Authors: C Michelle McCarty
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Coming of Age, #Humor, #Humor & Satire, #General Humor
The Jewel Box
Copyright © 2013 C. Michelle McCarty
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1481107151
ISBN 13: 9781481107150
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012922853
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
North Charleston, South Carolina
*Jacket cover photograph taken at Leon’s Lounge in Houston, TX.
This is a work of fiction, intended for recreational use only. While most fiction is based on experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. No reference to any real person, living or dead, is intended or should be inferred.
For my compass and shining star, my daughter Kim
~
In loving memory of Jack Mynier
“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”
~ Anais Nin
1
A wise man once told me the universe drops bizarre beings into our lives for the purpose of developing our souls. Apparently the cosmos deems my soul a work in progress, because here comes another dose of crazy.
I looked past my customer and onto the Strand, watching Delilah Carlino speed walk toward my antique shop. Despite living two hours from Galveston, my warped friend episodically drops into my world, hoping to create havoc. Her lunacy lost me a couple of sales over the past decade, so I wrapped and rang Sunday’s final transaction in record time.
“Looks like your shipment of knockoffs finally got here from Taiwan,” Delilah shouted over the soft tingling of bells while bolting through my front door, intent on disrupting business.
Momentarily ignoring her, I thanked my customer, ushered him out, flipped my “Closed” sign, and locked the dead bolt. Only days from Halloween and Delilah’s fiftieth birthday, she still wore the same garb she donned during the Sixties—jean shorts and captioned T-shirt. Unfortunately these days said T-shirts express her personal and often R-rated opinions, accentuated with her Bedazzle gun. I’m not one to criticize how people choose to present themselves, but her rhinestone revelations could use some censorship.
“So, what time are they delivering that old bar?”
“Around six.” Wishing I hadn’t answered her call this morning, much less mentioned the delivery, I reached over and gave her a quick hug. Speedy hugs were crucial with Delilah; otherwise one could be overcome by her
fragrant salute to Oscar de la Renta. Today she was saturated bangs to bunions with
Intrusion
. “Jeez, Delilah, are you shooting perfume intravenously?”
“Guess I went overboard soaking my short and curlies in concentrated oil this morning.”
Nowadays most people respect those with allergies and refrain from basting their bodies in fragrance. Not Delilah. “Why marinade in perfume for a trek down to Galveston?”
“Ya never know when I might run across some handsome hunk.” She dramatically shook her chin length, bobbed hair, revealing silver streaks. In her youth, beauty queen Delilah sported shimmering blue-black hair that fell below her waist and swung from side to side as she walked, leaving hordes of men with dangling tongues. She still possessed a perfect nose, flawless skin, and big baby blues she framed with midnight black eyeliner that extended to the corner of her eyes into flamboyant butterfly wings. “I’m not a willowy blonde like you. I have to woo men with my scent.”
“You don’t need to be wooing anyone, Delilah.”
“Yes I do. If Eric doesn’t stop asking for tush ten times a week, he’s gonna be out on his Bill O’Reilly-watching-ass.” She opened a jumbo pack of cinnamon gum.
“Still not smoking?” I segued.
“Almost a year now, but I dream about sucking sticks every single night.”
“Well, I’m proud of you.”
“Glad someone cares. Eric says my nicotine cravings are making me even more frigid.”
I never lend credence to comments incapable of sustaining a shelf life of more than ten seconds. Fabricating stories about her hubby became Delilah’s source of entertainment after Caller ID technology put the brakes on her ridiculous routine of crank calling old boyfriends.
“BTW I told my sex fiend husband to microwave dinner without me, ‘cause we’re looking for treasures in the sand this evening.”
“NFW,” I said. Acronyms are synonymous with electronic communication, but face to face they’re about as charming as conversational burping.
“No friggin’ way? Why not?” She propped her elbows on my satinwood Pembroke table, fashioning her hands under her chin in supplication. “Pretty please?”
“Beg till you’re blue in the face, but those treasure hunting days are over.”
“Dang it, Shaaareee.” Delilah intentionally inflated my name with country twang. “Why can’t we use that contraption to find metal on the beach? Is the moon in Uranus again?”
“Lovely. I encourage you to watch one PBS special on the big bang theory, and now you’re spouting childish clichés. My attempts to enlighten you have once again backfired.”
“Hey, I learned about dependent opposites who can’t live without each other. You know, the yin and yang thang.”
“Ah, yin and yang.” I slipped out of my heels and wiggled my toes.
“Yeah. You guys have it out the wazoo and Eric and I will never have anything remotely close.” Delilah likes to theorize all marriages are superior to hers. “Why couldn’t I have had a fantasy love affair like yours?” She revved into action.
“Fantasy? What kind of fantasy involves anguish like we’ve gone through?”
“Anguish aside, you’re definitely the Yin to his Yang. The Cleopatra to his Marc Antony.” She paused before loudly belting into suggestive song. “The
Magic
to his Johnson.”
“I like your last analogy, but please lower your voice. Shops are closing and people passing by can hear you.” I waved at my neighboring kite store owner.
“Okay.” Delilah dropped her volume about half a decibel. “But only if we can drag that silver detector along the shore to scoop up coins for me a boob job. No sense in Dolly having all the fun.”
“Stop asking.” I shot her a stern look. Sharing my sentimental gift from Beau was not an option. “Besides, you’ve never missed out on fun, so don’t mess with what Ma Nature blessed.”
“I’m not gonna. It’s a little late for me to be enhancing my mini-melons, and after all these years I’m not sure I could maneuver anything bigger than my B cups.” She rambunctiously began to shimmy her bosom.
“Behave.” I placed my hands cease-and-desist fashion on her shoulders when I noticed the souvenir shop owner slowing her pace to stare inside my window. Irritating everyone in our interplanetary system has long been Delilah’s
raison d’être,
yet she wonders why our friendship waned. Some
thirty-odd years ago, Delilah literally crashed into my world by ramming her ’68 Camaro into the back bumper of my new 1970 Mustang. She was frazzled over a recent job loss. I was frazzled in general. Married young, divorced before my daughter Nikki turned two, and one hell of a mess at twenty-three, I foolishly hired Delilah as an evening babysitter. Still, despite opposing viewpoints on almost everything, our alliance is sealed by a sacred bond. Delilah knows a shameful secret from my past. I don’t want it broadcast across Texas.
“Cherie, they’re here.” Delilah tapped the window, signaling the truck driver to the back.
I rushed to open the receiving entrance and greeted a somewhat pale but powerfully built, twenty-something guy. Delilah leaned against an oak armoire and was spraying on her third or fourth layer of
Intrusion
when in walks another mover.
“Whoa,” Delilah said before making a beeline toward the incoming hunk.
This second “Body-by-Adonis” was sun-bronzed and slightly older than the first. “Where you want this monster, ma’am?” he nodded my way, recognizing me as the one in charge.
“In this corner by the window, please.” I motioned.
“Texas sure grows some fine looking movers.” Delilah invaded his personal space and tugged her tank top downward to cleavage view level. Known for flirting with every three-legged man who crosses her path, she amplified her Mae West tramp act for this duo.
The muscular men gingerly situated my bar in its window view for passersby, even with Delilah slithering so close I worried rape charges might get filed. I finally unglued her from their chest hairs and gave them their tip while offering an apologetic smile. “Thanks for maneuvering the bar around my unexpected obstacle.”
“I’ll escort ’em out.” Delilah ignored my barb and latched onto their arms. “I need to buy some wine.”
“Better hurry. They close in ten minutes.” I attempted to expedite matters so the guys could breathe fresh, less perfumed air. As the trio left, Delilah threatened to follow them home, but scooted off in the opposite direction after blowing a few farewell air kisses their way.
The historic downtown Strand is only blocks from Galveston’s waterfront, and consists of unique shops, eateries, museums, live music venues, and horse drawn carriages to delight visitors during December’s “Dickens on The Strand” event. Unfortunately almost every shop but the liquor store closes at six. I optimistically hoped Delilah would find a better caliber of grapes than those fermented into Boone’s Farm—her staple wine of the Seventies. She returned in speedy fashion, flaunting the surprisingly decent bottle of wine she scored.
“Cherie, get some wine glasses and sit down so we can celebrate your finding this bar.”
“As long as we keep the celebration to one drink.” I grabbed glasses from a China hutch. “I’m in a crunch for time, but I’ll crank up the oldies. Gotta have Sixties music.” I turned on KLDE, escorted our wine glasses to a settee and motioned her to join me. My favorite disc jockey, Colonel St. James was hawking good times and great oldies, and promising to play
Treat Her Right
by Houstonian, Roy Head.
“He can still do the alligator.” Delilah popped a huge gum bubble. She knew Roy back in the Seventies when she was recycling bass players. “So how the heck did you stumble across this bar?” She clutched the bottle of Ruffino while digging through her purse for a corkscrew.
“An antique shop in Warrenton.”
“You’re so lucky.” Delilah lifted the cork with the agility of a professional wine steward.
“It was kismet.” I smiled.
“And there’s Beau’s old metal detector.” She pointed to a wall near the bar.
“We encased it last weekend. Don’t you love the glass and mahogany display box?”
“Now remind me how you wound up working for Beau,” Delilah dug for facts I had never divulged. She tossed her gum into the trash, plopped beside me on the settee, and snuggled into a cushion with the insouciance of someone intent on making an ass groove. “And why the hell he changed your name from Jill to Cherie.” She paused to fill my glass with wine.
Only my mother still calls me by my given name, so hearing “Jill” spoken by anyone else always sounds off mark.
“Some other time,” I fibbed. Exactly how I met Beau was one detail she didn’t need for her diary. “I don’t mean to be rude Delilah, but one glass of wine truly is my limit. I’ve got a special evening planned and need to freshen up.”
