2
I glanced out my window into the skies over the Gulf, recalling my trajectory toward Beau. In 1968, I divorced my husband who reciprocated by vanishing to a foreign country and leaving our toddler without child support. Trying to put cornflakes on the table for my daughter Nikki propelled me into survival mode. I couldn’t travel back in time, otherwise I would’ve heeded Mother’s “Look before you leap!” adage, instead of rushing into marriage with Jethro Bodine’s mirror image. Kent Novak never had anything original to say, but I fell for his light blue eyes, dark wavy hair, and muscular butt. The guy was eager to take me away from Lake Jackson—so what if we didn’t know squat about each other? And thanks to my “Gracious ladies sit with legs crossed at the ankles while knees are kindly kept together” mother, I wed as a virgin. An awful awakening for me when the mind-blowing passion I’d read about in romance novels failed to visit our bridal suite. At least our wedding night served as my introduction to liquor.
We moved to the big city of Houston, but life with Kent remained D.U.L.L. Especially in the bedroom. Sex proved perfunctorily uneventful, although occasionally if I knocked back enough vodka to accommodate adequate visual delusions, I could somewhat imagine Kent bumping and grinding. A rock-hard ass does not a great lover make.
Mr. Boring insisted I be a housewife, so when Ellen and her husband Charles started a lathe business, I jumped at the chance to tend my four-year-old nephew, Jimmy. With bright, smiling eyes, blond curly hair, mischievous sense of humor and brains beyond his age, this preschooler brightened my dull life. Hell, he was ten times more interesting than Kent.
Still, after a year of humdrum living, about once a week I contemplated sticking my head inside our gas oven. Until the morning I awoke with nausea accompanied by vomiting. I stayed on my knees so often, Jimmy and Kent thought I had converted to Catholicism. Hail Mary and inanimate conception, I was pregnant!
Jacy Nicole’s birth was the most exciting day of my life, and our instant bond gave me reason to exist. Nikki brought such happiness, I wrote elaborate notes about her every move, visualizing its evolution into a great children’s book. Then my little princess got colic. Hello cranky baby, goodbye journalism fantasy. Jimmy helped me through baby blues and other rough toddler times before splitting for Pre-K, but his departure left me facing reality. Reading nursery rhymes and playing kid games had become the highlight of my existence. Naturally, I pondered said existence.
“Never marry a stranger,” I advised my sixteen-month-old as we crafted macaroni art.
“Go bye-bye.” Nikki swept elbow pieces and glue into her painted box.
It was kismet. I packed our bags.
Leaving behind almost everything, I waved goodbye to Kent as we passed in the doorway when he came home from work. He looked so sad and bewildered, for a minute I felt like a real jerk for my inconsiderate exit from the black and white dullness of our life. Sixty-one seconds later, I’d hopped in my Corvair Coupe, turned the radio full blast and was singing along with Steppenwolf’s Born to Be Wild while driving Nikki away from our first home.
Shortly after Nikki and I arrived at my parent’s home, I learned Kent remarried before the ink dried on our divorce decree. Men sure don’t stay sad long. His newlywed butt soon got drafted and shortly after he shipped overseas, I found out nice guy Kent deceitfully filled out military paperwork. Claiming his new wife as his only dependent meant no child support. Fine. He could evaporate for all I cared. I was hell-bent on getting by without his financial aid.
I enrolled at community college and got a part-time evening job as office assistant, which prompted quotes from Mother. “A woman’s place is in the home.” In one ear and out the other, Lynn. Morning classes revitalized my stale brain, and working at a fast paced marketing firm fueled my hyperactive nature. Employees stayed super busy, thanks to our thirty-something tall, lanky boss with piercing raven eyes, slick black hair, and a villainous look that intimidated most. Not me. I found Wesley’s tailored suits and smug poise alluring in a John Dillinger sort of way.
But I didn’t do well at balancing employment, education, and motherhood. My behavior slipped into back sassing, dish throwing, door slamming, tears flowing, mood swings. Mother spouted self help quotes for a while, then next thing I knew my erratic behind was parked in a psychologist’s chair. Well, general practitioner slash psychologist. Dual practice was common in Lake Jackson, where I suspected one could go to the proctologist and flip over for a pelvic exam. The doctor/therapist prescribed an antidepressant to help ease my confusion.
After two Tofranil filled weeks my disposition went on the upswing.
“Hey Jill,” Wesley shouted as we worked late one evening. “Wanna go over projected sales before heading out?”
Hmmm. Hang with suave guy or head home for an earful of Mother’s quotes? I bolted down the hall and into his office.
“What can I get you to drink?”
“Orange juice,” I said.
“With what?” Wesley opened a cabinet that could have passed as a Spec’s Mini Mart. Lake Jackson was in a dry county.
“Gotta pass on the liquor. Mother forbids drinking in her house.”
“Well, I hate drinking alone, this isn’t your mother’s house, and I won’t tell if you don’t.”
“I’m taking medication and my doc said not to mix it with alcohol.”
My excuse was still hanging in mid-air when Wesley jumped from behind his desk and walked around to my chair. “Let me see your prescription,” he insisted.
I handed him my bottle of Tofranil. “These damn quacks!” A vein in his neck pulsed as he snatched the meds from my hand. “You don’t need to be popping pills and your daughter certainly doesn’t need her mom hooked on tranquilizers.” In an instant he had taken my vial of capsules to the bathroom and flushed them down the toilet.
I was awed by his assertiveness. When Wesley returned, he handed me a large drink. Sipping on my tequila and orange juice for over an hour, I listened to the man in the Brooks Brother’s shirt who got more attractive by the minute.
Wasn’t long before I dropped out of college to become office manager, and also became charmed by my boss. Wesley drove a cherry red Lincoln Continental convertible, which fueled my daydreams into thoughts of romantic deeds with this fiery guy. What a disappointment when my fantasy finally came to life. Our liaison evolved after a stressful day amplified into an evening of nonstop tequila shots, so it didn’t rate high on the romance scale. Future “romantic” deeds always included alcohol and always transpired on the office sofa. I wasn’t exactly qualified to rate sex, but considered Wesley eighty percent better than inert Kent. Experienced Wesley taught me Sex Ed 101, albeit carnal encounters failed to arouse—much less satisfy me. Within weeks Wesley’s behavior began to parallel my dad’s, but I convinced myself that leaving Lake Jackson would be the magical cure for his mood swings. And before you could say two-neurotics-in-transit, Wesley hooked a tow bar to his convertible for dragging my car to El Paso, his assigned city to establish a company branch. Mother accepted my lie about us living in separate housing. She was too damn virtuous to fathom her daughter shacking up with the second guy who came along.
Traveling to El Paso included a stop in Houston. Wesley had a business meeting. Nikki was begging to spend time with Cousin Jimmy. And yours truly had to see my gynecologist about an overwhelming pain that parked in my grassy knoll and refused to leave. I also squeezed in a visit with my best friend from high school. Katie entered my life during sophomore year when her family transferred to Texas from Michigan. Her tales of life outside southern boundaries captivated me, but her uninhibited persona drew me to her. She mimicked my odd habit of walking on my tip toes. I mocked her excessive eyelash fluttering. By the summer of ‘63 we were inseparable. Although we kept in touch by phone after high school, I hadn’t seen Kat since Nikki’s birth. She insisted I bring my bikini to sunbathe at her pool and catch up on lost time.
The girl hadn’t changed a bit. Thin, leggy
Katie, whose thick, curly, auburn hair almost overshadowed her oval face and ski shaped nose, possessed huge hazel eyes and a fetching way of looking at people that made her seem prettier than she was. Incredibly stylish (she could pin a dead cockroach in her hair and start a trend), Kat possessed such effervescence I worried she might internally combust. Flattery was her forte. She was rattling on about my recent short hair cut enhancing my green eyes when I noticed rumpled twenty dollar bills scattered around her living room. Kat took two pink cans of Tab from the fridge, placed them on folded twenties to use as coasters, sat beside me, and insisted I brief her on my sex life seeing as how we both left high school as virgins. “Start talking,” she commanded with gusto.
I leaned against the luxurious cushions of her sofa and elaborated on my two vastly different sexual experiences. Then she told me about her sex-capades. Gulp. During her demonstration of Kama Sutra positions, I noticed a giant bowl filled with about a zillion quarters sitting beside a Tiffany lamp on top of her expensive TV. “For the laundromat,” she said, following my gaze.
“Pleeease.” I stood for a closer look at her coin mountain. “There’s at least two hundred bucks in this bowl. And more twenty dollar bills in this room than I’ve ever seen. What’s up?”
Kat motioned me to her bedroom, pranced over to the closet, pulled out a small duffel bag, threw it across her bed, and opened it. Small sequined underwear and other glittery items tumbled out, along with greenbacks of all denominations. “I’m making the money, cutie.” She winked. “I’m working as a waitress and part-time dancer in a darling little club near downtown called the Jewel Box.”
“God, Katie!”
“It’s not so bad, Jill. I mainly wait tables and only dance a couple times a night when the club’s short on dancers.” She shook her bountiful booty. “It’s really kinda groovy. My family thinks I work in a restaurant, and I go by the name Laura, so they’ll never find out.”
“You always had a wild streak, but God.” I slipped into my blue crochet bikini wondering how my friend got involved in such a job, and trying to stop reiterating “God.”
“So, Jill. What did doc say about those spasms in your tulip garden?”
“Some kind of cyst. It’s shrinking, but he prescribed Phenaphen for my pain. He also said my twisted uterus makes my chances of getting pregnant about one in a million.”
“Weird diagnosis.” Kat pulled her bouncy red curls into a loose ponytail.
“Makes me relieved I have Nikki, but you gotta love those pregnancy odds, eh?”
When we got to the pool she spilled more details about her job. “On rare times that I dance, I play Fever by Peggy Lee and move as slow and enticingly as the law allows.”
I’d always admired the way Kat exuded naughtiness in our private conversations, but this public declaration was worlds apart from two teenagers talking trash behind closed doors.
“Or I play Shake a Tail Feather, and turn my fanny to the crowd and shimmy wildly.” She offered a provocative sample.
I felt slightly embarrassed, and happy we were alone at the pool.
Kat’s laid back attitude about her bizarre job baffled me. I left her apartment feeling my world had gone topsy turvy, and tried to embrace Mother’s quote: “To each his own” as I got in my car. After all, Kat seemed happy. And she was making a buttload of money.
When I walked into Ellen’s house Nikki rushed to me. I grabbed her right arm and leg, giving her an extra long jet twirl. She squealed in delight and all was right in my world again.
“Wesley called. He’s running a little late,” Ellen shouted from the kitchen.
“No surprise,” I responded. “More airplane,” Nikki requested. We negotiated a flight tower position instead and she climbed on my shoulders to ride into the kitchen to help Ellen.
Wesley arrived late for dinner, so I took advantage of his social blunder. “Kat wants to meet us at Brennan’s tomorrow before we leave town, and I said we would.” He agreed—with zero enthusiasm. Charles shot him a look that had “rude jackass” written all over it. Wesley made a hasty exit for the hotel room he’d rented for the night.
Wesley’s chances of winning a Mr. Congeniality award dwindled drastically as he sipped whiskey and made no effort to hide his bored shitless look while Kat and I reminisced over wine. Ignoring him, Kat pinched off an end slice of French bread, popped it into her mouth, rolled her eyes as if to emphasize how tasty it was, and then knocked back her third glass of Rothschild like it was iced tea. By the time she finished her fourth glass she began discussing her job. I’d never seen a man switch from uninspired to fascinated so quickly.
”You working with Kat is a perfect opportunity for us to earn quick money and start our own marketing firm,” said Wesley.
I checked his whiskey level.
“Right on.” Kat squeezed my arm. “The owner’s been saying we should hire another waitress to keep up with booming business. And you’ll rake in the tips with your body, cutie.”
I took a pain med and chased it with wine.
Maybe it was the combination of Phenaphen and Rothschild, Kat’s assurance the job wasn’t as horrible as it sounded, or my emotional instability and Wesley’s cunning, but before the bill arrived, I had acquiesced. Apparently, virtue is not matrilineal. As Kat patted my trembling hand, Wesley volunteered to delay leaving for El Paso so he could oversee my first few nights. By the time we left the restaurant, my sweet friend had convinced me working together would be a total blast and I would get hip to the topless club scene. I didn’t want to seem “square.” Wesley checked out of La Quinta and into the swanky Carousel Motel off the Gulf Freeway, closer to Kat’s apartment.
Kat called the following morning to say the job was mine. She also said Texas law prohibited dancing topless without complete coverage of the nipple and suggested we meet downtown at Southern Importers to buy pasties to cover said nipples. What the hell were pasties?
We walked into the shop on San Jacinto where Kat guided me through the phenomenal supply of novelty fabric, party props, theatrical makeup, costumes and accessories. When we got to a corner near the back of the store, she opened drawers of a nondescript cabinet and removed various small, cone shaped objects, some plain, some sequined, and some sporting tassels. Bubbling with enthusiasm and making light of the whole situation, Kat placed two tasseled pasties over her blouse (tit-level), then tried a few circular swings before placing an unadorned one over her eye, monocle fashion. “Jill, my little chickadee.” Kat raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows mischievously, à la W.C. Fields. “I insist you stay at my villa on the south side instead of driving across town at three in the morning.”
“Okay, I’ll stay with you awhile,” I agreed just to get her way-too-happy ass out of there. I kept my eyes lowered as we stood at the register, and my cheeks felt flush long after we reached our prospective cars and left Southern Importers.
I returned to my sister’s house and held Nikki against me like we were still connected at the umbilical cord. “You’re suffocating me,” she said while escaping my grip.
“I’ve decided to take that new restaurant job I mentioned,” I lied to Ellen. “Could you possibly keep Nikki, since you’re working at home now?”
“Sure, I can handle her and the business bookkeeping. What’s your schedule?”
“Hectic, long hours. I thought I’d stay with Kat during the week and spend every Sunday and Monday here.”
Ellen agreed. Jimmy cheered. Nikki squealed. My brother-in-law stared at the girls of Petticoat Junction. Wesley remained at his hotel, where I’d gone earlier in the day and interrupted his watching bootleg films of women impaling themselves on cucumbers and whatnot. No doubt his evening wasn’t nearly as innocent as Charles checking out Hooterville hotties.
3
My first day at the Jewel Box didn’t exactly turn into the total blast Kat had predicted. Having been inside a bar only twice before, I was terrified about going to a topless club and anticipatory anxiety caused
me to vomit during the ride from Kat’s apartment. So much for Wesley’s custom eggshell leather interior—I’ll spare you further details. Located on the east side of Holcombe Boulevard between the prestigious Medical Center and the predominately Jewish, upscale McGregor area, the white stucco building was barely discernible except for its red door. Hanging above the door from a black wrought iron fixture was a small white octagonal sign with “Jewel Box” embossed in exquisite red lettering. Just below the club’s name “Topless Go-Go” was written in subtle black calligraphy so small I almost didn’t see it. But I did. And my nausea intensified.
Wesley and Katie practically dragged me to the front door, with him firmly reminding me this job was vital to our future, thus the sooner I settled my queasy stomach and started making cash, the sooner we’d leave Houston. I wanted to throw up on him. My IQ was nowhere near Mensa requirements, and like a cow being herded to slaughter, I let Wesley steer me inside.
In the entryway stood an antique treasure chest lined in red satin and filled with replicas of glass jewels illuminated by incoming sunlight when the door opened and by soft recessed lights when it closed. I stepped onto plush red carpet, looking at the lower level packed with small round tables and skirted Parson chairs. Then I glanced along the left wall and saw a tiny, round dance stage with red velvet drapes cascading from a mirror behind it. Only a stone’s throw away stood a colorful jukebox against the club’s back wall. “You’ve gotta meet Beau. He burns cool.” Kat grabbed my hand and dragged me to the upper level. Wesley stood by the chest, eyeballing jewels.
A scattering of tables shared the area with a long, crescent shaped mahogany bar, polished to an incredible shine and softly reflecting overhead twinkling of dimly lit chandeliers. Maybe two months of this wouldn’t be so bad, after all.
“This is Beauregard Phillipe Duvalé,” Kat introduced. “We call him Beau.”
The Jewel Box Page 2