Deathskull Bombshell (15 page)

“Anything,” he said. “Bras, panties.
Crotchless panties. Garters.” She blinked a few times, and he
smiled, looking strangely proud at his ability to shock her. “If
you’re comfortable and don’t look like shit it doesn’t really
matter. Most guys are happy with whatever, long as a woman’s
wearing it.”

Well, that was comforting. Jeez.

“We get a lot of repeat customers,” he
continued. “All you gotta do is talk to them. Be nice. Don’t let
them touch you or you’re fired. I hire dancers, not whores. Got
it?”

She nodded. She got it.

Her first day was rough. The first customer
expected a different girl to be there, and he wasn’t happy with the
new girl. “Where’s Ashley?” he kept asking. He slammed a hand up
against the glass booth, making the whole thing shake. He had a lot
of tattoos on his arms, veins sticking out everywhere, and his
mouth was white. He licked his teeth. “Where’s Ashley?”

“I don’t know,” she said, over and over. She
tried to keep her voice as calm as possible, so she wouldn’t
aggravate him. “I’m new.”

“You find Ashley,” he said. “Tell her we got
business to discuss. Tell her I’ll be waiting.” He punched his open
palm, so she understood the message.

Her breath caught in her throat. She wondered
if this was how rats felt before they were gobbled up by boa
constrictors. If there hadn’t been a half-inch of glass to separate
them, he could have reached through and choked her to death. The
expression on his face told her that was what he wanted. Maybe he
had a sick sadistic fetish for scaring half-naked women to
death.

After he left, she smoked cigarette after
cigarette, trying to forget the scary guy. Make her mind a blank.
She had to be ready for other customers. This was no time to cry
about anything or lament her position. Babies cried. Grown women
kept their cool.

Hopefully they weren’t all bad.

One guy, a fat old man with an underwear
fetish, did nothing but talk about lingerie. His stomach was
covered in curly black hair. He visited her nearly every shift. All
he did was talk. She could see his fat boner straining through his
khakis as he pawed at himself. Gross. She sold him a few pairs of
underwear for extra cash. Only the thongs, though, and cheap shit
she wouldn’t have to replace. The lacy ones she kept for
herself.

Another man had problems with his wife. Their
sex life. He needed to complain. His wife was the worst lover in
the world, wouldn’t even give him head anymore. Brooke did her best
to talk him into finding a solution. He wouldn’t listen, though.
After a while he started hitting on her, convinced she was a
hooker. She referred him to the sex toys and pornography
department. It would help bring the spark back to him and his
wife’s relationship, she said.

He didn’t come back after that.

She started painting her nails, a thing she
hated before for the most part. Waste of time. Well, she had plenty
of time now. She bought a pair of red stilettos and a matching set
of lacy red undergarments.

It was an okay job, all things
considered.

Interesting, anyway.

Could have been worse.

She didn’t tell any of the other girls at the
shelter. Most of them were under the impression that she couldn’t
talk. Stripping didn’t bring in a whole lot of money, but it helped
to save up.

Brooke ate at soup kitchens, didn’t bother
with cell phones or drugs. She didn’t mind the attention from the
men, usually. A job was a job. Men were the same everywhere.

She kept a notebook with her to pass the time
and write anecdotes about some of the customers, draw pictures of
some of the really ugly ones. Maybe she could join another punk
band and put all these experiences into her songwriting later, when
things got better.

Some of the other girls made extra by whoring
themselves out. Brooke thought about it, but she couldn’t go
through with it. Suppose a guy was an undercover policeman. Then
she’d end up in jail. She didn’t have enough cash to bail herself
out.

She made up lies when they asked about her
personal life. Did she have a husband? Any kids? Did she fuck
women? Sometimes her husband was an Army man, sometimes a
firefighter. Once she married her former basketball coach. She
invented an affair with a college professor. He was a Mormon, she
said, with huge testicles. His other wife was a large-breasted
bisexual porn star. She had great luck in the marital department
these days. No, she had no kids. Pervert. And yes, of course she
liked women. Pussy was the best. She had a bevy of fictional
lesbian lovers – black girls, Chinese, blondes. She told stories of
frat party infiltration in butch drag, and the rowdy gay college
boys she met there, all the gay orgies she got into. The customers
loved it. She left Ohio with almost a thousand dollars.

She claimed it as a moral victory against the
patriarchy. If those disgusting men were too stupid and sex-crazed
to hang onto their money, they deserved to lose every penny.

She bought her train ticket to New Jersey and
never looked back.

October 2010

“My dearest baby brother:

I am typing this letter ((on a typewriter.
Badass, right?) To announce that that not only will I be visiting,
you rememberour phone call buut so will another person. our
Graandma Roche, right She wants to say Hi. One moment, she’s
takiing g ttthe typewrihelloooo Nicholas, o boyy!1 we’re gonna get
ya! Look out! Aahahahaaa Oh my god, ignore her, we’rre not coming
to ‘get’ anybody. Crazy oldd woman

but we’ll see you soon, bro. Peace. – B”

October 2010

“How ‘bout that,” Austin said, chewing on a
pickle and looking over Nick’s shoulder. He looked kind of dopey.
Smelled like pickles and Jack Daniel’s.

Nick closed his eyes, breathing through his
nose, deep inhalations like he learned in dialectical behavioral
therapy.

God damn Brooke. He didn’t want to see her.
Not after so much time had passed. She was the most inconsiderate
sister ever invented.

He stomped upstairs to his room, where Parker
sat cross-legged on his bed paging through a worn copy of
Anna
Karenina
.

“Parker,” he said.

“Nick,” Parker said.

“We gotta go.”

Parker looked at him for a moment, then
returned his gaze to his book. “Where? Why?”

“Pack a duffel bag,” Nick said, “and don’t
ask any questions until I figure this out. Bring your birth
certificate.” He knew he sounded bossy, but he didn’t care.

“What do I need my birth certificate
for?”

“Because,” Nick said. “We’re eloping. And
then we’re going to Hawaii.”

“You don’t have enough money to go to
Hawaii.”

“We’ll hitchhike,” Nick said, trying to make
him laugh. His heart beat hard and fast, like thick shoes pounding
the floor of a very cramped apartment. He paused to catch his
breath. “I, um, Milwaukee,” he decided. “We’ll elope and our
honeymoon will be in Milwaukee.”

Finally Parker looked up from
Anna
Karenina
. “You’re serious?”

“Do you want to get married or not?”

“I don’t think you’re asking properly,”
Parker said, pushing his glasses up on his face. He smiled,
enjoying the attention.

“Christ,” Nick muttered, but he didn’t really
mind it. He’d been preparing for this day his whole life, and they
both knew it. He bent down on one knee and clasped his hands
together dramatically, like he was praying for mercy. “Parker
Beloit, will you please –“

“Yes, okay, fine,” Parker said, exasperated.
He laughed for a long time, clutching his stomach, then wiped the
tears from his eyes.

Nick stood around awkwardly, hands shoved in
the pockets of his dark baggy Levi 501’s. His face burned. He
didn’t really know how to act with stuff like this. Showing
affection was difficult for him. It took him a long time to work up
the guts to propose. Now that he’d done it, he wished he’d
displayed a bit more finesse, maybe taken Parker out to dinner,
hired a mariachi band or spelled the proposal out on a Scrabble
board. It completely lacked style. Now he’d never get the chance to
re-do it.

Parker’s face looked confused and bewildered
to Nick, which was the same way Nick felt. He thought maybe it was
a good sign. They were on the same page.

“Let’s do it.”

October 2010

“Courthouse?” Austin said. He stared at Nick
and Parker. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Nick said.

Parker didn’t say anything. Married? Him?
Them? It was all so sudden. His life felt like a giant airplane,
flying away with his heart and wishes, leaving his brain alone near
baggage claim to muddle over the practicalities.

“Are you really sure?” Austin said.

“Yes,” Nick said.

Parker nodded his head. He wondered when he’d
be able to talk again. He felt dizzy.

“What are you going to wear?” Alex asked,
curious.

“Clothes,” Nick said.

“Shouldn’t you maybe dress up?” Alex said. “I
mean, you can only do this once. You should probably make it look
decent.”

Parker found his voice. “I always look
decent.” He paused. “But we should probably dress like better than.
Um. Better. Better than dress. Ing. Um. Fuck. Oh my god, I can’t
talk.” He put his hand on the wall, to steady himself. His knees
were about to buckle.

“Rings,” Alex added, helpfully.

“I got those,” Nick said.

“I did too,” Parker said.

“Damn, you guys,” Austin said. “You should
have, like, talked to each other about that first.”

“Well, I didn’t think he’d want to spend all
that money on jewelry, so I bought some engagement rings just in
case,” Parker said. He touched his hair to make sure he was still a
tangible person. Suppose he was dead and this was some sort of
alternate universe, or a dream of some kind. Might as well milk it
until he woke up. “He’s so stingy anyway.”

Nick shook his head. “It’s better to be
stingy. Saves the problem of having to talk to debt collectors
later on.”

“Yeah yeah, okay,” Parker said. Well, now
that they were arguing, he knew he wasn’t dreaming. Stingy bastard.
“So whose rings are we using?”

“Well, um, maybe you could wear the one I
picked, and I could wear the one you picked,” Nick said. He looked
flushed. It seemed to be occurring to both of them that this was an
irreversible thing. The gravity of it weighed over their heads like
a very large cloud.

“Yeah, but then our rings won’t match,”
Parker said. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t know either,” Nick said.

They all stopped talking, thinking about
it.

“Do you think maybe we should wait?” Parker
said.

“For what?” Nick asked.

“I dunno. Another time. When our lives aren’t
so busy and we have enough time to plan a wedding out.” Parker took
a deep breath, to collect his thoughts. “I mean, this is really
fast. We don’t have to get married just because it’s legal now for
us, do we? We have our whole lives ahead of us.”

“Yeah,” Nick said. He sighed. Technically it
wasn’t even a marriage, only a civil union. He wished the political
leaders would just let it be marriage. Wisconsin legal process took
its sweet time.

“What, are you worried your sister will steal
all the attention when she visits? You want everyone to remember
you exist?” Parker put a hand on Nick’s shoulder, feeling where it
was tense. He touched Nick’s hair.

Nick looked over at him. “I didn’t say
that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Parker said. He put his
hand on the small of Nick’s back. “Stop freaking out, man. I’m not
going anywhere. I picked you. I like you. We’ve been together for
like a million years. I know you have family issues, but so does,
like, everybody.”

“Eight years,” Nick said.

“And anyway, we’ll make sure your sister
won’t get into any trouble. We can give her a curfew or something,
make her paint the side of the house and do our laundry.” He
smiled. “Anyway, she won’t have any time to fuck shit up. She’ll be
too busy with Mr. Tekken.”

“What,” Nick said.

“Just kidding,” Parker said.

“Stop trying to find dates for my sister,”
Nick said. “I want her to stay over less often, not entice her with
the attention of my roommates.”

“So I’m not dating her?” Austin asked. He
frowned, scratching his head.

“No,” the other three said.

Austin sighed, reaching into his shirt pocket
for another cigarette.

“Well, hey, you want to be engaged?” Nick
asked.

Parker’s face lit up. He tucked a strand of
hair behind his ear. “Okay.”

They exchanged rings, and Austin got the beer
out. The engagement celebration party took place on the porch with
a giant pile of delivery pizzas and a case of beer. They sat out on
the porch drinking, and whenever anyone walked past, they yelled
out “hey, guess what! We’re getting married!”

From there, they spent months curled up
together on the living room sofa, listening to the Pogues and Reel
Big Fish and the Queers and the Ramones, trying to figure out
tuxedos, sketching out bridesmaid dresses, debating cake recipes,
looking over pictures of flower arrangements. It was a total
annoying-couple love-fest. Austin and Alex tried not to puke.

After sending many more letters,
typewriter-typed and covered in stickers, Grandma Roche and Brooke
finally got to Wisconsin in a screechy, perfume-scented blur.

It was the day after Christmas. Grandma
stomped the snow off her boots, removed them at the door. She
studied the upkeep of the house, touching the pottery as if to
judge the amount of dust that lingered on her fingers. She stared
at her hands, blinking.

Brooke ran into the living room in her
sparkly red combat boots, dragging the outside in with her, dirt
and snow and slush. Parker was struck by the change in her
appearance. She had two piercings in her nose and a bunch in her
ears, big stretched gauges, rows of hoop earrings in her ear
cartilage. Tragus, industrial, helix. She’d even cut her hair in a
choppy short boy style. She squealed and ran into a hug with him
and Nick. Surprised, Nick hugged her back. She exclaimed over their
rings, and over them – they looked so grown-up, what the hell
happened?