Tats

by Layce Gardner

  The bartender throws a damp cloth on the bar in front of us and wipes it down, leaving behind a smear of sticky wet circles. He’s a big, mean-looking guy with full tattooed sleeves and a clean-shaven head. He’s several inches taller than me and about two hundred fifty pounds of glistening muscle. He has Dixie tattooed across a broken heart right over his left pec and if you ask him why he’ll tell you that’s his name.

  I like Dixie a lot. He protects the dancers (he calls them Dixie’s Chicks) from the low-life, and he always tops off my drink with a little extra. Plus, he’s an old movie buff, so we have that in common.

  He greets me with our usual game, “Hey, look Mister, we serve hard drinks in here for men who want to get drunk fast...”

  I pick up where he left off, “...and we don’t need any characters in here for atmosphere.” We give each other a knuckle bump and I add, “It’s a Wonderful Life.”

  “Frank Capra. Nineteen forty-seven,” he says, giving me one of his rare smiles. “How’s Ginger?”

  “You’d know more about that than me.”

  He purses his lips and nods sympathetically. “Haven’t seen your face in a while,” he says. “You been working hard?”

  I dip into a bag of clichés and say the first one I pull out, “Hardly working, Dix, hardly working. I’ll have the usual Jack and Coke, light on the Coke and...” I jerk my thumb toward Vivian, “give her something fancy with an umbrella in it.”

  “No umbrellas anymore,” Dixie says. “I can’t put pokey things in the drinks after the last incident.”

  I laugh. “Make that two Jacks then.”

  “I can order for myself,” Vivian says testily, sitting on the stool beside me and setting her shoe on the bar in front of her.

  Dixie pauses in his wiping, waiting for her order. Now that she has his undivided attention, Vivian leans forward, resting her tits on the counter, and scans the rows of bottles in front of the mirrored bar back. Dixie’s seen enough tits that he doesn’t even glance at hers. I would look straight at them, but the reflection in the mirror provides a better view.

  Finally, Vivian straightens up and says, “I’ll have a Jack, straight up, on the rocks.”

  It must be my ears, but I could swear she just said that with a British accent.

  Dixie rolls his eyes and begins pouring. “You want those on Ginger’s tab?”

  I frown. “Better not.”

  Vivian swings on her stool to face me. “Come here often?” she asks, like she thinks this is a truly amusing remark.

  “Not for a while,” I say truthfully. “One time when I was here a dancer broke my nose.”

  Vivian grimaces. “What the hell did you do to deserve that?”

  “She didn’t hit me with her fist,” I halfway explain, hoping she’ll get it on her own.

  She doesn’t. She looks at me blankly, props one elbow on the bar and plays with a strand of her hair.

  I try again, “Let’s just say that I learned to ask before I stick my face somewhere it doesn’t belong.” I wonder if she got it this time.

  She wraps her hair around and around her index finger. She nods and says profoundly, “Oh.”

  I’m still not sure she got it.

  Dixie tosses down a couple of napkins and places our drinks in front of us. Vivian scoots a twenty his way. She takes a swig of her drink and swishes it around in her mouth like it was a fine French wine, sets it down with a purpose and asks, “So...you’re a patissier?”

  “A what?”

  “A pastry chef,” Vivian explains like I’m dumb.

  “A pastry chef? What gave you that idea?”

  “The cookies? The funeral?”

  “Oh, the cookies. No, I’m not a pastry chef.” Just the thought makes me laugh.

  “I was being sarcastic,” she says.

  “Oh,” I reply. “You sounded so serious.”

  “What were you doing with a bunch of Girl Scout cookies?”

  “Community service,” I explain. “It’s part of my parole agreement.”

  She arches one eyebrow just the tiniest bit, then turns and takes her time looking at herself in the mirror behind the bar. She pushes and prods at a few imaginary places on her face that only she can see. “I look like hell,” she finally says.

  “Not really,” I say.

  “Well, thank you, I guess,” she replies dryly, then adds, “You, however, do look like hell.”

  “I didn’t mean that. I meant ‘not really’ about the parole thing. I was just being sarcastic.”

  She laughs. “No parole then?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “Prison?”

  “Nope.”

  “Damn,” Vivian sighs. “Just when I thought things were gonna get exciting.”

  “You know...” I start in, “My name’s Lee. Lee Anne Hammond. From high school? We were in the same grade. I know you probably don’t remember me, being Miss Basketball Queen and all, but...”

  “Football Queen not basketball,” she says disgustedly like there’s some kind of huge difference between the two. “And I know who you are, all right,” she continues, her face lighting up. “I paid you five dollars to swallow a live guppy in biology class.”

  “Goldfish, not a guppy,” I say disgustedly because there is a huge difference between the two. I swell up at the memory. “And the whole class chipped in. I made over a hundred bucks for that stunt.”

  It was my fifteen minutes of fame. I sat in the back row of biology class and Vivian was in front of me and to my left. That day the teacher handed out live goldfish to all of us and we were supposed to dissect them and look at their wet little insides. Vivian got her fish first, pinched its tail between her fingers and turned to me. She straight-armed the fish directly into my face and said loudly so the whole class could hear, “I’ll give you five bucks to eat this!”

  The whole class laughed and Vivian and I engaged in a stare-down. I reached out and grabbed her wrist and held it steady. I knew my grip was hard enough that it probably hurt, but to her credit, it didn’t show on her face at all. I mouthed the words ‘Eat me’ so only she could see. She laughed out loud and tried to pull the fish out of my face, but I kept her hand from moving. I didn’t know why she picked on me, but she picked on the wrong gal.

  “A hundred bucks,” I said. “A hundred bucks, I’ll eat it and I’ll like it.”

  The whole class chipped in and pretty soon my desk had a pile of crinkled bills on it. Even the teacher opened his wallet and added a ten-spot. I held Vivian’s hand above my head and opened my mouth right under the dangling fish. She dropped it in. I swallowed. I swallowed again, harder. I felt the fish wiggle its way clear down to my belly.

  Vivian led the class in applause and I wallowed in the moment, but secretly I couldn’t wait till the bell rang so I could run to the girls’ room and heave.

  It wasn’t until much later in the day that I realized Vivian didn’t ever add her five dollars to the pile.

  I sigh and shake my head at the memory. “I still can’t believe I ever did that,” I say to Vivian. “And I can’t believe you remember it.”

  “Worth every cent,” Vivian exclaims, laughing loudly.

  God, I love her laugh. I love it so much, I decide not to tell her she still owes me five dollars.

  “It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever had in my mouth,” I say.

  “Oh my God, honey, me neither. Meeeee neeeiiiitttthhher.”

  Her laugh is catching and the next thing you know, I’m laughing, too, and I find myself not really minding the lumps on my head.

  I’ve got saddle sores from sitting on this barstool. How many drinks have I had anyway? Nine? Ten? Vivian will not shut up. I think somewhere along the third or fourth drink, she swallowed her own little brain/mouth mechanism.

  I stand up and lean on the bar, flexing my butt while she babbles, “I wasn’t stalking her or anything. I just think Princess Di and I had a lot in common. So, one morning I had an epiphany. I woke up in my trail
er crammed full of Franklin Mint Princess Di collectibles and thought, ‘Why? Why her and not me?’ I’m prettier than her even, but she got the prince and not me. Ten minutes later I booked a one-way ticket to England and packed one suitcase full of clothes and one suitcase full of my favorite shoes and flew five thousand miles to meet my destiny. I mean, really, what did Di have that I don’t? Or Lana Turner, for that matter. All she did was sit on a barstool in some drugstore and get discovered and, God knows, she’s not the only one who can fill out a sweater.”

  I signal to Dixie for another round and look back to Vivian. I watch her full red lips move around her constant stream of words.

  “So I get to London and rent a room from this little Korean woman named Tulip, but her real name is Esther and she’s a dominatrix who specializes in pony play, and when she sees how many great shoes I have she gives me some of her crush customers. All I have to do is wear my heels and stomp on fruit. I did so good at that she handed over some of her trample clients. I just put on my heels and walked up and down their backs.”

  If she doesn’t whip out a tit or something soon, I’m going to fall asleep.

  “Esther was Korean by blood but she was adopted and raised by Jewish parents so I don’t know if the Korean part really counts,” she says. “She made a really good living by sitting on men like they were a horse and slapping them on the ass, saying ‘Giddy-up!’ It may sound kind of weird, but fer chrissakes, Ann-Margret wallowed around in pinto beans and chocolate for that movie Tommy and got famous so I guess a little fruit stomping won’t hurt me any.” She pauses to light a cigarette off the red embers of her last one.

  I bet she has pink nipples. But you never can tell. Ten to one though, she does.

  “There was this old Italian guy with a Marlon Brando complex who would bring me to Rome for weeks at a time and make me feed him spaghetti in the bathtub and I let him call me Mommy. He introduced me to my Prince Charles. He’s not really a prince, but he’s big, really big, and his name was Charles Townsend so I called him Prince Charles. He paid me enough that I didn’t have to walk on backs anymore. I went over to his mansion every Thursday night and wore little French maid outfits and he told me he loved me and was going to marry me, but the reality is those English never get divorced because the Pope won’t let them and even though his poodle of a wife is always off fucking the real French maid, I’ll always be just his mistress.”

  She stops for air and before she can get started again, I interject, “I’ve never met a real live mistress before.”

  She doesn’t miss a beat. “It’s kinda boring, really. But the pay’s not bad. And he wasn’t asking me to do anything I wouldn’t have done for free anyway.”

  “Are you here, Lee? It’s Ginger.”

  I pull my eyes away from Vivian’s tits and see that Dixie is holding the bar phone with his hand over the receiver.

  “No,” I say, while simultaneously Vivian says, “Yes,” and snatches the phone out of Dixie’s paw.

  I gesture emphatic no’s and make slash marks across my throat, but Vivian just smiles and whispers, “I can take care of this.” She spins on the stool, putting her back to me and plugs one ear with her finger. “’Ello?” she says into the phone with her best British accent. “To whom am I speaking? No, it’s not. She is rather inconvenienced at the moment, may I give her a message?”

  Vivian spins back around, lays the phone on the counter and gives me an innocent shrug. “You have some really rude friends.”

  “Shit,” I say. “Listen, I really need to get out of here.” I straighten up and turn toward the exit only to find myself tit-to-tit with Tawny.

  “Going somewhere?” Tawny asks, taking another step toward me. Her torpedoes back me into the barstool and sit me down hard.

  “Nope,” I say, moving my face out of their line of fire.

  “Nice shoes,” Vivian says, looking right at Tawny’s huge tits. “Where’d you buy ’em?”

  Tawny aims her torpedoes at Vivian’s nose. Vivian doesn’t flinch. “You a dancer?” Tawny asks.

  Vivian laughs like it’s the most absurd thing she’s ever heard. “Honey, aren’t we all dancers? The only difference between you and me is that I make a lot more money.”

  “Is that so?” Tawny replies with a sharp edge.

  Vivian stands and grabs Tawny by the wrist. “Let me show you a trick or two,” she says, pulling Tawny toward the dance floor.

  Oh shit, oh shit. This cannot be happening. I follow behind, a long ways behind, ’cause when the shit starts flying, I don’t want to be splattered.

  Vivian hops up onto the stage, slinks to the middle and closes her eyes like in a trance. The other dancers stop their routines and look at her sideways. It’s going to get bloody.

  Vivian starts to move. Slowly, ever so slowly, then with assurance and control she picks up the tempo. In that instant, I take back everything I ever said or thought about Ginger being the best dancer I’ve ever seen. Ginger can’t hold a candle to Vivian.

  The other strippers, Tawny included, have the good sense to back away and just watch.

  Vivian doesn’t just move with the music, Vivian is the music. She moves in the musical notes, around the notes, over the notes, under the notes, slides and rides the notes like only a woman who knows her own body can. She doesn’t take off one bit of clothing; she doesn’t shove her tits in anyone’s face; she doesn’t rub up against the pole; and yet, somehow, she’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

  And I’m not the only one who thinks that.

  The whole place, the men, the other dancers, are mesmerized into a stupor. When the song ends, I’m completely whipped and drunk on something stronger than Jack.

  All the men sitting around the floor dig in their pockets and hold out fives, tens, twenties. Vivian walks amongst them, accepting their money and smiling seductively. If a man tries to stick the money in her skirt or her shirt, Vivian grabs it before he can. When she’s made the rounds, Vivian has a stack of bills in her hand two inches thick. She walks up to Tawny and sticks the wad of money between her tits.

  “There you go, doll,” Vivian says sweetly. She turns and struts up to me, saying, “Let’s get out of this place.”

  “Sure,” I say, turning for the door. I wobble left, then right and Vivian reaches out and grabs my belt buckle, holding me steady.

  “You sure you can drive?” she asks.

  “Hell, yeah,” I answer with a lot more confidence than I feel.

  “Good,” Vivian says with a laugh. “’Cause I’m drunk off my fuckin’ ass.”

  I suck in some cool night air and try to shake the soggy cobwebs from my head. I blaze the trail into the parking lot, heading toward the spot where I parked the bike. Vivian follows in my footsteps, walking like she’s playing a game of Mother-May-I. Three baby steps, one giant step, one step back, two tiny steps to the side...

  I stop dead. I shake my head. I rub my eyes with my fists like some Merrie Melody version of “I can’t believe what I’m seeing.”

  Vivian bounces off my back. “What is it?” she slurs, looping her arm through mine and almost pulling me off balance.

  “I can’t believe what I’m seeing,” I say, the fear already settling in.

  “What?” she asks again, scanning the pavement around our feet for anything unusual.

  “I mean...I can’t believe what I’m not seeing.”

  “I don’t see it either,” she chuckles. “What exactly is it that I’m not seeing again?”

  “The bike,” I reply, instantly sober. “I parked the bike right here.” To prove my point, I stamp my boot right where the bike used to be.

  “Weeellllllll,” she slurs, “fer chrissakes. Where’d it go?” She looks around the parking lot like it’s just playing hide-and-seek or something.

  A cold fist of fear punches me in the gut. There’s no way, no fuckin’ way.

  Vivian perks up and stumbles off. “No problem. No problem at all. I’ll just ask this nice young woma
n in the El Camino for help.”

  I follow Vivian’s trajectory and see she’s headed for Hell Camino. What the hell is my car doing here? I thought I rode the motorcycle. With Vivian on back. Did I? Or did I...?

  I squint. Sitting in the cab of Hell Camino is the silhouette of a woman. Vivian is already at the car and tapping one fingernail on the passenger window. All the puzzle pieces snap into place.

  Oh my God, no! I scream. Or maybe I just scream it in my head because I feel like I’m all tangled up in one of those nightmares where your legs are paralyzed and try as hard as you might you can’t run away from the monster.

  I finally find my legs, but my brain’s lagging about two seconds behind. “That’s Ginger!” I yell, “Viv, don’t—!”

  Too late. The silhouette leans back and kicks open the passenger door. The door slams into Vivian—and Vivian is airborne for a few slo-mo seconds before she hits the pavement ten feet away with a sickening thud. Legs splayed, skirt bunched up, she lays on the ground, not moving.

  After what seems like an eternity, Vivian leans up on one elbow and mutters, “Goddamn...that’s gonna hurt tomorrow.”

  Ginger jumps out of the passenger side of the car, wearing a skimpy halter top and those Daisy Mae jean shorts I love on her so much with cowboy boots. Her belly button ring catches the neon lights of the bar and winks colors as she struts toward me. She looks really hot. I quickly throw that thought away because it’s just not going to help me at all right now.

  Ginger’s boots crunch menacingly all the way over to me. She steps in close, too close for comfort. I take a small step back and glance over at Vivian who’s still sprawled on the ground, but is now busy digging through her big red purse. I hope she’s got a gun in there because I have a really bad feeling gnawing at my gut.

  “Listen, Ginger...” I say, clasping my hands together in a pleading gesture. “Your bike is obviously stolen. But it’s no big deal. Really. We’ll turn it in to the police and I’m sure they’ll find it.”

  “I moved my bike,” Ginger says in a voice so eerily calm it send chills all the way through me.