Beautiful Failure

by Mariah Cole

  “Get the fuck out of my car. Now.”

  “Emerald...” He sighs and places his fat hand over mine. “It’s not personal, but we do sell coffee and expect good customer service for a reason. I need someone who is going to—”

  “Do you think this is the first job I’ve been fired from?” I yank my hand away from his grasp. “It’s not, so you can save me your shitty pep talk. It’s not personal,” I mock him, “but you could’ve told me this shit over the phone and I could’ve saved my goddamn gas. Out.”

  He shakes his head, whispering something that sounds like “I’ll pray for you” and steps out of my car.

  I shut my eyes and grip the steering wheel once he slams the door shut.

  I should’ve known this would happen. I should’ve fucking known...

  I slam my car in reverse and swerve around, speeding out of the parking lot. I’ve done well over the past couple weeks—dealing with the annoying AA meetings, the invasive urine tests, and that dreadful, confined bistro, but this shit calls for a relapse.

  I need alcohol.

  Now.

  Speeding, I drive to a small liquor store on the outskirts of town. I buy two pints of vodka, a six pack of beer, and a pack of cigarettes. I place everything in my purse and rush home, locking myself in my room.

  I force the huge bay windows open and toss one of my legs over the edge—straddling the sill. Ignoring the wind and the rain, I unscrew the top of the vodka and take a long, sweet swig.

  I’m never getting out of here...

  I take swig after swig until my throat burns, until my thoughts become blurry, and a memory I’ve been trying to suppress all week forces its way across my mind...

  “Em?” Leah steps into my room and hits the light.

  “Yeah?”

  “Why didn’t you go to school today?”

  “Like you really care...” I mutter and roll over on my bed, hiding my tears.

  “Of course I don’t care whether you go to school or not.” She caresses my shoulder. “I do care when you miss the writing competition you’ve been telling me about for MONTHS—when your teacher calls me and tells me you didn’t show up to present your paper....What the hell is wrong with you?”

  I’m silent. That paper is the last thing on my mind, and if I could somehow vanish from the face of the earth at this moment, nothing would make me happier.

  “Em...Talk to me...” She presses.

  I shake my head and feel her pulling my arm—turning me over. When I’m facing her, I feel her wiping my tears away with her fingertips.

  She looks into my eyes and I know she knows what’s wrong. I can see the exact moment that it registers in her mind.

  “Give me one second, Em.” She stands up and walks out of my room. She returns seconds later with a bottle of alcohol, two glasses, and a half-used pack of Marlboros.

  She urges me to sit up and pours me a glass. “Tell me what happened...”

  “You know how you said your first time was slow and passionate?”

  She nods and motions for me to toss the drink back.

  “It wasn’t like that for me...”

  “Did you tell him to stop?”

  I shake my head. “I wanted to do it...Two dates was long enough to make him wait, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I feel like he was just...” Images of him, my first boyfriend Sean, laying me across the bleachers after the game force tears to fall down my eyes. “He was really rough and he um...He said his ex-girlfriend’s name when he came...He said her name twice.”

  “Oh, Em...”

  I feel her patting me on the back, hear her saying, “That sucks, but you shouldn’t be crying over it.”

  Shaking my head and pulling myself away from her, I let more tears fall. “You said it would feel good, Leah. It didn’t. It really didn’t.”

  “The first time never actually feels good, Em. It’s more-so the emotions...Sex gets better as you go along...Your next time will probably be better. Didn’t you say he was just an okay kisser?”

  I nod.

  “Well, that’s half of the problem.” She pulls me up and walks me out onto my room’s balcony. “There’s a high correlation—”

  “Correlation? That’s a four syllable word for you. I’m impressed.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Next time make sure the guy you choose is a kick-ass kisser. It’ll be better, Trust me. In the meantime...” She leans close and dabs my eyes until they’re dry. Then she pulls a tube of mascara from her pocket, applying a new coat to my lashes. “This should make you feel better. What do you say we finish off that bottle together?”

  I take one last swig from the bottle and move myself off the ledge. My shirt is damp and clinging to my chest, but I couldn’t care less right now.

  I need to sleep away this frustration.

  Just in case my grandparents come upstairs to check on me, I hide the evidence of drinking and stuff the unopened cigarettes into my desk drawer. I crash onto my bed and pull a quilt over my body—slowly slipping into a familiar state of blackness.

  Beep! Beep! Beep!

  My phone alarm yanks me out of my sleep.

  I shut it off and look at the time: Nine o’ clock.

  Dinner is probably long over, but I roll out of bed and make my way downstairs anyway.

  Shockingly, my grandparents aren’t lounging in front of the TV or sitting at the table talking. There’s no sign of them anywhere.

  On the refrigerator they’ve left a note:

  “Emerald! Congratulations on keeping your Starbucks job for more than two weeks! We hope you keep it for several more! We’ll be on the church fishing trip until tomorrow, so call us if you need anything.

  Two plate dinners are wrapped and ready in the fridge for you.

  Pray over them first!

  Love,

  Henry & Virginia

  I shake my head at the note and unwrap one of the chicken dinners, grabbing today’s newspaper off the counter.

  I need to start my job search all over again, so I might as well start now.

  Before I can take a bite of food, my phone vibrates. A text.

  “Hey. Heard you got fired, though I’m not really surprised LOL. Call me if you ever want to get out of bitch mode. I know somewhere else you can work...Oh and Carter asked about you tonight. You want me to tell him that you got canned?—Sarah.”

  I roll my eyes and continue reading the employment ads. They’re a lot slimmer than usual, and I’ve applied to most of these places in months past.

  Annoyed, I crumple the paper and toss it onto the floor—thinking of a way I can get through tonight without beating my head against the wall.

  I have alcohol of course, but I don’t want to push my luck any further. My probation officer hasn’t shown up in a week, and I already have to do a cleanse to get rid of what I drank hours ago.

  He’ll probably show up this weekend...

  I have cigarettes, but I really am trying to quit; the late night infomercials have been working their charm on me in mysterious ways.

  I have a few bottles of an intense system cleansing drink but—

  Is there weed in Blythe?

  Scrolling down my phone, I click on Sarah’s text and save her number before I call.

  “Hello?” She answers after three rings.

  “Hey. You got a minute?”

  “For my former bitchy co-worker?” There’s a smile in her voice. “Always. What’s up?”

  “Where can I get some weed around here?”

  “What?!” She bursts into laughter and it sounds as if she’s near tears. “Oh god, Emerald...You just...You are a true piece of work!”

  “Is there weed or not?”

  “Are your grandparents at home?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll be over in fifteen.” She hangs up.

  I rush upstairs and pull my hidden pack of cigarettes out of the bottom drawer. I slowly cut them into pieces over the trash to prevent myself
from sneaking a smoke later. I consider pouring the rest of my vodka down the drain, but I can’t completely cut off alcohol.

  I’m not even going to try.

  Outside the window, I see bright headlights coming down the driveway and assume it’s Sarah. I stuff crumpled paper towels on top of my cigar clippings and grab my lighter before heading outside.

  Sarah parks her car behind mine and doesn’t get out. Instead she honks and waves her hand out of the window, motioning for me to get in.

  I don’t.

  I walk over to her window. “Give me a minute. I have a twenty in my car, but I only need a nickel bag. You got change?”

  “It’s on me. Get in.”

  I stand frozen. Back when I smoked weed with Leah, she always stressed two things: 1) When contemplating life, always smoke alone. 2) When you want to smoke alone, smoke alone.

  “No...” I shake my head. “That’s okay. I’ll just—”

  “Get in the goddamn car, Emerald.” She rolls her eyes.

  I sigh and get in, and before I can fasten my seatbelt she speeds off into the night.

  Jay Z’s “99 Problems” is blaring through her speakers, and two new Tiffany & Co. bracelets are sparkling on her wrist.

  After what feels like forever, she pulls into a deserted field where an abandoned billboard and a water tower stand side by side. She grabs a small box from the center console and tells me to join her on the hood.

  “Here,” she says as she hands me a triple pack of sweet apple cigars. “Shed those for me while I grind the seeds.”

  We sit in silence—letting the mosquitos peck at our skin, concentrating on our separate tasks. When I’m finished, she evenly disburses the weed into each empty paper and I roll them, licking the ends to make sure they’re tight.

  She pulls a lighter out of her pocket and burns the end of one, taking a long drag before passing it to me. “Did Mr. Wes at least fire you in person?”

  “Does it matter? Being fired is being fired. The personal touch doesn’t make it any better.”

  “I’ve never been fired so I wouldn’t know.”

  “Lucky you...” I inhale the smoke until it burns in my chest, and then I form an “O” with my lips, puffing white rings across the night. “I’ll find something else.”

  “Hmmm.” She pulls a folded napkin from her pocket and hands it to me. “This is from your friend.”

  “My friend?” I open the napkin and read the note:

  “I miss your terrible service and your bitter coffee.

  —Carter.

  I don’t want to be a stranger. 555-0965”

  I suppress a smile and put his note into my pocket.

  Sarah and I continue to pass the blunt back and forth until it’s so small it burns our fingers. Then she lights up another one.

  “There’s this other place I work at,” she whispers. “I think you would be a good fit there.”

  “Is this other place how you afford your designer clothes?”

  She smiles and leans back against the hood. “It is. You interested?”

  “I already have one legal case over my head, so if it’s illegal no thanks.”

  “Gentlemen’s clubs aren’t illegal.”

  “You mean strip clubs?”

  “Sort of...” She hands me a black business card. “I average at least four hundred dollars a night, but on some nights, much more.”

  I stare at the card. There are only two words—“The Phoenix” and a number.

  No address. No details. Nothing.

  “It’s only stripping, right?”

  “If that’s all you’re in for, yeah.” Her voice is low. “That’s all I do, but it depends on the person. The money I make from keeping it simple is more than enough.”

  I sigh and turn the card over in my hands.

  Four hundred dollars a night for at least five nights a week is an easy two thousand dollars. If I did that for the summer I’d have more than enough to pay the city back and skip town.

  “Expect the cold shoulder treatment when you first start.” Sarah interrupts my thoughts. “If you choose to work there, I mean.”

  “Why?”

  “Stripping isn’t like a normal hourly job, it’s extremely competitive. You and I are friends and all, but—”

  “We’re friends?”

  “I wouldn’t be sharing my weed with you if we weren’t.” She takes the blunt from me. “Anyway, every week there’s some new doe-eyed girl that tries out for the club, some girl who thinks that just because she’s beautiful we’ll all bow at her feet and she’ll make the most money. It never happens for her.”

  “I don’t think like that.”

  “Ha!” She laughs. “You’ve probably never had to beg for attention a day in your life.”

  “That’s not true...”

  “Sure, it isn’t. Beautiful people always have it easy. No need to lie.”

  I roll over on the hood and look her over. She’s extremely attractive—blond hair, bright blue eyes, small button nose and high cheekbones, so I’m confused as to why she doesn’t think she’s beautiful.

  Leah would definitely consider her a nine and a half out of ten.

  Grabbing the dwindling blunt from her, I take a short drag and realize I haven’t asked about any of the details of this so-called club. “Where is this place?”

  “Can’t tell you that.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t tell you that,” she repeats. “You’ll have to call and ask for yourself.”

  “Okay...Can you tell me anything about it?”

  “Nope.”

  I roll my eyes and look at my watch. I’ll just google the place later.

  “You were an asshole in high school,” she says, sighing. “Do you know that?”

  “I was only there for a few months senior year. You were in my class?”

  “Duh.” She scoffs. “Everyone felt bad for you because we heard about your mom, but...”

  “But what?”

  “We also thought—Well, I thought you were a queen bitch.”

  I smile. I want to tell her that “queen bitch” was my real nickname at my old high school, but I don’t.

  She looks over at me and laughs. “Of course you think that’s funny. I remember asking you if you needed help with anything on your third day. Do you remember what you said to me?”

  “No. What?”

  “You said, ‘Get the fuck out of my face.’ It was priceless.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. If I had just lost my mother, I’m sure I wouldn’t want some geek with uneven bangs hanging around me.”

  “Probably not.” I lie back against the hood and puff out more O’s.

  When the last blunt is gone and the two of us are tired of staring at the starless sky, she rolls over to face me. “Were you and your mom close, Emerald?”

  “I thought we were.” Leah’s last letter flashes across my mind. “But lately I’m not so sure.”

  “I feel you. My mom died yesterday and I still can’t figure out our relationship.”

  “She died yesterday?” I sit up. “Why are you here with me then? Shouldn’t you be with your family?”

  “I figured someone as fucked up as me would be much better company...”

  “I’m not fucked up.”

  She shrugs and looks back up at the sky. “Yeah, you’re the most put-together person I know.”

  Chapter 5

  A google search of “The Phoenix in Alabama” brings up a random array of images, bird sightings, and a restaurant that’s two hundred miles away. I add “gentlemen’s club” and “strip club” to the keywords, but nothing about the club ever appears.

  Even stranger, is when I run a simple search for all the strips clubs in the state, there’s no mention of The Phoenix. Anywhere.

  Something is beyond suspicious about this place, and I’m honestly not sure if I want to find out what it is.

  I never thought any less of Leah for what she d
id to support us, and I knew that if I ever needed to do it, I would, but from Sarah’s vagueness, I already know The Phoenix is more than a strip club.

  She said all she does is strip though, so maybe I can do the same thing...Wait, am I really considering this?

  “Care to join the conversation today, Emerald?” Tim’s annoying voice crashes into my thoughts, and I suddenly remember that I have over two months of rehab left.

  “Not really.”

  “Oh, come on.” He prods. “Tell us something personal about yourself. It can be something as simple as your favorite thing to do at home or a country you’d like to visit someday.”

  I blink.

  “Could you at least try?” He pleads with his eyes.

  I say nothing.

  I showed up early today and watered the hundreds of plants in the field. I mopped the building from top to bottom and I set up the room. That’s all I’m required to do.

  The court papers didn’t say shit about actually “participating” in these discussions and I’m not going to. Ever.

  “Okay...” He sighs and starts talking to the man on my left, leaving me alone to think about The Phoenix again.

  After the session is over and I’ve completed my tasks, I drive to an abandoned football field that’s three blocks down. I pull out the black business card and take a deep breath before dialing the number.

  “The Phoenix.” A deep voice answers after only one ring.

  “Yes, I was—” I hesitate. “I was wondering if you could give me some directions to the club.”

  “Where are you coming from?”

  “Blythe. Folsom Street.”

  He’s silent for several seconds. “Are you a potential patron?”

  “No.”

  “Are you a member of a bachelor party for tonight?”

  “No.”

  “Then why do you need the address?” His tone is cold and I know he’s seconds away from hanging up in my face.