The Jewel Box

by C Michelle McCarty

  Not frowning, but not beaming like his partner, Gabe stood awaiting his obligatory hug, and said, “Welcome back, Blondie,” while reaching forward. As he leaned forward and as I turned, somehow instead of his lips touching my cheek, they were against my mouth. Ohmigod. We were touching lips. The cardinal sin Kat and Beau warned me against was echoing in my head: “Never, never let men kiss you on the lips.”

  Too late. Our lips were together. His lips felt wonderfully soft against mine and the gentleness of his kiss went everywhere, making me weak and breathless. My body seemed to be floating in mid-air in some strange, sort of dreamlike state; weightless, formless, yet fully aware of my being. Gabe ended the kiss and opened his eyes as I opened mine. We stood staring at each other, not saying a word.

  “Huh hummmm.” Al loudly cleared his throat, having noticed our mouth-to-mouth. Gabe hurriedly pulled out a chair, and somewhat shyly, asked me to join them.

  I sat down, trembling. I had never felt so odd.

  “You okay?” Gabe asked, The Chi-Lites crooning Oh Girl in the background.

  My head nodded yes as I lowered my eyes and noticed every hair on my arms standing on end.

  “So you ran off to places unknown,” Al interjected, noticing the awkwardness between Gabe and me.

  “Uh, yes. But I’m back for good and won’t be leaving again anytime soon.” I swallowed, attempting to continue, “Uuh. . . can I get you guys another drink?” Looking at their full beers, I felt slightly foolish and for the first time in years, completing a sentence was difficult. I looked at Gabe and felt discernible panic brewing. Did he notice my reaction to his kiss? Did he feel what I felt? Why had I felt anything? And why with this guy, of all people?

  “You can’t be our waitress tonight,” Gabe said softly, raking hair from his forehead with his hand. “Laura’s going to wait on us and you’re going to sit and drink cocktails. If you’d like.”

  “Oh,” I muttered, feeling dazed.

  Interpreting my open syllable as acceptance, Gabe began rambling about my being a vagabond voyager or something. My head was spinning as though I’d taken one Phenaphen too many, but tonight I hadn’t taken any. What was happening here? The loquacious one was fumbling for words, while Gabe the mute was talking a blue streak.

  “Katie. . . oops sorry. Laura.” I touched her arm. “Please tell Beau I’d like a real cocktail, not a Kool-Aid one. Gabriel wants me to sit for a minute.”

  She raised an eyebrow at my request, and then echoed, “Gabriel?”

  I hadn’t realized I’d called Gabe, Gabriel and words escaped me as I scraped away a coat of cherry blossom pink polish from my thumbnail.

  “We’re paying Blondie to sit here,” Gabriel said calmly, apparently detecting my inability to speak.

  “Well, only for a few minutes.” Laura batted her lashes and smiled brightly. “Then I’ll need her help. In case no one’s noticed, this joint’s jumping!”

  Sitting quietly in a semi-cognizant state, I watched Gabriel douse another cigarette as Al sat flapping his moustache to some dancer he asked to join our table. The dancers made tips while dancing and profits from cocktails bought by customers. “Men gladly pay a buck and a half for a few minutes of company,” Beau told me on my first day. The tiny drinks were served in “mock crystal” martini glasses and consisted of nothing stronger than Kool-Aid. “The bar keeps fifty cents from each cocktail, the girls keep a dollar, and General Foods gets richer. I rarely serve liquor to girls ‘cause I have to watch their consumption. I don’t need drunk dancers passing out or puking in their purses instead of selling cocktails.” Beau also launched my love of peppermint schnapps and 7 Up, a refreshing girlie toddy that gave me minty breath throughout the evening as I sipped a short one for hours. Hard liquor slowed me and affected my tips, so I usually abstained. If a customer offered, I thanked him, took my Kool-Aid cocktail tableside, knocked it back while placing my hand on his shoulder, and left to make more tips. Easy way to add fifty bucks to my nightly take.

  The smidgen of schnapps in my cocktail did little to relax me, yet Gabriel seemed calm as ever. Although he usually made rude remarks about the ignorance of dancers Al invited to their table, tonight he seemed oblivious to any conversations around us, asking me all sorts of questions. Even listening as I told him more than he needed to know about Nikki. I briefed him on my ordeal with Wesley and mentioned using a phony identity in my attempt to hide from the lunatic. Gabriel repeated the name “Carol Wood,” then told me a joke about a hare-lipped woman and a man with a wooden eye: Physical impairments caused insecurities and shyness in both, but after finally getting the nerve to talk, the man with the wooden eye asked the hare-lipped woman if she’d like to have dinner with him. She replied, “Would I!” But being overly sensitive, the man with the wooden eye misinterpreted and angrily snapped back, “Harelip! Harelip!” then stormed away. Apparently I went overboard in the laughter department, because for the remainder of the night, Gabe answered questions such as, “Would you like another drink,” with “Wood eye!”

  “You’re being so nice.” I sipped my cocktail. “I’m beginning to think a human being is hiding under that gruff exterior.”

  “Hey, don’t let anyone hear you say that—it’ll ruin my image.” He then told me about being the oldest in an Irish Catholic family of five children, and the only member living in Texas. He was born and raised in Burlington, Vermont due to paternal ancestors skipping Ellis Island, smuggling whiskey into America, and investing in the small state. He had a privileged adolescence, but life changed drastically during his teens after his parents divorced. Interested in architecture, Gabriel took a carpentry job as summer employment to help with finances, enjoyed it immensely, and voilà, it became his profession. His voice became quieter as he told about hastily jumping into marriage with his high school sweetheart, which generated hostility from her affluent parents. Within two years he and Astrid welcomed two daughters, but things weren’t “happily ever after.” Astrid despised his profession and insisted he pursue a more respectable career. She hated his wood smell, repeatedly told him it was indicative of a common laborer, and demanded he change from his sawdust covered clothing before arriving in their subdivision. She also insisted he tell neighbors he was an architect. Although he changed into clean clothing at a service station nightly, he refused to lie about his profession. Animosity abounded in their home.

  Gabriel’s revelations were interrupted by the loud a cappella rendition of Mention My Name In Topeka by Murray, the silver haired, cheap old fart whose fat rump covered the center barstool from shortly after opening until late-thirty each night. “Hope he doesn’t fall down.” Gabriel watched Murray’s swaying serenade at the bar.

  I looked up and saw Beau motioning me to the phone. “It’s Wesley,” he mouthed.

  We did a brief routine of me shaking my head NO and Beau shaking his head YES, before I finally walked over to the bar. “God, Beau,” I moaned. “Why won’t this man leave me alone? Tell him I just quit. Or died. Tell him anything. I’m scared to death of that horrible man and his threats.”

  Beau cupped his hand tightly over the mouthpiece. “Get on the phone this minute,” he insisted. The only time I’d seen such anger on Beau’s face was the night he fired sexy black-haired dancer Gypsy for soliciting prostitution. “You tell him to come on over and kill you right now. Say you’d rather be dead than be with him.” Beau stared into my eyes.

  Murray tried to cop a feel. The old lech had likely fondled more ass than a proctologist, but in my outrage for Wesley, I slapped Murray’s hand and pointed my finger at his forehead, daring him to touch me. Keeping my eyes focused on Murray’s bulbous nose and red rimmed eyes, I blurted Beau’s message into the phone, handed it back to him and hurried back to the table.

  Gabriel stood up and pulled out my chair. “Hey Blondie, I agree with Al, your hair looks really nice.”

  “Ohhhhh Mention my Name in Topeka. . .” Murray started singing full volume again.

  Gabriel
took a Marlboro from the pack. “It’s getting long and shiny.”

  “What?” I glanced around the room.

  “Your hair looks beautiful. And you’re a million miles away.” He inhaled smoke smoothly into his lungs. “Anything you wanna talk about?”

  I gave him a brief rundown on the Wesley situation. Gabriel listened intently, shook his head crossly a couple of times, and then took my hand, concern covering his face. “I’ll call to check on you the next few days. So, if you need anything, just let me know. Okay?”

  “Oh pleeeeease.” My voice quivered. “I’m fine.”

  “Yeah. . . You sure?”

  “I’m certain,” I said. “You sure convey a lot of meanings with the word yeah.”

  “Yeaaah?” Gabriel drawled. “Kinda like you do with please?”

  “Kinda.”

  He and Al stayed later than usual and Gabriel squeezed my hand before heading to the exit where he looked back, caught my eye, and offered a goodwill nod. Even though Katie-Laura and I stayed extremely busy the remainder of the night, I constantly thought about our kiss. “I saw that mouth-to-mouth between you and Gabe,” Kat said on the drive home. “Looked like you two were in some sort of trance.” I didn’t know about him, but I certainly was, and it was different than my myriad of self induced trances. When I got in bed around three-thirty, the kiss and its magical feeling played over and over in my head.

  The following night, I found myself constantly watching the club’s door, hoping my guys would make one of their infrequent Saturday night short visits, which Al had even dragged his wife along on a few times. Around nine o’clock as I rushed around taking orders, I glanced toward the entrance, and there stood Gabriel, smoking, observing. I delivered the drinks on my tray before walking toward him, but almost tripped in transit. “Where’s your partner?” I tried to regain balance as I looked behind him for Al.

  “I’m flying solo tonight,” Gabriel said softly.

  “Oh,” I responded, almost wetting my sequined panties. The partners always came in the club together. I led him to a table, noticing he was looking somewhat ill-at-ease in his crisp dress shirt and slacks.

  Unaware of Gabriel’s “arrogant asshole” reputation, a new dancer with protruding front teeth plunked her fanny in the chair at his table, and instantly leaned in to ask for a cocktail.

  Distractedly and without hesitation, Gabriel dryly said, “I’d rather give you money to see an orthodontist.”

  His brutal honesty often left those around him speechless, but not this time.

  “Keep your money and buy yourself some manners,” she said, flipping him the bird as she walked away.

  “I see you never got around to taking that Dale Carnegie course either,” I teased.

  “Even if I had, I wouldn’t waste diplomacy trying to influence the likes of her. And tell Beau he needs to make sure this one’s been wormed and has all her shots.”

  We gabbed about the personal habits of dancers flitting around before shifting topics to current events like sit-ins, teach-ins, love-ins, John and Yoko’s wedding, and the Supremes breakup. Our banter bounced from the dim witted Hee Haw, to the sharp witted Dick Cavett Show, as we grabbed every possible moment to chat. He laughed aloud several times and when he softly snorted mid-laugh, I asked if he needed Primatene Mist. He seemed relaxed and happy, unlike his usual gruff self. I savored this tiny peek into his psyche.

  Staying Saturday-night-busy with no time to sit, I felt Gabriel’s eyes follow me from customer to customer, between countless stops I made to check his beer situation. After three beers, he said, “I need to stop with Budweiser and start with the real thing.” Coca-Cola had recently revived their old slogan and I don’t know how often he reiterated, “the real thing,” but Coca-Cola would have been mighty pleased. The parlaying of impolite personal remarks to each other vanished, and the guy I once considered a human affront to women hadn’t once said, “I’d do just about anything for a piece of ass.”

  Suddenly, the Jewel Box didn’t seem such a dreadful place.

  6

  Gabriel began coming in almost daily before prime time, sometimes with Al but often without. He drank Coke while we chatted like long lost friends, and he left before the crowd arrived.

  “Gabe’s dour look is changing into semi-pleasant these days,” said Kat, who wasn’t one to beat around the bush. “And it’s because of you. The man never walked through these doors without Al before.”

  “Really,” I said, trying to sound casual.

  “Yes, really. Even Beau’s noticed the change in Gabe.”

  “Are there more candles in back?” I inspected the one in my hand a bit too thoroughly in my attempt to be blasé. “Several need replacing.” For the first time ever, I couldn’t tell Katie-Laura how I felt. I wasn’t sure myself. Gabriel’s presence made me lose my train of thought. Made me stumble. Made my pulse rise. Made me more fuzzy headed than usual. And after our unexpected mouth-to-mouth kiss, the fuzziness moved south to totally inappropriate places. But he was married. And don’t think my mother left out any quotes on adultery. Those ranked right up there with “Thou shalt not kill.”

  Didn’t take long before Al heard about his partner’s frequent visits to the club without him, and one night after several drinks, Mr. Infatuation-turned-church-deacon took me aside. “You know Gabriel may be miserably married, but he does have two young daughters.”

  I stared into his road-map red eyes as he preached. Blah, blah, blah. Lacquered, bouffant hair was all Al needed to look as hypocritical as those TV evangelists. Al’s wife apparently approved his stopping by the Jewel Box on a regular basis, but it’s doubtful she’d approve if she got wind of the recurring rise in his jeans, courtesy of certain dancers.

  “Gabriel is a real decent guy,” Al appeared to be winding down his mini-gospel hour. “So please just cool things with my partner.”

  “You’re blowing things way out of proportion, Al. Gabriel and I are in a club packed with people—which I understand he frequented long before I began my illustrious career here.” I took a deep breath. “Lighten up. It’s not like I’m one of Homer’s Sirens luring him into this joint, but I’ll cool things.”

  I turned back to my two Jewel Box buddies, listening at the bar. “It’ll likely take a blizzard to cool things between you two.” Katie-Laura winked and cocked her eyebrow.

  “Indeed,” Beau chimed in. “It’s been years since I’ve seen a connection like theirs.”

  “You mean the way Blondie stutters and stumbles when Gabe’s in the club?”

  “That, and how Gabe no longer looks at Cherie, but looks into her.”

  “Something’s brewing between ‘em.” Kat grinned.

  “You guys need medication for your delusions.” I blushed.

  Shortly after Reverend Al’s “Sermon in sin city,” he fell in love again. This time the object of his affection was a sultry nursing student, moonlighting as a dancer. Teddy Bear’s flawless honey color skin, lion-colored locks, and angelic yet seductive blue gray eyes qualified her as belle of the ball. Al said she made Raquel Welch look like leftover gravy. Always dancing to Creedence Clearwater Revival songs, Teddy Bear seemed brighter than the other girls, and managed to escape sarcastic pseudonym typically bestowed by Al and Gabriel.

  “Hey Cherie,” Al piped up one night as I served their drinks. Gabe and I wanna take you and Teddy Bear to lunch this week.”

  “Someone accidentally shoot a hole through your skull with the nail gun today?” I glanced at Al, then Gabriel. Butterflies did acrobatics in my tummy at the thought of seeing him outside this noisy club, but I was sure Beau’s rulebook didn’t permit rendezvous with customers. “Beau’s not about to allow that.”

  “You my friend, are naïve,” said Gabriel.

  “You think this is common practice?”

  “I don’t know, Blondie, you’ll have to ask Beau. Al’s assumption surprises me too, but this ain’t exactly a church we’re sittin’ in.”

  Beau
laughed when I told him what Gabriel said. “You tell Gabe we’ll be having a revival next week if he’s interested. But go ahead and have lunch with them—they’re harmless. Just don’t make it a habit. If men want company, they’ll have to come to the Jewel Box.”

  Laura thought it a bad idea, but two days later Teddy Bear and I met the guys in front of the Jewel Box for our lunch date. I’d been dreaming about what to order at one of Sonny Looks great restaurants when we pulled into the parking lot of Gulfgate Mall. Houston’s first mall, once glitzy and now beginning to show signs of decline like many other southeast side businesses, didn’t thrill me. Nor did the Picadilly Cafeteria where Al pretty much salivated over Teddy Bear the entire meal. Still, he and Gabriel behaved like real gentlemen, and during conversation that ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous, Gabriel used clichés and made analogies mixing historical characters with current events. My prior pain-in-the-ass guy had impeccable table manners—until we stood to leave. Gabriel punched his finger into all untouched rolls. “You’re strange.” I wrinkled my nose into a sneer, all the while feeling charmed by his weirdness.

  A week later at Gabriel’s suggestion, the same foursome wound up at a matinee showing of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Gabriel’s dark moustache wasn’t as long and wild as Redford’s and his blond hair wasn’t as tousled, but other facial characteristics made me feel like I was sandwiched between two versions of the delicious Sundance Kid.

  Beau demanded punctuality from waitresses, so I rushed the others from theater to the club where the four of us sat around talking until I was forced to work for a living. After waiting on a few customers, I hurried back to the table just as a new dancer, Sugar Box, was dragging a chair between Teddy Bear and Al. Almost as pretty as Teddy Bear, this loud mouthed, thigh slapping, long legged dancer with ebony eyes and blazing black hair didn’t use seductive behavior to make her money. When it came time for her to dance, she darted from the table and chose Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay for her dance routine. Sugar Box blackened two teeth and turned her gimme cap backwards, before sitting on the little stage with slouched shoulders and a fishing pole in hand, acting out her rendition of Mr. Redding’s words. She dramatically peered into the crowd while Otis sang of watching the ships roll in, and slowly bobbed her head until he began whistling, at which time she loudly but pathetically whistled along.