Chapter 22
I’m quite gratified that skills learned from “Stripping for Your Virtual Boy-Toy” article pay off. Joshua is so overwhelmed by my wanton-harem-girl-in-a-trolley erotic display, that he interrupts the dance routine for main course. Am happy to serve it up.
The sex is even better than last time. Wonderfully gorgeous. Extremely nice. At least the “Joshua is coming” doesn’t bother me so much.
Joshua leaves during the night. I suspect I’m supposed to be offended, but am only pleased. Now I don’t have to worry about my morning face, hair, breath and personality.
Stage Two is officially successful. Cannot remember Stage Three, but suspect it’s clear sailing from here.
The next morning, in celebration of utter good fortune, I decide to treat myself to a latte and a blueberry muffin. The sun is shining, the day is warm. I buy a paper and bring it with me to the Brown Pelican, the restaurant at Hendry’s Beach, and sit at one of the tables overlooking the ocean.
I can see the nooks and crannies on the Channel Islands, several miles off the coast. Can’t believe I ever lived in D.C. Did it for Louis, of course, and at the time it seemed right. He was in his third year of law school when we met. I’d just finished my sophomore year. He took care of me, and I of him. Felt natural to move in together when he finished school, and got hired at S, M & B. His apartment was much nicer than the dorms.
I’d considered graduate school when I’d finished my B.A. in Psychology, and had even been accepted into the master’s program at American University. But by the time registration rolled around I’d lost interest. Was too busy playing wife to Louis. Besides, at twenty-two, I had plenty of time. But now, four years later, all I have to show for it is a way with silk throw pillows and the ability to pick the best dish on a lunch menu.
Sitting at Hendry’s, the ocean sparkling at me, aching pleasantly from sex, I realize I don’t miss Louis at all. Six years, and I don’t miss him. Should I feel empty, or free?
I finish my breakfast and force myself to look at the classifieds, hoping to find a job that requires competence with silk pillows and lunch menus.
The ad stands out like a beacon:
Earn $200/night
Exotic Dancing
Stop by Café Lustre
2-4 p.m. weekdays
$200 per night! I can’t believe Jenna is making so much money. Why can’t I make 200 bucks a night?
Because I don’t have that good a body. I have cellulite and a thick waist.
Well, sure. But Joshua said he’d pay to see me naked. If someone who looks and fucks like he does wants to see me strip why wouldn’t other men? And $200 a night, just for taking my clothes off, well that’s easy enough. I’ll just close my eyes and think of… Money.
Sure I will. There’s no way I’d ever strip in public. I get embarrassed dancing with my clothes on. And how old is too old to strip? I called a number for information about selling my eggs, and when I told them I was over twenty-four, they said thanks but no thanks. So stripping seems out of the question.
Then the check comes. The latte and the muffin and the omelette and the mimosa comes to $23. Plus I had to fill the Beemer with gas today—and have a new muffler put on. I pay the bill, and leave four dollars tip, and I have seventeen dollars left.
Not on me. Not in my wallet. My total, overall, complete, entire and absolute wealth is: seventeen dollars. Carlos will be furious.
That’s it. No choice. Today. Café Lustre.
Not sure what to wear to stripping interview. I check my wardrobe, and the only thing remotely appropriate is a Vivienne Tam see-through net dress in red with embroidered flowers, that goes over a red satin slip. Convinced Louis to buy it for last year’s office Christmas party. Of course, if I get the job, I’ll have to lose the slip.
The café is a windowless box of a building. I open the door and nervously step inside. Dark. Stuffy. And there’s a naked blond girl writhing on the stage to an old Foreigner song. Those can’t be real tits. How does she get them to stick up like that? Oh my God, she’s putting one of them in her mouth. I can’t do that. Am I suppose to be able to do that? I thought only dogs could do that.
There are waitresses in skimpy porn-costumes and a topless girl is rubbing her tits in a seated guy’s face. He’s sitting on his hands, like he’s afraid to touch her, which seems odd. She turns and presses her “down there” (as my mother calls it) against his obvious hard-on (as my mother does not call it). Is that part of the job? I thought you only had to get naked, swing around the pole and you were done. This is all wrong. The little Jenna sexpot was right. I cannot do this.
Must get out. Get out now. I turn to flee and—Jenna.
“Oh hi, Jenna! I was just—” I want to say leaving, but cannot in the face of her superior expression “—here to apply for a job.”
She’s wearing only a g-string. Well, this is awkward. I try to keep from looking at her breasts, but my only options are the dog-woman on stage and a couple of lap mushers.
“You’re here for a job?” she asks.
No! No! “Yes. Yes!”
“You know what? Good for you.” She hooks her arm through mine and smiles. “A lot of women are all snotty and superior when they hear you dance, but they don’t have the courage to even try it.”
We walk side by side, arms clasped, and my elbow knocks her bare tit as she leads me towards the bar. Doesn’t seem to bother her, so I pretend it’s not happening.
“Maybe we can even work on an act together. Joshua loves girl-girl shows.”
“I, um…Joshua what?”
“Wesley—the owner—he doesn’t come ’til later,” she says. “Tony usually takes the first look.”
At the bar, she introduces me to Tony, the white version of Mike Tyson. He’s wearing a summer seersucker suit with black dress shoes. Not a good look.
“Elle’s looking for a job,” Jenna says.
“I can see that,” he growls. “Get back to work.” He talks like he’s way too fond of The Sopranos.
“Don’t mind him,” she says. “His bark’s bad, but his bite’s worse.” She kisses me on the cheek. “Good luck.”
“Thanks,” I stammer, as she disappears into the greasy gloom.
“Step back. Let me take a look at you,” Tony says.
In a daze, I step back. Because that’s what I always do—what I’m told. What if I hurt Tony’s feelings by saying there’s been a mistake, I don’t really want a job?
“Turn around.”
I obediently turn. But I will not remove any clothing. This is not Planned Parenthood. I’ll tell him, when he’s finished gawking, that I’ve changed my mind. Worse comes to worse, I take the job and never show up. I’m sure it happens all the time.
“All the way around,” he says. “Okay.”
I stop turning, desperate to invent an excuse to be gone. I’m here doing a research project? I’m actually a man? I have two wooden legs?
“You’re way too old for this,” he says.
“What?”
“You are too old, baby.”
“I am not. I’m only twenty…one.”
“Sure you are. You oughta try the Screen Actor’s Guild.”
“The what?”
“Screen Actor’s Guild. The S.A.G.”
Is he telling me I ought to be in pictures? “Why?”
He eyes my breasts disdainfully. “Because they SAG, baby.”
The greasy gloom turns red as my rage rises. I humiliate myself, and he insults me?
A topless wonder passes by with a tray.
A glass of cranberry juice. A splash and a bellow, and I start running.
Heels, don’t fail me now.
PLAINTIFF’S CLAIM
Defendant owes me the sum of: $ 700.00, not including court costs because (describe claim):
She threw cranberry juice at my suit.- This claim is against a government agency, and I filed a claim with the agency. My claim was denied by the agency, or the agency did not act on my claim before the legal deadline. (See form SC-150.)
- I have asked defendant to pay this money, but it has not been paid.
I have NOT asked defendant to pay this money because (explain):
Seemed like I’d get more money if I sued. - I understand that
a. I must appear at the time and place of trial and bring all witnesses, books, receipts, and other papers or things to prove my case.
b. I may talk to an attorney about this claim, but I cannot be represented by an attorney at the trial in the small claims court.
c. I have no right of appeal on my claim, but I may appeal a claim filed by the defendant in this case.
d. If I cannot afford to pay the fees for filing or service by a sheriff, marshal, or constable, I may ask that the fees be waived. - I have received and read the information sheet explaining some important rights of plaintiffs in the small claims court.
- No defendant is in the military service except (name):
I declare under penalty of perjury under the laws of the State of California that the foregoing is true and correct.
I haven’t left the trolley for three days. Hair in knots. Eyes puffy. Pajamas beginning to stink. Am reminded of country-western song I once heard on AM radio—She Walks Like a Woman, But Smells Like a Man.
I’ve spent a total of nine hours, give or take a few, standing in front of the mirror with my pajama top raised, wondering if my tits do sag. I turn this way, and that way. Maybe. Definitely not. A little. No way. Still haven’t decided.
Joshua has not called. Has not returned my calls. Is he with Jenna, who is unafraid to appear in public in all her gynecological glory?
Merrick hasn’t called, either. I almost feel worse about that. I mean, sure I had a trolley full of crapwater, and I threw condoms at him and he disapproves of my getting fired from Super 9, but he…I don’t know. I thought he’d call.
Even Maya hasn’t called. Her desertion hurts the most. She knows I’m falling apart. But I’m afraid to call her, because she hates me. We got along great in high school, then for years when we didn’t live in the same town. I know she loves me, but a couple months of the real Elle, up close and personal, is enough to turn anyone against me. I don’t know what to do. It’s not going to be much fun moving back in with them if they hate me.
It’s finally time to admit I’m beaten. No money. No job. Bad credit. No man. Possible sagging tits. Pending lawsuit. And due out of the trolley in five days.
I call my mother.
“Mom, it’s me.”
“Who?”
“Elle. Your daughter.”
“Oh, hi, honey. How are you? Did you get a job?”
“No.” I can’t tell her the truth. She’ll just tell me it’s all my fault. And she’s right. “No job, no apartment…”
“Well, keep trying. I’m sure you’ll find something. I saw on Oprah the other day a woman who’d made a career organizing other people’s closets. You know how much you love closets. I remember saying, when you were still in grade school…”
For once I’m able to tune her out because there’s a clicking on the phone. “Do you hear that?” I interrupt.
“What?”
There’s silence on the line. “Oh. Nothing. Um, Mom, I was thinking about your offer? To let me come and stay? And, well—” The clicking starts again. “There! That clicking.”
“Your call-waiting, you mean? You really ought to get Caller ID. I saw a segment on Maury, and this woman was being stalked by an ex-boyfriend, who was a cop, she said if she didn’t—”
Call waiting! In a burst of optimism I’d ordered it along with my voice mail. I forgot I had it. “Hold on, Mom. Back in a sec.”
It’s Sheila from Superior.
“Sheila, hello! Sorry it took so long to pick up. I was just doing a little ten-key practice.”
“Of course you were. I’m calling because I think I’ve got the job for you.”
“A job? For me?”
“The pay isn’t great, ten an hour, but it’s fun work.”
“Well, I was hoping for more.”
“Don’t push it, dear.”
“No, I’m sorry. What’s the job.”
“You’re going to work as a telephonic metaphysical counselor.”
“Um—a what?”
“A phone psychic, dear!”
“A phone psychic,” I say, reverently. My future flashes before me: the humble beginnings, the slow rise, and finally the nation-wide infomercial which makes me a household name. “You are a genius, Sheila. I won’t—I won’t let you down.”
“Please don’t, dear. Oh, but I must ask you one question before I send you to them—do you feel you have been blessed with the Gift? The correct answer is ‘yes.’”
“Since I was a child,” I say. “My mother always insisted I was an intuitive. She’s a counselor herself—in Sedona. The red rock country, you know. It’s a nexus. I come from a…a long line of psychics.”
“And…?”
“Um, what? Oh! And the answer is, yes.”
“Very good, dear.” She spends five minutes giving me the job information. I’m about to hang up when I remember my mother’s on the other line.
I hit the button, and hear: “…Cub Scout leader! Well, Dr. Laura had a thing or two to say about that, believe you me. She told her to—”
“Mom? Mom!”
“Yes, dear?”
I don’t have the heart to tell her I’ve been on the other line this whole time. “The reason I called, Mom, is that—”
“I heard, you want to come live with me.”
“No. I got a job.”
“You just said you didn’t have a job.”
When did she suddenly start paying attention? How can she talk for ten minutes without knowing I wasn’t there, but have heard everything I said before that?
“I’ve got one now,” I say. “And I wanted you to be the first to hear. I’m going to be a phone psychic.”
“A phone psychic? That’s wonderful! Latoya or Dionne?”
“Neither, Mom.”
“Not Cleo?” she says with awe. “I heard she was shut down.”
I laugh. “I don’t really know, Mother.”
I am so pleased, I let her tell me about the advice her customers have gotten from various phone psychics over the years, as I go through my wardrobe. I wonder what the other psychics will be wearing.