Plastic Girls

by Spencer Maxwell

  I reach across the couch and take Lola’s glass. “No more for you. You’re cut off.”

  She laughs and swats me again.

  We leave soon after. I convince Lola to drop the meeting my parents thing, using Mom’s recovery as an excuse. Which is really a lie. My mother seems to suddenly have more energy than everyone.

  When we get to the Lounge, the place is rocking. Bass pulses inside, radiating out toward us. The lot is full. A few people are walking over from the parking lot across the street. Lola catches a Mercury backing out and swoops into the spot.

  “Primo,” she says.

  The night is a little chilly, light jacket weather, but a few men are outside the doors wearing the slack faces of the drunk and stoned, with beers in their hands and cigarettes between their fingers.

  One of them catcalls us.

  “Shove it,” Lola says jokingly enough and puts an arm around me. “She’s mine.”

  The men burst out into laughter. One of them says, “Even better.” Another adds in, “I must’ve died and gone to heaven.”

  Lola opens the door.

  The inside is packed. The usual crowd, men and women in their late thirties, all the way to their sixties. There’s a few people closer to our age, but the younger generation is vastly outnumbered. The same female bartender, Christa, is behind the counter, pouring vodka into a skinny glass, but she has a partner tonight. He’s about forty, tan, wearing a button-up Hawaiian shirt completely out of place in the perpetual grayness of Northeast Ohio. I’ve seen him here before.

  Like any dive bar, when we walk in, most heads turn in our direction. I don’t like that feeling, of all the eyes on me.

  The DJ of the night is an old man, probably the oldest in the whole place, named Donny. He’s here every Friday and Saturday night, spinning the tunes, sipping whiskey out of a tumbler and Coke out of a plastic cup. He catches eyes with me and raises his hand to wave. I wave back, smiling. I like him. He’s a nice guy, not creepy like most of the old dudes in here.

  “I’ve got quite the popular date tonight,” Lola says. I barely hear her over the music. A guy in a John Deere cap is singing “Won’t Back Down” by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. The crowd sings along with him.

  We find a booth nestled into the corner, by the Keno machine. The backs of the seats are high enough to give us privacy from the constant stream of people feeding the machine money and punching in their winning numbers, but not so high that I won’t be able to see the singers and the words on the screen at the stage—which is just a microphone stand and a measly platform that at least one person always falls off before closing time.

  Lola’s smiling at me. “This place’s atmosphere, it’s great. I love it! Good choice, huh?”

  I nod, brush a strand of my hair back behind my ear. I’ll admit I’m nervous again. The glass and a half of wine didn’t do much to settle me down like I thought it would.

  Lola reads me like a book. “Don’t be nervous, Mel. I’m not going to bite you…unless you want me to.”

  Laughing, I say, “I can’t help it. I just…I just don’t wanna fuck this up.”

  “You’re not going to fuck anything up. Trust me.”

  Donny comes over to our booth. He has his little white slips of papers that say DONNY TUNES across the top, a karaoke song selection book, and two pencils. He’s like a drug pusher when it comes to this stuff, except instead of weed and pills, he’s pushing poorly-sung renditions of all-too-popular songs we’ve been sick of for years.

  “Mel!” he says. “It’s so good to see you.” He leans in and kisses me on the cheek. It’s a completely harmless gesture. If it was anyone else but Donny, I’d probably punch the guy. “How’s your mom doing? The poor thing. I’ve been praying for her.”

  I smile. “Well, it looks like your prayers were answered.”

  Donny’s face lights up. “You mean…”

  “She’s back home. The cancer’s almost completely gone.”

  Donny practically jumps for joy. He’s mighty spry for someone his age. Leaning down, he wraps me up in a hug. “I bet you’re so happy.”

  “It’s a godsend,” I say.

  Donny nods, then turns his head toward Lola. “And who might this vixen be? I’ve always had a soft spot for redheads.”

  Lola sticks out her hand. “I’m Mel’s date tonight, Lola.”

  I expect Donny to be confused. I don’t think he’s ever gotten the idea that I may be gay. If he didn’t before, he certainly does now. But he’s not confused.

  He takes Lola’s hand and shakes it firmly. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Lola. You two make a hell of a couple, if I do say so myself.”

  “Thank you.” Lola’s smiling.

  “Will you two lovely ladies be singing tonight?”

  I open my mouth to say No, not me when Lola answers for the both of us. “Of course. That’s what it’s all about, right?”

  “That’s what I like to hear,” Donny says. “Youthful enthusiasm never fails to inspire me.” He leans in and talks in a loud whisper. “That’s how I’ve been able to last this long, let me tell ya. So what’ll it be tonight, Melanie?”

  My cheeks flush. Could just be the alcohol. “I don’t know,” I answer.

  “Well, you think about it. I’ll get you in the rotation now so you don’t have to wait,” Donny says, and before I can tell him not to do that, he turns his back on us and is shaking hands with another older guy wearing a Desert Storm veteran’s hat.

  “Damn it,” I say.

  “Oh, relax. This is going to be so much fun!” Lola says. “I’m thinking about doing ‘My Humps’ by Fergie. Would that will go over well with the crowd?”

  “Normally…no, but if you’re up there singing about your tits and ass, I think the guys’ll love it.”

  Lola bats her mascara’d eyelashes my way. “You’re too good to me, Miss Padgett.”

  She pencils her song in while I flip through the book. The nerves I feel ice my bones. Each turn of the page brings a feeling of dread. I’ll get up there and embarrass myself, and Lola will want nothing to do with me.

  I know, I know, I’m being irrational. Still, I can’t fight this anxiety. It’s hard. When I was young, I had no problem talking to people, ordering food, scheduling appointments, but when I grew up, I don’t know, it just became harder. After what I’d seen at Cocoa’s, the Mannequin Man and how normal he looked, those types of interactions became more difficult than ever. The fact that anyone could be a serial killer, from your local minister to the guy who’s spinning tunes at a little dive bar within walking distance of your parents’ house, frightens me more than I care to admit.

  But, unfortunately, that’s the world we live in.

  The bartender comes over, asks us what kind of drinks we want. I go with a Budweiser. Lola says, “Budweiser? A woman after my own heart.”

  The bartender chuckles, but I can tell she’s uncomfortable. “What can I get for you, sweetie?”

  “Gin and tonic, please,” Lola answers.

  “Coming right up.”

  Lola looks at me, eyes wide. “Not many bars have bartenders that nice, least not the ones I’ve been to. That’s pretty cool.”

  “It’s a good place,” I reply. “So, you got your song ready?”

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Likewise,” Lola says. “Here.” She takes my paper. “I’ll go turn them in.”

  As she’s up there, the bartender comes around and drops our drinks off. She gives me the total, way cheaper than I expect, but such is the case when it comes to little places like this, and I slip her a ten-dollar bill and tell her to keep the change. She smiles, but I turn away and look up at the front of the bar, where Lola’s having a conversation with Donny at his music table.

  On the screen with the singers’ queue, I see my name—Donny’s always good about getting the people who haven’t sung yet in the queue—but then the screen blinks out and Lola’s name overta
kes mine. She’s next.

  Fifteen seconds later, the woman singing—who did amazing on her version of Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep,” by the way—hops off the stage to a smattering of applause, and Lola takes the mic from her hand.

  “Next up,” Donny says, “we have Lola with a very special song for a very special someone.” Donny’s looking my way, and I feel my face turn hot again. I slink down into my seat, smiling.

  Lola taps the microphone. “Testing, testing, testing.” There’s a screech of feedback that the crowd of drunks doesn’t like. I decide it’s best not to nurse my Budweiser this go-around and tip it back, taking a long draught of the beer.

  Lola’s eyes are on me when the music kicks on. Drums, a snare, then the trademark guitar.

  Instead of Steve Lukather, the singer of Toto, telling us he’s driving through the night all alone, it’s Lola. She’s not a half-bad singer, either. Is there anything she can’t do?

  Of course, my cheeks burn brighter. I know this song all too well. I was very young when it came out. My mom sang it to me incessantly, having been a fan of Toto ever since “Africa” was played nonstop on the radio in the eighties.

  “Melanie” is the song’s name.

  Lola’s ramping up to the chorus and she’s staring at me the entire time. I almost choke on my beer because I’m trying not to laugh.

  “Come on, Melanie!” she yells, and the crowd is starting to get into it, finally realizing this song is about me. I hate the attention, but I’m grateful Lola would go out of her way to do this. Essentially make herself look like a fool in front of about fifty strangers, just to get me to crack a smile.

  Which I’m more than doing. I’m all teeth right now.

  I don’t know if it’s the two glasses of wine and the beer I pretty much chugged, but I’m okay with this.

  Until the door opens and I see a familiar face walk in. It’s the guy who was bothering me when Dad and I were here a few weeks ago. His eyes instantly settle on my booth. He walks over, and he’s not keeping to a straight line. I imagine this is probably the third or fourth bar he’s hit tonight.

  “Melanie Padgett!” he yells, voice drowned out by Lola’s singing. “I’ve got so many questions to ask ya! Where were we?”

  I’m surprised he’s sober enough to remember.

  A few people at nearby tables are looking on with confusion.

  I’m shaking my head. “Leave me alone, dude,” I say. “I’m not in the mood.”

  He slips into my booth. “Tell me what he smelled like, darling. I was thinking he smelled like guts. You know, when you run your knife down a deer you just shot’s stomach and the hot, stinking life spills out of it?” He tips his head back and laughs.

  It’s only then I realize Lola is no longer singing. Just the backing music is playing from the speakers. I’m suddenly aware of all eyes on the guy and I. Not a few…all.

  I nudge him away. He smells like whiskey and pizza and sweat.

  “Get away,” I say, barely heard over the thumping bass.

  Both bartenders have slipped out from behind the counter. The guy in his Hawaiian shirt, hardly intimidating, says, “If you’re gonna bother my paying customers, then get the hell out of here!” He has a hand on the guy’s shoulder, but the drunk shrugs him off. Then he reaches for my Budweiser and downs what’s left and burps loudly.

  “Hey,” the female bartender says. “Out, now!” Her voice is so shrill, it actually overtakes the music.

  Normally, I’m not one for confrontation, but right now I’m ready to sock this bastard in the face.

  “Just tell me what he smells like, sweetheart. Give me something you didn’t give the police. C’mon. I wanna find him as bad as you!” the guy is spewing. “I wanna help!”

  Feedback from the microphone. The music cuts out completely. Fun’s over. All that’s missing is the trademark record-scratch you hear in movies and television shows.

  I look up. Lola’s storming through the crowd, pushing people out of the way. Her face is a mask of uncaged rage. She grabs the guy by his jacket. He’s not very big, but he has got to easily outweigh Lola by fifty or more pounds. She pulls him from the booth as if he weighs nothing. He stumbles back into the two bartenders. Other people are standing, trying to get a better look.

  “Hey, you little whore!” the drunk shouts. “Who gave you permission to touch me?”

  “Usually gotta pay for a woman to lay a finger on you, huh?” Lola says.

  A few people laugh nearby.

  The guy, however, doesn’t find it the least bit funny. He comes for Lola, his fist raised. As he cocks back, about to hit her, Lola sidesteps, grabs his wrist, and wrenches his arm. She slams him on the table, the guy’s head bouncing off the wood, knocking over my beer bottle and Lola’s gin.

  “Apologize,” Lola says through gritted teeth. “Apologize or I’ll break it.”

  Suddenly, not as tough as he was before, the drunk babbles in a puddle of booze, “I’m s-sorry. Sorry!”

  “Good,” Lola says as she lets go.

  He crumbles to the floor in a heap. He looks up at Lola with more eyes than face. Then he crawls out of the bar on all fours.

  A few people clap. The bartenders constantly tell us they’re sorry, asking if we’re okay, saying that the drinks are on the house.

  “We’re not the ones you have to worry about,” Lola says, flicking her eyes to the door. She picks up her spilled glass and sits down across from me. “I’ll take another gin and tonic, please.”

  “Sure, hon,” Christa replies.

  A few minutes later the place settles down, and I finally find my voice.

  “What the hell was that?” I say, incredulous. “I’ve never seen anything like that except for in Jackie Chan movies.”

  Lola snorts. “I’m no Jackie Chan, but a gal needs to know how to take care of herself, especially in a place like this. I’ve gone to a few self-defense classes in my time.”

  “A few? You should be the teacher.”

  We drink another round. I get tipsy, but not drunk. Carefree. I sing my song, Lola never taking her eyes off of me for its duration. People clap, and then an older gentleman takes my spot on the platform and sings some Bob Seger.

  “You wanna get out of here?” Lola asks. “Back to my place?”

  I tip back the last of my beer, a big smile on my face. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Lola’s only had about two drinks, so she drives us back to her apartment. The entire ride is nothing but sexual tension, and before we have her door unlocked, her soft hands are riding the curves of my body.

  We’re kissing, our “official” first, second, third, fourth—

  “The bedroom,” she says, and she guides me by my hand, rips my pants and shirt off before I hit the mattress.

  Her eyes linger on the scar the Mannequin Man has left me with. She traces its length with her forefinger and kisses me there.

  And there.

  And there.

  Twenty-Two

  I wake up with Lola in my arms. There’s no hangover. I didn’t drink enough to have one, and I’m the happiest I’ve been in so long. So happy I want to cry.

  Lola turns, smiling. Her hair is perfect. The auburn color shines in the sunlight streaming through her blinds. Her makeup looks as good as it did the night before.

  “That was fun,” she says.

  I raise my eyebrows. “More than that.”

  She makes us pancakes. We eat them together and drink orange juice and coffee.

  “I want to see you again,” she says. “Tonight?”

  I don’t hesitate. Don’t have to. “Yes. No more bars though, please.”

  She tips me a wink. “No. We can stay in tonight, if you want. Watch a movie, have dinner. It’ll be a really good second-third date.”

  “That sounds amazing.”

  I leave soon after, heading back home with a big smile on my face. I’m not even worried about the looks I’ll get from my parents when I come in. Ches
ter, too. He’ll probably be a little peeved that I wasn’t there to administer his nightly Fancy Feast.

  When I pull in, Mom and Dad don’t give me any looks. They don’t ask any questions, either.

  But Dad does have a smirk on his face in the kitchen as I walk past.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing, nothing. You’re an adult. Your business is your business.” He chuckles. “Speaking of, you got a letter in the mail yesterday. Forgot to tell you.”

  “I got a letter? That’s weird. I haven’t lived here for, like, six years.”

  “I, like, know, Mel. It’s in your room, on your nightstand.”

  Mom comes in wearing a green and pink floral robe. She’s always been big on flowers, if you couldn’t tell. “Oh, leave her alone, John.”

  “Hey, Mom,” I say and lean in for a kiss on the cheek as I make my way toward the stairs. It’s almost as if nothing bad has ever happened. Like Mom never got cancer and was inches away from dying. Like I never saw the mannequin with Brandy Hartfield’s face on it.

  Lately, I’ve been thinking…maybe the clothes on the latest victim was just a coincidence. Maybe he liked the outfit as much as any person would. It is, as a matter of fact, a pretty stylish get-up. And it wasn’t an exact match. Only enough to make me paranoid.

  I’m fine now, I tell myself. I’m fine.

  I’ve got my mother back, cancer-free, strong as ever; I’ve got my father happy again, no longer drowning his sorrows every night in a case of beer; and I’ve got a smoking hot girlfriend who definitely keeps her nails trimmed.

  Things are looking up.

  Chester follows me to my old room, which, I guess, is my new room. Since I’ve moved back in, I’ve certainly claimed it as my own. Piles of laundry on the floor, a scattering of paperback books, the old TV brought up from the basement and sitting crookedly on my dresser across from my bed, coiled charger cords for my phone, my iPad, my laptop. It looks like a teenager’s room, in all honesty, which isn’t a good thing—being twenty-four and all. I need to get my shit together.

  I don’t think I’ll be here much longer now that my mother is doing so much better, though. I’m paying for my apartment, so I might as well get what I pay for. If the Mannequin Man wants to come for me, so be it.