TWENTY-FOUR
And so it begins.
There is Alannah in my bathroom, naked at the sink, wearing one of my towels on her head like a turban. Her small, pretty breasts are so firm that they don’t even bounce when she moves. She’s buzzing her pubic hair with a trimmer. Then she’s rubbing lotion all over her pale skin. With her hands covering her breasts, she turns to acknowledge me.
“Mama, you got a comb?” she asks.
Wordlessly, I open the medicine cabinet, and hand her my comb. She takes it and runs it through her long, blonde mermaid tresses. She’s blocking the mirror.
“You almost done, hon?” I ask.
“Yeah, soon,” she says.
“I need to shower, too, or we’re gonna be late,” I say.
“Oh, sorry mama, I’ll be out in a sec.”
Twenty minutes later, she’s still preening in front of the mirror. She stops when she sees me behind her again.
“I can do the rest of my makeup in the living room,” she says reluctantly, collecting her toiletries, which are all over the bathroom sink.
I rush into the shower. I decide to do my own makeup at work. My hair is still limp and wet when we go downstairs to my garage.
In the car, I turn on the CD player. I can tell that Alannah doesn’t like my music. I turn it back off and put a Prodigy tape into the deck. I’ve seen her dance to these songs at work. Sure enough, she bobs her head in time with the tune, leaving me to worry about delivering us to the club. We sit in traffic on the Queensboro Bridge while the sun is setting. The whole time, I cross my fingers that we aren’t late.
We get to the parking lot with a few minutes to spare. I grab my ticket, run next door into the club, and jet down the stairs, nearly falling. The dressing room is packed. There’s no space in front of any of the mirrors. I sigh, put my dress and stilettos on, and make it up the stairs about five minutes after the shift begins.
Alannah is sitting at the bar with Tim, still wearing her street clothes. They’re deep in conversation. When they see me, they look up.
“What happened?” Tim asks me.
“With what?”
“With your face? You look like death warmed over,” he says.
“You don’t like my natural look?” I quip.
“Go fix it,” he says. “You’re out on the floor, supposed to have your makeup on at eight o’clock. You know the rules. I’m not gonna fine you this time.”
Alannah gets out of her seat.
“I’m going to get dressed,” she announces.
We both head back down into the basement.
“Don’t feel bad, he says that shit to me too when I don’t wear lipstick,” she says, opening her bag.
“I’m surprised he didn’t fine us for being late,” I answer.
“Tim don’t fine me,” she says.
“What’re you, special?” I ask, brushing my cheeks rosy with rouge.
“Yeah, heh, heh, special, yeah, I’m special,” she cackles in her Beavis voice.
“Bitch, you’re short bus special,” I return. “No, seriously? He won’t fine you?”
She shrugs. “He knows what I make. Some nights I don’t even make tip-out,” she says.
“Why do you still work here?” I want to know.
She’s quiet, changing into her dress.
“I been here for five years,” she finally says. “This is the only job I ever had. Tim takes care of me. He’s like a dad, or something.”
“Or something,” I repeat, but I stop when I see the look on her face.
“I’m glad he’s good to you,” I amend myself. “He oughta be good to somebody.”
“Tim’s all right,” Alannah says, her voice tightening.
Onstage, I try to forget the nagging doubts that have begun to set in. I writhe against the pole, breathing heavily. I barely notice when the customers tip me. The dancing releases tension in my body.
A few more customers straggle in before the end of my set, though, and I come off stage ready to make the rounds. Soon I’ve snagged a mark and I am giving him a lap dance. Over his shoulder, I watch Alannah in the mirror. She’s sitting in the corner of the club, holding court with Anisa the waitress. Eventually, Anisa gets up to do her job, and Alannah stays there, staring into space.
She only gets up to go onstage, and also periodically to smoke blunts in the basement with Anisa and Kaia. Other than that, she doesn’t speak to any of the men unless they talk to her first.
No wonder she doesn’t make money.
A wave of resentment creeps up on me. It’s almost invisible on the seismic chart, and I shoo it away irritably.
After the shift, I’m driving out of the garage where I park every night, next to the club’s front door. Just as I’m about to turn onto the street, a tall, hooded figure pops up next to the driver’s side window. As far as I can tell, he simply materialized. Now the space he takes up seethes with his presence. The face under the grey sweatshirt’s tight hood is distorted with manic rage.
The window next to my face thuds loudly as he smacks it, open-palmed. My body shudders and moves away from the glass involuntarily. My heart begins to race, and my palms to sweat. My breath catches in my chest. He pounds again, this time a little harder.
“Open it!” he yells.
I glance quickly at the traffic light on the street corner, which is only yards away, but it is damningly red, and he smacks the windshield with his fist as I’m noticing this. I’m scared to roll my window down, but I’m also scared not to. I crack it about an inch and a half. Immediately, I can hear him breathing.
“Where is she?” he wants to know. His voice is quiet as he feigns a creepy sort of civility.
His eyes are blue, a pair of glittering sapphires in his face, which would be boyish if it wasn’t so wan. He looks unwell.
“I don’t know, man,” I say. He knows I’m lying.
“I think the two of you need some time off,” I tell him. This comes out much more timid than I want it to. I am terrified of him.
He attempts a patient smile, and rests an arm across the windshield. He’s clearly demented.
“You really don’t understand,” he says. His voice starts to rise and then quickly falls even again as he catches himself. “I love her. That girl is everything to me.”
Why do you beat the shit out of her then, dickhead?
“I know you do.” I’m trying to sound soothing, but it’s coming out all wrong. I’m simply too frightened. He’s erratic in a way I’m not used to. Even Barry doesn’t act like this.
“She’s my wife,” he says.
Alannah is standing in front of the club. We both see her at the same time.
I turn the wheel violently, and my tires screech as I peel out of the lot. I pull up to her.
“Get in,” I hiss, and she does. “Lock your door!”
The light is red again, and Blue Eyes is running up behind the car.
“Ma!” Alannah yells.
I breathe deeply, look both ways, and cross my fingers. Then, just as that thug makes it up to the passenger’s side window, I take off against the red light.
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February 18th, 2009 at 7:40 pm
Teensy continuity note – earlier she went to work on the subway train (chapter 1 & then the chapter where she sings, possibly others). Need to know why she’s driving now.
Looking forward to seeing where this is going
February 19th, 2009 at 8:48 am
Hi Rachel
Glad you asked. That’s actually covered in Stage Two, a couple chapters ago:
“Barry pointed out a cute little car and said he liked its color. I walked onto the lot, handed the guy some cash, and drove it away a few minutes later. Then I tricked it out with a two-thousand dollar sound system. I’m almost twenty-one, and this is my first car.”
People who live in the outer boroughs of Manhattan often don’t have cars. Emily lives close to the city and doesn’t need the car. Going on spending binges is yet another form of self-destruction for her.
The more money she spends, the more she needs. The more she needs, the less likely it is that she will quit stripping. She’s digging a hole.