Page 82 of Felonies are Forever

“Karaoke.” My mom chirps on a wobbly little bunny hop. “I told Larry you were a singer, so he said we would do karaoke tonight.”

“Oh. No…” I shake my head, “no, no, no, no, no…” Every nightmare I’ve ever had is coming true right now.

Karaoke, horrible.

Karaoke in a strip club? Horrible squared.

Karaoke in my new stepfather’s strip club with my mother clapping in the audience?

Where’s the hemlock? I’m taking it all.

“Yes.” My mother stands up straight, shoulders back, silicone out. Her wide eyes stick on me, eyebrows raised. “He set it up just for you to sing.”

Jesus mother Mary, this isn’t happening.

I open my mouth to protest as Larry waves at the guy in the plastic booth next to the stage who returns a two-finger salute, stepping onto the little stage, waving off Tabitha or Tiffany from the silver pole, handing her a spray bottle marked 90% isopropyl alcohol.

I’m shrinking under the table when the guy on stage points at me and every head in the room turns.

“Next up, for the happy newlyweds, it’s Luuuuuuuula Laurence. Come on up here, Lula. You’re opening act at The King’s Palace’s new Karaoke night. Tell me what you’re going to sing for us…”

There is nothing in this world that could make this moment any worse.

My mom violently nods toward the stage with that don’t-screw-this-up look in her eyes.

I wobble out of the chair, the floor mushy and the room spinning. Then, my mother drops one last morsel of horror into the hemlock, leaning in with that conspiratorial whisper again.

“That’s Scotch over there at the bar in the gray t-shirt. I’ll introduce you when you’re done singing.” She nods toward the focus of my lust who is oblivious to the end of life as he listens to the guy in the suit. “Sing your heart out, Lula. Don’t embarrass me.”

If there was ever a moment for the alien ships to arrive and beam me up for some anal probing, I pray for it now.

THREE

Scotch

“Here’s to mommy number five.”My stepbrother James raises his glass of Jameson as two of Dad’s girls teeter by, biting their lips and waving, but I keep my attention on my brother. “Just happy my visit with mom coincided with the celebration.”

James splits his time between Chicago where his VC corporation is killing it and here in Detroit where his mom still lives.

“Are we taking bets on how long it will last?” I say, scratching my cheek and clicking his rocks glass with my shot glass of ice water.

The smell of reefer and the dancers overdone perfume mixes with the trays of buffalo wings on the food buffet at the end of the bar making my gut twist.

I’ve seen more tits and ass in my 28 years than most men do in a lifetime. Means nothing, I’m here for business. I’m only a small partner on the clubs with Larry, my dad but I don’t use that honorific for him. He’s not earned it.

I grew up in these clubs. It’s just not someplace I’d hang out if it wasn’t necessary.

Only, tonight is different. Something feels off. Like the other shoe is about to drop. I find I keep gripping the top of my head or running my hand down my face and I can’t pinpoint what’s making me hinky and it’s not alcohol.

I quit drinking after I nearly twisted a fucker’s head off years ago when he came into my garage talking shit. I was twenty, and there he was telling me if I didn’t back off and leave his customers alone, he was coming for me.

I don’t do threats. If I have a problem, I take care of it. Anger has been my muse since I was a kid but after my mom died, I’ve cultivated it like a fucking organic garden in Portland. Only that day I’d already thrown back a fifth of Stoli and wasn’t thinking clearly. I saw red, and there he was.

I damn near twisted his head backwards and shoved my thumbs through his eye sockets. Problem was, two cops were trailing behind him on some bullshit call about a robbery. It was a fucking set up and I took the bait. I did two years for assault with intent and never touched a drop of alcohol again.

I’m all about control and if something isn’t aligned with that objective, fuck it. It’s gone. That includes people.

James sips his drink as I toss back my fake shot. I could just drink ice water from a regular glass but I get fucking sick of hearing, ‘You not drinking?’, ‘Have a fucking drink, relax!’. The fucking alcohol culture is so pervasive especially in a strip club. It’s just time saving to have what always looks like a drink in front of me. I don’t like to waste my time.

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