The Jewel Box

by C Michelle McCarty

  Taking outstretched dollars and drink offers from men as she made her way back to our table, Sugar Box sat unladylike, spreading one leg on the back of Al’s chair and the other on a vacant chair. “Lovely.” I frowned.

  “Gotta air my crotch,” Sugar Box said, then told a joke so vulgar it even brought a blush to Gabriel’s tan face. Al bought her a drink. She poured it down her throat. “Buy two more so you don’t have to keep dragging out your wallet.” Al complied and Teddy Bear daintily sipped her Kool-Aid cocktail, trying not to show her irritation. On Sugar Box’s fifth cocktail, she began telling Al about her ex-husband who had the largest love bugle she’d ever been blessed to blow. That’s when Teddy Bear stormed away from the table. Ten minutes later, Sugar Box took off to make money elsewhere, and Al went gloomy on us. “For Christ’s sakes, man.” Gabriel punched his shoulder. “That one’s probably seen more penises than a first year urology resident.”

  Crude Sugar Box was incorrigible, but smart enough to sell more cocktails every night than most dancers combined. Lord only knows how much she made in dancing tips, and in a few weeks she was gone with the wind.

  Teddy Bear never went to another lunch or movie, but her participation spawned a practice that soon became Al’s calling card. Gabriel and I were elected chaperones each time Mr. Looking For Love In All The Wrong Places fell in heat. As a foursome we saw countless movies and often shared lunch, with Gabriel keeping his impeccable manners thing going—along with his finger into untouched rolls routine. I never got over the sensation derived from our mouth-to-mouth kiss, but had a new kinship with him. We definitely shared an attraction to the inappropriate and a sense of reckless impulse.

  Even though her tenure lasted longer than most, when Teddy Bear departed, Al turned Father Flanagan and befriended a dancer who was a major contrast to the sexy nursing student. With a pathetic, downcast face and glum expressions that ran the gamut from mourning to despair, Rosemary could have made a living doubling as a bloodhound in Disney movies. Gabriel nicknamed this repugnant goddess of grime, “Rosemary Rotten-crotch.” Her stringy dishwater blonde hair always looked dirty, her acne covered face qualified as a before photo for Clearasil ads, and poor Rosemary radiated gag-inducing body odor.

  “She’s uglier than a twenty dollar mule and smells like she slops pigs before coming to work,” Gabriel said, swigging his Budweiser at the bar.

  “I doubt any farmer would hire her to slop hogs, but every evening around midnight there’s plenty of men in this joint willing to spend money on her.” Beau stacked bar napkins.

  “Yeah, like Al.” I grabbed some stir straws. “After too many drinks, he gets real chummy. That’s why Gabriel leaves the table and comes up here.”

  “That old bastard better not suggest an outing with this verminous creature. This one’s an infectious disease just waiting to happen. I swear I saw a fly land on her the other night and instantly drop dead.” Gabriel polished off his beer.

  I pursed my lips in a little moue of distaste, something I learned from Mother. “Al just feels sorry for her, that’s why he slips her ten bucks to dance to Stevie Wonder’s music.”

  “Hell, I love Stevie Wonder, but I’ll give her fifty—make that a hundred—not to dance at all.” He nodded at Beau for a refill.

  “Behave.” I pinched Gabriel’s arm. “Al’s being humane instead of horny, for a change.”

  “I’m glad Al gives her money.” Beau slid Gabe his beer. “Otherwise I’d have to pad her drink sales. She’s the only dancer not breaking a hundred every night.”

  “Cause she can’t get near anyone without causing them to puke,” Gabriel said.

  “Baby, can you and Laura give her some deodorant and toothpaste?” Beau pulled a twenty from the register and handed it to me. “Maybe school her on hygiene?”

  “We can try, but installing a shower might work better.”

  Other than dancing to the trio of songs by Stevie for Al’s payoff, Rosemary repeatedly danced to Love Grows Where My Rosemary Goes. Without fail, when the Edison Lighthouse song began to flow from the jukebox, Gabriel turned his back to the stage or headed to the men’s room, saying he had to go puke his guts out.

  As fickle as other dancers, Rosemary soon skedaddled from the Jewel Box and was replaced by “Annie Oakley,” who had aptly named herself, much to Gabriel’s chagrin. Moseying around with a lightweight rope she utilized to lasso customers, Annie desperately tried to look the part, pulling her long, reddish brown hair into braids and wearing western garb, complete with cheap boots and spurs. Her western hat was black felt with a cord that pulled around her face and locked with a wooden bead under her chin. Hardly the style worn by true cowgirls, but she was damn proud of it, and constantly shifted the bead to lift the hat and tip her head at men as they walked through the club. Annie had knock-knees and Howdy-Doodie gap teeth that caused her to whistle when she spoke, but the feature men often commented on was her eyes. Even though she wore thick Coke bottle type glasses to correct her vision, she constantly squinted to see her surroundings. Every time she went on stage, men moved their chairs back in fear of being injured during her attempts to display her roping abilities. Laura and I had to clean up many a broken glass behind Annie before she ended her Jewel Box stint. We didn’t miss her one bit.

  Gabriel and Al celebrated my twenty-third birthday at the club with me, and Al got so drunk you’d have thought it was his special day. Gabriel practically carried him out, then came back inside and walked up behind me at the waitress station. “Wanna go see M*A*S*H?” he asked, his breath flowing into my hair.

  “Does Al have a new love?” I stepped back.

  “Not yet. You just like movies so much, I figured maybe I could pick you up on Sunday and we could venture out alone. If you don’t have plans.”

  “I usually groom my beard that day.” I looked over at Beau’s ear bending our direction. “But if you don’t mind unruly facial hair, I’ll go.” No Al with his flavor of the week. Just us. Sounded like fun.

  After our first solo Sunday and Gabriel meeting my sister’s family, it soon turned into a regular event. Gabriel drove to West Houston, picked up Nikki and me at Ellen’s, took us for lunch or ice cream, and then dropped Nikki back while we went to a movie. During those months he got to know my sister and her husband—who thought he was a fairly swell guy for a philanderer. Yes. They questioned our relationship, asking how his wife felt about it. I repeated Gabriel’s explanation: Astrid demanded time alone and didn’t give a rat’s ass about his whereabouts. His marital status didn’t seem germane to our friendship.

  Al’s next love was a short and sassy dancer named Betty, whose ear hugging, fluffed up bob of brightly tinted red hair noticeably contrasted her black, inch long, false eyelashes. For several nights she completely ignored the partners because of their attire, but when she noticed Al was a big spender she was all over him like stink on you-know-what. The partners nicknamed her “Red,” and of course Al fell head over heels for her, saying she exuded sexiness. Gabriel said, “Al wouldn’t know sexy if it stung him on the scrotum and left a calling card in his crack.”

  “Gotta admit her turned up nose and pouty lips are fetching.” I accentuated her positives.

  “But only Bozo can pull off that god-awful red hair color.” Gabriel shook his head.

  “I can’t believe Al fell for her haughty demeanor.”

  “Hell, how can he stand her abrasive voice? It cuts straight through my shoulder blades every time she laughs.”

  Betty (now dubbed, Red) walked around the club in a tube top, skin tight mini skirt, and six inch stilettos, holding her purse as though she had the Hope Diamond inside. She constantly flashed her fake smile while holding her head high and slightly tilted to one side like she expected the paparazzi to snap her photo at any time. Pretty snooty attitude for someone working in a topless club. But maybe that’s what rang Al’s bell. Old love stricken Al spent a small fortune on her, but she still refused to go out with him, even with Gabriel and
me as chaperones.

  After weeks of Al practically getting on his knees and begging for a date, Red agreed to let him move her into her new apartment. “Al has butt blemishes older than this girl, but he’s trying to get a piece of ass and now I’m roped into helping him move her goddamned furniture,” Gabriel complained. “The old bastards’ hornier than a broke-dick dog.”

  “Where do you get these weird aphorisms?”

  “Shakespeare,” he answered.

  “You my friend, are strange.”

  “Me? Take a gander at my partner who’d give his left nut to make that conceited bitch happy. We should’ve never started the lunch and movie bullshit.”

  “At least that creepy caterpillar finally crawled off his upper lip. Your moustache is fetching, but his was. . .” I stuck my finger in my mouth to replicate regurgitation.

  On Saturday the guys came to the club after the move, Gabriel looking thoroughly put out, and Al smiling like we were giving away free beer and growth hormones.

  “What’s with Al, did Red let him kiss her elbow or something?”

  “No.” Gabriel frowned. “The crazy fucker talked her into having breakfast with him tomorrow morning so he can get more sexually frustrated. Naturally we have to go along.” He looked at me, a broad beam shining from his eyes. “But that’s okay… I’ll get to see you earlier than usual. Just don’t make me look at her disgusting face so early in the day.”

  “You can look at me.” I winked. “But I might dye my hair bright red for tomorrow.”

  “Don’t make me puke. Speaking of hair, aren’t you doing something different to yours lately?”

  “Letting it grow back to its natural champagne blonde with only highlights from the sun.”

  “Yeaaah?” He pulled a smoke from his shirt pocket. “I kinda liked that platinum color.”

  “Oh pleeease. That snow white shade is fine for dark clubs and Hollywood, but in the real world it tends to draw a lot of attention. Cat calls from choir boys and that sort of thing.”

  “Ye watchers and ye holy ones, Bright seraphs, cer-u-bim,” he sang.

  I rarely got to bed before three-thirty in the morning after washing my smoke permeated skin and hair until the water ran clear, and I usually slept late due to exhaustion and my nightly dose of Phenapen (no longer needed for pain, just sleep). Still, I was looking forward to an eleven a.m. breakfast. Up before nine, I primped longer than usual, wanting to look my best, and when Gabriel arrived at Charles and Ellen’s I was reading One Fish, Two Fish to Nikki. Being around him out of the Jewel Box was a nice treat and I appreciated how he overlooked where we had met, treating me as though we were introduced at a church social. Okay, maybe more like a truck pull, but he treated me special and it seemed we’d known each other since we were in diapers. I knew we wouldn’t be dining at the Ritz, but had dressed appropriately for a public setting, wearing a tasteful lime green sundress (suitable for church social or truck pull).

  “I like your dress,” Gabriel said with a glance that validated his sincerity.

  “Thank you, my friend. And I like your shirt and slacks, but you need to look for some sawdust cologne. You’re just not the same without your signature scent.”

  “Yeaaah?” he drawled almost shyly, opening the passenger door of his brand spanking new white Ford Ranger pickup truck.

  “Wow, I’m surprised you left the dealership without customized long horns on your hood.”

  “They’re on back order.” He grinned. “I’m in line behind six thousand other Texans.”

  I rolled my eyes in a show of distaste.

  “Meanwhile I’ve gotta find the perfect ten gallon hat and armadillo belt buckle,” he said while backing out of the driveway.

  We headed across town to some little out of the way restaurant to meet Mr. Mid Life Crisis and Little Miss Shit Don’t Stink.

  Al was either wearing lifts or had optimistically stacked condoms an inch high in his boots. And Red must have been half asleep when she got dressed. The fashion craze was bare midriffs, but the haute couture would have found her rendition of the Paris attire mind blowing to say the least. All her tube tops must have been dirty. She arrived in a crop top that barely covered her boobs and short shorts that failed to cover her bum, and completed her ensemble with four inch clogs. Gabriel nudged my waist and mumbled something about her shorts begging for mercy. Red overheard his comment, took it as compliment, then flashed him one of her fake smiles. “Damn. Take a look at her face,” he whispered in my ear, “if you can stand it.”

  I wish he hadn’t done that. It was like passing the scene of an auto accident and seeing mangled bodies. It’s hard to keep from looking, but even a quick glance can leave you with a nasty memory you’ll not soon forget. One of Red’s eyelashes had come unglued and was dangling with every flutter of her lash as she flicked cigarette ashes everywhere but in the ashtray. Al was too busy getting his ego stroked to notice. But her dangling lash and flicking ashes were diddly, compared to her eating habits. Besides putting out cigarettes in a pat of butter, Red smacked her food and slurped coffee while she talked and laughed at Al’s cornball jokes. I dodged flying spittle. “I’ve seen better table manners on Animal Kingdom,” Gabriel said. Al busied himself manhandling Red with his eyes. Slurping, smacking, and letting go her abrasive laugh, Red intermittently regaled Al with far-fetched tales about her fabulous life. When she started in with some crap about Charlie Manson’s sex appeal, Gabriel pushed his plate aside and crowded into me.

  “Puullease.” I whispered to him, “This chick is a bonafide weirdo.”

  His lips went against my ear. “She was definitely left in the birth canal too long. And if her eyelash falls into that plate, I’ll guaran-damn-tee you, we’re leaving.”

  He had barely completed his sentence when Red dropped egg yolk all over her crop top and failed to notice yolk dribbling down her chin while she blabbed. We’re talking gauche table manners, folks. Familiar with Gabriel’s brutal honesty and total dislike for Red, I prepared for a Woody Allen restaurant scene when he rose from the table. He surprised me. “I told Blondie about the apartments you moved to, and promised to take her over to see them today. She’s looking for her own place, ya know.”

  I stood beside him. Red was clinging to Al’s left arm and tossing him sugar coated compliments he was lapping up like ice cream after a tonsillectomy. She gave him a real sense of pride, you could tell. The odd couple barely noticed our departure.

  “I was gettin’ ready to puke,” Gabriel grumbled, opening the truck door for me. “I’d rather chew on rat guts or get kicked in the groin before tolerating the company of that avaricious shrew again.”

  “Puke. Rat guts. Groin.” I repeated a few of his words that would’ve once grossed me out. “I’ve always longed to meet a poetic James Joyceian kind of guy.”

  “Hey Blondie, does it feel to you like we met on Noah’s ark?”

  “Yeah . . . it does.” I reflected. “And thanks for getting us away from those two animals.”

  “Pleasure’s all mine. Did I mention this apartment complex has furnished models, so you won’t have to buy furniture? It’d be closer to work for you, and easier than drivin’ out to the west side every weekend for me.”

  “You’re fun to know.” I leaned against the passenger door with the comfy casualness of a school girl. “But in a strange kind of way.”

  “Yeaaah? Well so are you.” His blue eyes sparkled.

  “That was the caption by my yearbook photo.” I rolled down the window.

  “Fun to know in a strange kind of way?”

  “That would’ve been better than just ‘Fun to know.’ Of course, my mother was unhappy it wasn’t ‘Virtuous to know’—ya know.”

  “Watch out Blondie, you’re pickin’ up my pitiful grammar.”

  I had discussed getting my own place for some time, but a lingering fear that psychopath Wesley might find me again gave me qualms about moving anywhere alone. Hidden behind trees and only blocks from Int
erstate 45 South, the St. Patrick apartments looked pristine and homey, which made me instantly like them. But when Gabriel asked if I wanted to stop at the office and see a furnished model, I declined. He gave me an understanding nod. “Well, at least you know what the place looks like when you feel more comfortable about moving out on your own.”

  “Thanks for bringing me by. Maybe I’ll stop and look at one of the models sometime soon.” I fidgeted with my bangle bracelets.

  “You don’t sound very convincing, Blondie.”

  “Maybe I’ll enroll in acting classes, Dagwood.”

  My sister and her husband had been exceptionally hospitable, and Nikki thought Jimmy was her brother, but we had lived with them for six months. It was time for us to be our own family. Before going to work on Friday, I drove my brand new, blue Ford Mustang to the St. Patrick apartments with security deposit in hand. They were as cozy on the inside as they looked from the outside.

  “You made any decisions about moving to the south side?” Gabriel asked, after taking Nikki and me for ice cream on Sunday.

  “You’re starting to sound like a lobbyist who suspects I have political power over the rising cost of barley and hops.”

  “Am not,” he responded. “I’m just tired of puttin’ so many miles on my truck.”

  “Yeah, right.” I reapplied lip gloss. “Well, Ellen and Charles can’t be guardians forever, and I can’t imagine having a better neighbor than Red.”

  “Blondie, don’t tell me you moved next door to that disgusting wench.”

  “Opposite side of the complex.”

  “Thank God.” He helped Nikki out of the truck and watched her skip back inside to play with Cousin Jimmy. “Just let me know when you’re ready to move. I know a mover who does a good job and it’ll only cost you a couple of Budweisers.” He winked, and then crouched down to pat a neighbor’s Welsh terrier who wandered onto the driveway.