever closer towards the point where reconciliation no longer exists within the same dimension as our perplexed codependences.
CHAPTER IX: INTERPOSITION
“I’ve opened my doors of perception and can’t get them shut. Now I feel fucked for free
[lxxvi] .”
JANUARY 9, 2005. SUNDAY. 1:00 A.M.
“Hey, your friend got kicked out,” says a familiar voice from behind me.
I spin around on the barstool. “What?”
“Yeah,” my associate continues, “some of the girls saw it happen. He got kicked out.”
“Fuck, man.”
“Yeah, I dunno what to tell you, but I gotta get back to work.”
My mind roams. I imagine various actions that would lead to Blake’s forced removal. After a minute of pondering, I stop caring.