Page 80 of Felonies are Forever

“Do not ruin this for me, young lady. Larry is everything I ever wanted. Everything…” She pauses as the DJ announces the impending arrival of Crystal Showers taking the stage to the tune of that milkshake song I don’t really understand. “Everything your father was not.”

I clench my teeth and shoot her a hard glare thinking be careful what you wish for Mom.

“Don’t talk about Dad,” I snap as she flaps her best non-apology wave toward my face as I bite into my lip and count to ten.

The scent of cannabis drifting off two sparkly thong clad females with admittedly nice racks passing by makes my eyes tear.

It always smells like skunk spray to me and to each their own, but with all the magical scientific advancements in the world, couldn’t they create some version of pot that doesn’t smell like skunk ass?

They shoot me a side eye whispering to each other bubbling my anxiety to the surface and I offer a tight smile.

Neither one of them is perfect. Something tells me this place isn’t top of the stripper list of desirable workplaces. Still, they could each fit their entire lower body into a single leg of my jeans. I tug the neckline of my white peasant-style blouse up and try to disappear against the black wall behind me.

The thump of the bass and the sight of Crystal looking insanely bored while she dry humps the silver pole on stage is making this all feel like someone slipped me some peyote in my Shirley Temple.

What’s making it worse is, although my mother has always had an affinity for the Peg Bundy look, she was never into clubs or drinking and swore me off stripping as a career path from as far back as I can remember.

The first I heard of my now new stepfather was a phone call two weeks ago from another of his fine establishments on the less, less desirable side of Highland Heights, called the Teaser Club. She called to inform me she’d met the one and went on for twenty minutes about his Hummer, his Harley, his pinky ring and his string of businesses. Including the car wash where my mother was re-stocking the vending machines when their love story for the ages began.

Fifteen days later, one secret trip to Vegas and boom, I have a new stepfather.

Yay.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had a secret fantasy of having my own love story someday since I was a little girl. I’ve just never been good at flirting or dating and there’s always this little birdy in my ear with my mother’s voice saying, you’ve got such a pretty face, and my eyes, if you’d just lose the weight…

Ugg.

But, way back, I remember happy Sundays in the park with them holding hands, kissing and watching me play in the sandbox or climb trees. I would sing into sticks like microphones while they would clap and I would bow.

Mom was stunning back then, and still is. Problem with that, is she knows it, and she always wanted more.

Her dream of getting out of Highland Heights and hobnobbing with the country club crowd, sipping mimosas on Sunday mornings and playing tennis and polo, was not aligned with being the wife of a scrapyard owner. Third generation scrapyard owner to boot. A family dynasty.

“I just want us to be a family,” she hisses, her ice-blue eyes flicking to the back hallway where I’m assuming Larry’s office is. When I came in, Mom was standing at the bar, laughing over the crowd with a couple of the cannabis-perfumed ladies that walked by a minute ago, but, sans Larry.

“Well,” I start on a shrug, using a sardonically cheerful tone, “I don’t think there’s any way around that.”

She purses her high gloss Mary Kay pink lips, which look plumper than the last time I saw her.

“Stop it, young lady. Larry is our ticket.” She points at my chest then back at hers. “This is what I’ve been trying to find since—”

I still her with my eyes and she shakes her head, swiping her hand in the air between us.

Jesus, my mom is a handful. But, I do love her. She left my father when I was thirteen, looking for greener—and I mean, the color of money greener—pastures. Which, is ironic since she’s been living in a one bedroom apartment working on her vending machine empire ever since she left. Apparently finding the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow has been harder than she expected.

I remember reading The Great Gatsby as a freshman and I recognized so much of mom in Myrtle Wilson. Her husband worked hard, tried to provide, but in the end, it was her desperate pursuit of wealth and the happiness she associated it that left her laying in the street with one breast half torn off.

“Lula!” Mom grabs the top of my head and angles my eyes upward. “You aren’t listening.”

“What?”

“I’m going to the lady’s room. I want to make sure I look my best when Larry comes back out. You wanna come with?”

Her sandy blonde hair is in perfect beach waves. Make up looking like it was applied by a Hollywood set artist.

“Ahhh, no.” I shake my head, thinking about the sticky table in front of me and the stickier carpet under my feet. Risking the bathroom unless I’m desperate is a hard pass for me. “I’m good.”

“Suit yourself. Just, be ready to smile and get off that darn Tok thing. Once I get settled in as Mrs. Larry Nelson you never know, maybe he knows people. This singing thing of yours…” She toddles off as the milkshake song ends and Crystal gives her final, indifferent, spread-eagle closing move. “It’s probably not going to go anywhere, but you know I do whatever I can for my Lula Belle.”

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