by H. M. Ward
Mom misinterprets my shiver as annoyance. She sits on my bed and looks up at me. “So you’ve finally hit your rebellion stage. It’s about time.”
“It’s R&B!”
“I know, but usually when I come in here, you’re listening to Chopin and practicing pointe. I’m not used to seeing you in fancy panties, shaking your money-maker.” She says it deadpan, without a trace of humor.
My jaw drops and I squawk, “My money-maker?”
She raises a single perfect brow, “I’ve never been certain if that was referring to one’s breasts or buttocks. Did I use the expression incorrectly?”
That makes me laugh. She can play this part with Daddy, but not me. I toss a pillow at her. “You know what it means! Buttocks? Really!?”
“By the way, I like those pantyhose with the built-in ass. Tell me, what happens when a guy goes to give you a squeeze and realizes it’s stuffed? Most women don’t stuff their asses, dear.”
“Most daughters don’t discuss backdoor matters with their mothers, Mom.”
“Touché.” She smiles again, but the worry lines between her brows give her away. “Don’t get into any trouble. Your father is stressed enough right now, and I’m worried about him. Actually, I’m worried about you. You’ve been acting different. Is there anything you want to talk about?”
Yes.
“No, Mom. I’m fine. I’m just excited about going dancing with Erin.” My mom rolls her eyes at the name. “Come on, she’s my best friend and she’s making it on her own.”
“Is that what you want to do? Leave everything you know behind and abandon all responsibility? What about the people who love her?” Mom is wringing her hands, even though she tries to force her hands into her lap and sit properly on the edge of my bed. Her age shows tonight, especially in her tired eyes.
“Erin’s family doesn’t—”
“You don’t know that,” she interrupts. “Love is a strange thing that makes people behave in ways that are otherwise unexplainable.” She pauses, rubbing her temples, before continuing. “Gina, I wouldn’t wish Erin’s life on you for an instant, but if you still feel the need to see what it’s like to be her, to go to these places, to be a part of the debauchery that follows your friend around, please, just be careful.”
I stiffen at her words. “You don’t think I can handle myself in the real world, is that it? I’m only good if I’m on some wealthy man’s arm, an ornament—is that what you mean?”
“Gina, don’t be silly.” Mom stands and walks over to me. We’re eye to eye. “I’m telling you that I’m here, if you ever want to talk. That’s all. Have fun wearing your fake butt and chicken cutlet boobs.” She tosses the package of cleavage enhancers at me. “For the record, you’re a beautiful woman without those things.” Mom smiles sadly at me, then turns and walks demurely out the door.
I have no words. I’m not sure how she did it, but it feels like she sucked the fun right out of my body. I sit down on the bed, no longer interested in enhancing my curves in all the right places.
THE SEXY CLOWN
9:12 pm
I realize I need tonight to be a release, a way to eliminate the pressure within me, threatening to overtake me with every breath. Even when I close my eyes, it doesn’t stop. Nightmares plague me—they’re getting worse and harder to hide.
Last night I screamed and sat upright in my bed, covered in sweat and choking from smoke that wasn’t there. Pete Ferro didn’t save me. The smoke didn’t kill me. I was trapped in that hellish room for decades, like it was my own personal Hell.
Someone dressed in solid black, a hood covering his head, finally opened the door. The fire and smoke had no effect on him, probably because the guy was the incarnation of evil.
He pinned me with a wicked smile. His words were simple, “You did this.”
My voice is gone, lost long ago. Tears streak down my face as I kneel in front of this guy, hands clasped together, begging him to spare me.
I push the horrid dreams from my mind, trying to shake off the eerie feeling clinging to me. I won’t let myself curl up into a ball and panic. Not tonight.
Putting the final touches on my ensemble, I study myself in the mirror one last time, regaining my confidence. My hair is tied in a high ponytail, and my light makeup draws attention to my eyes. A black sleeveless dress with a clingy bodice shows off my natural curves, its swishy skirt brushing the tops of my knees. The neckline of my dress plunges just a little, showing just enough skin, and a narrow red leather belt accentuates my waist. I pull on a pair of red leather T-straps and look in the mirror.
The overall look is very fun and feminine, yet still on the demure side. I would have looked like a pinup if I’d put on my fake curves, but they’re still on my bed in their original packaging.
Still, I want something more, some dramatic difference. The old Gina is gone, and this interim Gina scares me. Maybe Erin won’t understand. Mother certainly doesn’t. I don’t feel rebellious, I feel lost. I’ve always prided myself in being honest and doing what is right. Now those traits are gone, burned to ashes and buried where the warehouse once stood. The warehouse fire marks the end of my old life and the beginning of something else. I don’t feel the same anymore. I need a way to visually express the change, but how?
The answer is staring me in the face—a tube of bright red lipstick. I never wear anything so dramatic, so dark. Grabbing a lip pencil, I take my time tracing along the lines of my lips and filling them in. I pick up the tube of red lipstick and paint it carefully in place. When I’m done, I stare in the mirror, not sure if I look sexy or clownish.
The sexy clown. That’s a look. My mom is going to think I want to be a rapper, since I’m wearing ‘hoochie’ lipstick. The thought makes me smile. Screw it. I’m not taking it off or subduing it.
At the sound of the doorbell, I spritz myself with my favorite perfume, pausing to take comfort in a smell I love. So, maybe I can’t blame Pete for his obsession with his body wash. It’s amazing how a smell can affect your mood in a blink.
I hear Timothy, our butler, and realize that Dad’s caught sight of Erin. Those two clash terribly, and if I don’t intervene there’ll be a brawl.
I hear Daddy’s stern deep voice, “How are your parents?”
“Fuck, if I know. How’s your patronizing admonition of Gina’s choices going? Still the cold-hearted asshole you were before? Or have you realized she has a brain and isn’t just your office ornament?”
Holy shit. I’m on the upper landing of the third floor and make my way down the tall winding staircase as fast as possible. If I had on ballet flats I would have run. Damned heels.
“Believe what you want, but I value my daughter. You should return to your parents, Erin, and stop this foolishness. Take your place with your family and stop shaming them with your ludicrous behavior.”
I reach the marble foyer floor, my heels clicking sassily, just in time to catch Erin giving Dad the bird. Erin spins around and grins at me. “Holy shit! Look who’s hussying it up tonight! You are so going to get laid!”
Dad’s face turns red with anger, “Regina Granz, I forbid you to leave my house with this, this—” He’s flabbergasted, unable to pull the right words from his mind. The rich have a way of speaking in backhanded insults, and Erin obviously gave that up. Daddy, on the other hand, clings to the way things have been done for generations. There’s a proper way to live one’s life, a proper way to behave, and Erin is not behaving properly.
Mom shows up at the right time, places her hand on Daddy’s arm and smiles at me. “Reginald, our girl knows what is right. She won’t get into trouble. Let her go out for a little bit.” Mom’s smooth tone soothes Daddy’s ruffled feathers.
She steps toward me for a hug and whispers in my ear, “If either of you can’t drive, be responsible and call for the limo.” Erin puffs up, offended, but Mom cuts her off, “I’m not suggesting anyone will have to see you taking a ride in it, but it’s better than accidentally killing yourse
lf or someone else. If Gina is your friend, protect her. No drunk driving. Not today, not ever. Use the limo if you need it and stay out of trouble.”
Mom leans in and kisses my cheek. She does the same for Erin. It’s a gesture that dates back to our childhood. Mom was the mother figure Erin didn’t have. Acceptance from Mom means a great deal to her. I can tell because Erin’s eyes turn glassy. She stands silently for a moment and then nods.
I admire Erin—a lot. When Erin turned eighteen, she rebelled against her family and their fortune. She became an artist, paying her bills by selling her work in Brooklyn markets and a few Chelsea galleries.
Even though I sometimes envy her, times like this remind me that she’s alone. If she can’t make it as an artist, her family won’t show compassion. One broken bone would make her destitute. One blown transmission, one bad month of sales will force her to crawl back home. She’d rather die than go back home.
I wish I had her backbone, her determination. Erin knows who she is and isn’t afraid to speak her mind. Next to her I feel mousy, well, mousy with big red lips.
“Nice look. I nearly died when I heard heels, but when I turned and saw those cherry lips, I thought your dad was going to kill me. I’m sure he’s in there blaming me right now.”
“Nah, Mom blames you for the purchase of my fake ass and blow-up boobs. Oh, and the rap music. You’re such a bad influence.” I laugh as we slip into her car.
Erin pulls the door shut and adds, “Yep. I’m a horrible influence making girls with no junk in their trunk buy booty pants. Rich kids everywhere are doomed.” She laughs. “Your mom is sweet. I honestly can’t tell if she knows stuff or if she’s just playing the old lady card to get inside your head.”
“Yeah, I’m noticing that too.”
We drive the parkway in silence, and I stare at the ocean through the window. Erin still hasn't clued me in on what kind of bar we're going to, and her evasiveness makes me increasingly nervous. My only reassurance is that she's not dressed in any extreme, over the top way. With her skin-tight capri pants and short blouse knotted above her pierced bellybutton, she doesn't look like she dressed for a mosh pit. That’s a plus.
After a while, I ask, “So, where are we going? And why are you dressed like Patty Duke?”
Erin glances at me. “Who?”
“I forgot you don’t like vintage shows.”
“You didn’t forget anything. They’re called old crap and based solely on a false perception of reality that doesn’t even come close to the way people actually live, today or in the past. They’re government propaganda and total shit-cake that they want you to swallow with a smile on your face. Sorry, babe. I don’t do shit-cake.”
“Now you have issues with ‘the man?’ New phobia?”
“Psh, old news sista’. People with power can’t be trusted.”
“Which is why you had so much fun ogling the man-beast in action?”
Erin waves a finger at me. “Totally different scenario. That man has money and power, but from a distance he looks normal.”
“Yeah, normal. Whatever that is.” I study her from the corner of my eye. “Fine, I’ll torment you with classic Hitchcock movies some other time, but for now—where are we going? And are you absolutely sure this place is on the up and up? And DAMN it’s far away." We’re entering the village of Port Jeff.
We park on a crowded side street, and I’m grateful to find we are at least not at a rave. Erin parallel parks and grabs her keys. “Come on, Sherlock. You’ll figure it out soon enough. Let’s get in line already, so we can have some fun!”
We wander over to a building constructed right on the waterfront. People of all ages are here, some dressed in vintage clothing. I see beautiful outfits ranging from the sleek lines of roaring 20's flapper dresses to the bell curves of the feminine 50's rockabilly dresses.
My body language must be radiating anxiety, because Erin bumps me with her shoulder. Erin hugs me and laughs. "You are just too adorable. You won't get arrested tonight. If you’re into that kinky handcuff stuff, though, we can find a way to get you into a bit of sexy trouble." She waggles her eyebrows at me.
“No sexy trouble, Erin. That’s only okay if it’s Anthony using those handcuffs on me or if I get to use them on him." Did I just say that out loud? I hear people chuckling behind us and my cheeks burn with the realization I may have spoken a bit loudly.
"Hell, yeah! That's my girl! Gina, you and I are going to have so much fun tonight!" She wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes me into a half hug, giving my head a companionable bump with hers.
SIT ON MY FACE
10:16 pm
“How did you find out about this place, anyway?” The closer we get to the door, the louder I have to yell for Erin to hear me. The music coming from inside is getting louder, and the crowd by the door is densely packed.
“My downstairs neighbor, Ricky, owns this club,” Erin shouts over the crowd. We absently move several steps forward.
I grab Erin’s arm and turn her toward me, “Wait, Ricky, as in Oh-My-God-He’s-The-Best-Sex-Of-My-Life Ricky?”
“The one and only.” She waggles her eyebrows, and we move another step forward.
Eventually, we make it to the front of the line, but a bouncer clicks the red velvet rope back into the metal post, cutting us off. I'm bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet, anxious to get in. My legs feel restless, aching to dance. A night of actual fun, without rules to follow, is long overdue.
I stretch my neck, trying to peek inside, but can't see a thing. Patience is not one of my virtues, especially with The Hulk standing between the dance floor and me. I study the brutish bouncer, in his overly tight t-shirt, his bulging arm muscles stretching the seams. Finally, he puts a hand on his earpiece, nods to someone, and moves the rope, letting us in.
Inside at last, my jaw drops—this place is amazing! The sights, sounds, and smells seem to send me back in time. Ricky has turned an old waterfront house into a retro dance club and bar. Immediately in front of us, a staircase leads to the balcony, where guests seated at tables can watch the dancers below. On the main floor, a beautifully polished wood bar graces one entire wall and hosts an unparalleled assortment of alcoholic beverages. Another wall boasts huge glass doors, through which we have a fantastic view of the water. People pass through the open doors freely, walking along the wrap-around porch and enjoying the cool summer night.
On the third wall, where I expected the typical Friday night rock band to be playing from the stage, a Big Band ensemble of saxophones, trumpets, clarinets and trombones, bop up and down as they play a swing number. Their drummer pounds out rhythms surrounded by a forest of drums, really rounding out that swing beat. A couple dressed in vintage clothing and holding old style microphones croon away at each other in time with the band.
But as much as the atmosphere and the band delight me, it's what I see on the dance floor that makes me swoon. "Erin! They're, they're..." I'm pointing at the dance floor with one hand and tugging on her arm with the other.
"Swing dancing, baby! I knew you'd like it. Come on! Let's get your drink on, and then we'll find you a dance partner."
Erin grabs me by the wrist, pulling me toward the bar. I'm absolutely giddy and can't help being distracted by the other dancers spinning, twirling and rock-stepping.
We weave our way through the crowd, finally securing two stools at the bar. The bartender has his back to us, fixing drinks for other patrons. Erin taps him on the shoulder and he turns around, giving Erin a welcoming smile.
"Hey, Erin! I’m so glad you made it to opening night!" He leans over the bar and gives her an obscene open-mouthed kiss. I turn away, uninterested in seeing my bestie’s pierced tongue plunging into some guy’s mouth.
The bartender is on the short side, a little older than me, maybe late twenties, with dark hair, dark eyes, and tanned skin. He's dressed in a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, high-waist trousers, and suspenders.
A chain hangs out of one of his pockets, probably securing a pocket watch, and a fedora hat sits jauntily on top of his head. The outfit is phenomenal. He looks like he just stepped out of the 1940’s.
When they stop sucking face, I hear Erin huskily say, "Wouldn't miss this for anything! Hey, Ricky! This is my friend, Gina."
Ricky looks my way, and I extend a hand. "It's nice to finally meet you. This place is amazing, congrats!"
“Thanks! It’s great to finally meet you too, Gina. I’ve heard so much about you,” he says smiling as if he means it.
“Ditto,” I blush. I think about the things I’ve heard about Ricky… well, let’s just say he may be short in height, but Erin is all praise when it comes to his other attributes.
"Hey, Ricky, Gina is in need of a dirty drink and a good dance partner. Or a good drink and a dirty dance partner, whichever we can find first. Can you help us out?"
"Yep! I'm on it, doll. Just let me get these customers taken care of, and I'll be right back."
I give Erin a half-hearted embarrassed slap on the shoulder. Laughing, Ricky knocks his knuckles on the bar and returns to his other patrons.
Erin and I turn around on our stools to face the rest of the room. The atmosphere is festive, the music is lively, and the dancing...oh, the dancing! It's carefree and wild.
I watch an obviously more experienced couple do lifts and throws; the girl looks positively weightless and the guy beams with the excitement of each new step. The floor clears around them, providing room for them to show off their moves. Their audience claps their hands to the beat of the live band's music, everyone laughing, whistling, or cat calling as the couple cuts a rug.
Some less experienced dancers loiter off to the side, still trying to figure out basic steps, stepping on each other's toes, and bumping foreheads, but laughing at their own failed attempts. Watching them, I'm hit with a sudden urge to want to learn everything—every step, every spin, and every throw. I want, no, I need to be good at this. I always wanted to learn how to swing dance, but my parents were adamant I stick to ballet and nothing else.