Page 79 of Felonies are Forever

STEP-BULLY

ONE

LULA

I’ve been knownto take the full 400mg dosage of Advil sometimes. I’m not proud of it, but desperate times and all that.

With music vibrating the floor and dollar bills being shoved into sparkling elastic, I’m contemplating another dose and it’s not even been six hours.

Turning to anti-inflammatories is not my usual coping mechanism, but today is special.

So, so special. See, I’m meeting my mother’s new husband. At his strip club. One of three he owns.

“Stop staring at your phone,” my mother chirps in that squeaky, urgent tone she gets when she’s trying to impress people and she thinks I’m ruining the vibe. “Mingle. I’ll introduce you to Larry as soon as the time feels right.” She shakes her head making a tsk sound watching me tap the screen on my iPhone, “You and your social media. You singing on TikTok again? For what?”

“It’s for work, mother. I’m posting on Facebook Marketplace for the scrapyard.” I lie. I do that as well, but right now I’m lost inthe dopamine hits I’m getting from watching my latest video get tons of views.

My reply only intensifies the sour twist of her lips. “I mean, who cares about a scrapyard on Facebook?” She waves at someone across the room while fluttering her lash extensions that curl all the way up to her micro-bladed brows.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the hundred or more people that have found us because of Facebook. Scrapping’s a big thing on Facebook. Lots of scrappers out there and I want them coming to Z’s Scrap all day long.”

I grew up helping my dad run the business. Z’s Scrap is a third-generation venture. It’s ‘Z’ is instead of Zdzinski since no one seems to be able to spell or pronounce my father’s family name. The work is messy and hard. It’s hot in the summer and freezing in the winter, but the yard is his baby. Well, his other baby besides me. And since Mom bailed on him and his blue-collar ambitions, she’s lost her baby status as well. Only problem is, running the yard includes long hours, lots of coffee, stress and junk food and my dad had a heart attack two months ago just after I graduated high school and I almost lost him.

One quadruple bypass later, he’s on 24/7 oxygen and a crap ton of home health, meds and rehab, but he’s stable, thank God. I’ve had to take the helm at the yard and with his care and any ideas of jumping in my beige 1999 Buick and heading to Nashville to be the next Taylor Swift are on permanent hiatus. Instead, I’m working every strategy in my arsenal to try to save what I now know is a business on the downslope of solvency. This is not what the summer after my senior year was supposed to be.

But, it’s okay. My dad is everything to me and losing the yard would be the death nail for him. That, and losing me. My singing dreams are secondary to keeping my father alive and that right now includes getting his business back in the black.

Mom makes a raspberry sound drawing my attention back. “Well, whatever you’re doing is only encouraging him. He should sell that place. It was always trashy, barely paid the bills. It’s going to bring you down too. Get out as fast as you can, convince your dad to move on, for goodness’ sake.”

I leave that subject on the sticky floor for now, just grateful my dad is getting stronger and I’m handling things the best I can. My mom can go pound rocks.

When she left, I went back and forth for a year or so, but in the end, I think she wanted her space so when I made the decision to be with Dad full time, it went over better than I’d planned. She had one condition, which was she wanted me to take her maiden name Laurence, from my father’s Zdzinski. She always hated his last name and truth was, I sort of wanted the switch.

Not because I didn’t like the name, but if I was going to be a star, well, Lula Zdzinski didn’t really have the same ring to it that Lula Laurence did. Dad agreed, wanting my dreams to come true so Mom did the paperwork and as far as the law is concerned, I’m Lula Laurence now. Stardom dreams on permanent hold.

“Don’t worry, Diedre,” I say. She hates when I use her first name, but right now, I think she’s earned a little rebellion. “I’ll be waiting right here when my new Daddy is ready.” I jab my index finger to the tabletop and release a dramatic exhale, keeping my eyes pinned to my most recent TikTok of me singing Lovestory with my signature slower, sultry style. The video is already up to 40K views in just a few hours. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than right here.”

“Stop that sarcasm. You know I hate that. It’s trashy.”

I’m not sure my mother’s version of trashy and the world’s version are the same. She taps a crystal-encrusted white fingernail on her matching blazing white teeth. Her white-on-white cheetah print jumpsuit is clinging to her like desperation,but I will say, she’s got the body of Heidi Klum with a high-end boob job.

A boob job she’s still paying off in installments. Zero percent interest though, so, that’s a plus.

“Well, when in Rome…” I look at the ceiling again on an eye roll, as the disco ball twirls loosely above us and the black painted drop ceiling tiles threaten to crash down onto the sticky two top I grabbed against the wall when I came in.

“Strip clubs aren’t trashy. Don’t judge, Lula. There but by the grace of God go you, young lady.”

“I agree. Not all strip clubs are trashy.” I huff, rolling my head back and around, listening to the pop pop pop of my vertebrae and watching my mother cringe.

She’s known Larry two weeks, and yet here we are at his premier gentleman’s entertainment center, The King’s Palace, to celebrate their nuptials.

Well, it’s no palace, and there’s not a king in sight.

Trash would be offended by the comparison.

“I hate that sound.” Mom reaches for her rum and coke sitting on a drenched square napkin next to her now empty shot of Amaretto.

I turn my attention back to my phone. The post has surged to 50K and little hearts and notifications are lighting up my screen, turning this unfortunate evening into less of the total loss I thought it would be.

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