by Nami Mun
“What? No.” I pointed to my guy. He was dabbing the bald spot on his head with a napkin.
“Maybe he’s got a friend for me,” she said, smoothing down her hair. “I wanna look good for his friend. How’m I looking right now?”
She looked drunk. And bitter. Her eyes were as shiny as her lip gloss, and her voice had fallen about an octave. She sounded like a truck.
“You look good,” I said.
“Well, isn’t that sweet.” She took a swig of her drink. Like a broken doll, when she tipped her head back her eyelids came down, and then stayed down. “Hey, where you going? I’m still talking to you.”
I hadn’t moved. “I’m right here,” I told her.
She squeezed one eye, forcing the other to open. “I’m sorry about, you know...” Her drink pointed out the bench area. “This your first night?”
I nodded.
“Well, I’d say congratulations but this place is hell, so you’re fucked.” She put her glass down and tried to light a cigarette but the flame refused to meet the tip.
“I should probably get going.” My customer was now taking off his wristwatch and setting it on the table.
Lana finally lit her cigarette and took a drag. “Well, I hope you and your father have a very nice time.”
I was about to correct her but then got the joke. I turned to leave.
“Guess you think I’m a freak, huh?” she asked.
I turned back and told her that I didn’t, that I’d liked her from the moment I saw her.
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” She faced the dark dance floor, and, as drunk as she was, she was waiting for my answer.
“I don’t know. Maybe because you don’t remind me of anyone.”
“Mmm . . .” Lana smiled and a gauze of smoke slithered from her lips. “I like that,” she said. “You’re good. You’ll do just fine.” She about-faced and walked the length of the bar, using the stools as a guide. “Come find me later. We’ll get you some makeup.”
“Okay,” I shouted. “That sounds really, really...” I told myself to stop smiling and nodding because by that point, I was alone. But I didn’t feel alone. As I headed toward my date, I replayed the conversation with Lana in my mind until all the awkwardness fell from my words and I sounded as cool as an old-time movie star.
I made it to the table.
“Is anyone sitting here?” I asked, my voice now tinged with confidence. As Miss Mosely had instructed, I smiled as big as I could with my lips and eyes.
“I’m sorry. Did you say something?” he said, pretending he hadn’t heard me. By the way he folded his hands on the table, I could tell he wanted me to say it again, once more, with feeling.
“Can I sit here?” I asked, testing out a sultry voice.
He gestured big at the chair across. “Yes, of course.”
I sat down.
Behind him, over his shoulder, I could see Lana standing at the far end of the bar, leaning her chest and body against the counter, one leg vining the other. She was talking to Bic, who crossed his arms and shook his head. Then he handed her something from his pocket, which Lana took and popped into her mouth.
My date stirred his drink with the plastic sword, one way, and then the other, without looking up. The light from the disco ball skated round and round his balding head and a full minute went by, and not a word. Except for a few sighs here and there. Maybe he didn’t like the way I looked up close. Maybe he’d picked me because I was the only Oriental and he felt sorry for me. I was definitely the worst-dressed girl there—had on jeans and sneakers when all the others wore skirts that gave men something to look at. And I was the only one without makeup. I checked my nails and saw that they were clean, which made me feel a little better. Say something nice about his clothes—Miss Mosely had told me this would get things rolling, but what could I say about a white button-down shirt?
“Look. I don’t know why I’m here.” His voice startled me. “I suppose I’m a little lonely, I don’t have many friends, and, well, let’s face it, I won’t be winning any awards for the ‘best-looking guy’ category.” He said all this really fast, like a pull-toy running out of string. I hadn’t expected him to be this way.
“You look okay.” I noticed that his shirt was new, the creases making the letter H on his chest. I pictured him at the store, buying this shirt just for tonight. “Better than okay,” I added. “I really like the buttons on your shirt.”
“Thanks. That’s kind of you to say.” He touched a button, and then, without warning, put both of his hands on mine, squeezing too tightly.
Bic came by. “Another whiskey?” he asked my date. I took my hand back.
“Do you have to sneak up on us like that?” the man said, louder than I thought he should.
“I’m six foot three. If you can’t see me coming, that’s your problem.” Bic put a napkin down in front of me. “What do you want?”
“I’m fine,” I said, but Bic didn’t leave. “I’m not that thirsty.”
“You sure,” he said, not asking, but telling. Bic stood wider than a door, with an L-shaped jaw and an angry crew cut.
“Riunite on ice?” I said.
“What?” Bic squeezed his eyes. “We don’t got that.”
Then I remembered Miss Mosely telling me to order vodka so Bic could serve me water and it would look the same.
“Vodka?” I asked.
“Excellent choice,” he said, and walked off.
“With two cherries,” I yelled after him. “And an orange!” I was starving.
“Do you think he heard me?” I asked my date, who was now wiping his face up and down with both hands, as if he were washing it. Then he rattled his head to shake off the invisible water, took a deep breath, held it, and let it out, sending me a wave of garlic. Just as I thought he was finished, he made big clownish smiles that looked more painful than cheery, before scooting his chair closer to the table. He sat upright and tall. He was a new man, and he was going to take it from the top.
“Hi, my name’s Eugene.” He put his hand out for a shake. “What’s yours?”
I shook it. “Joon-Mee.”
“Joon-Mee. Now, there’s a name you don’t hear every day.”
“Actually, I pretty much hear it every day,” I said.
He didn’t laugh. “Where do you work?” he asked, and he wasn’t kidding.
I leaned in. “Are you okay?”
He blinked, something like five times in a row, and took a mechanical sip of his drink before megaphoning his hands over his mouth. “WHERE DO YOU WORK?”
“Uh, I work—”
“What college do you attend?”
“Sure. I mean. Yes.” I couldn’t keep up.
“You must get good grades. I always did,” he said, slinging an arm over the back of his chair. “You look like you’d be good in school.”
“Yup.” I nodded. “I got A’s in everything.”
“Everything?” He smirked and took a drink.
“I might be flunking gym.”
“I didn’t know they had gym in college.”
Whatever game he had in his head, I didn’t want to play anymore. My mouth was dirt dry. I sat silent while he stared into me long and watched me twist my napkin into worms.
I was glad Bic came back when he did. He put my drink down (no cherry, no orange) and Eugene said, “No, no, I’ve got it,” although I hadn’t offered to pay. He pulled out a fistful of money, flashed a smile, and counted slowly. They were mostly ones. He handed Bic a few bills and told him to keep the rest.
“Great, I can make that phone call now,” he said.
Eugene’s face turned stiff to Bic’s sarcasm. As soon as Bic was gone, I took huge gulps of the water—it felt good to wet my throat—and stopped only when Eugene gave me a puzzled look. I remembered the water was supposed to be vodka, and made that face actors make after downing a stinging shot of alcohol.
“In any case, don’t you want to know what I do for a living?” Eugene asked.
�
�Mmm . . . sure.”
“I just thought a girl in your situation might want to hear about other people’s career choices.”
“I said okay.”
He tensed his jaws, the hinges bulging as he ground his teeth. Right. He wanted to be asked.
“What do you do for a living?” I sat up, tucked my hands under my thighs. I couldn’t decide if I should be scared of him.
“Let’s just say I have a job most people don’t realize how tough it is. Would you like to guess?”
“Are you a cop?” Miss Mosely said that cops got everything half-off, unless they were planning to raid the place, in which case they got everything on the house.
“Me? No . . . but I could’ve been NYPD, I suppose. I’m in good shape for my age. Okay. Keep going.”
“A baker.”
He didn’t like this guess much. “Go on,” he said, his voice low.
“A math teacher.”
He showed his annoyance by loudly sucking air through his nose and exhaling silently through O-shaped lips.
“Are you a doctor?”
Now his mouth stretched into a crooked smile. He nodded. “That’s a very good guess. My sister’s a surgeon, so I guess I could’ve been one, too.” His eyes traveled to a faraway land. “But I wanted more freedom in my life,” he said, shrugging. “What can I say? I didn’t want a pager telling me what to do.”
That was when I looked past Eugene, over his shoulder, and saw Marilyn Monroe walking out from the back hallway with her two dates in tow, the guy in the white disco suit checking his zipper. Marilyn escorted him and his buddy across the front of the club, passing the bench of girls and the cashier stand, and showed them to the door. After blowing several kisses at them and waving goodbye, she turned and beamed at Lana, who still stood by the bar. Marilyn walked up to her and whispered something into Lana’s ear, before stepping onto the dance floor, where her new date holding flowers waited at a table. Lana could’ve set her on fire the way she was staring.
“Okay. Give up?” Eugene asked.
“Yeah,” I said, and watched Lana slam down her glass and zigzag onto the dance floor. She crashed into a table, knocked over a chair, and then another, which made her keel over onto the table where Marilyn sat arm-in-arm with her date. Without missing a beat, Lana threw up all over Marilyn.
“I work with diamonds. Wouldn’t have guessed it, right?”
Marilyn shrieked and jumped from her seat, cursing and fanning her hands over her huge breasts, now slick with vomit.
“Hell-o? Anyone home?” Eugene snapped his fingers at my face.
I flashed back to him. “That must be exciting. Touching diamonds every day.”
“Well, not diamonds, exactly. Cubic zirconium. CZs we call them. They’re just like the real deal. They’re actually heavier than diamonds and can cut glass, which isn’t too difficult, as glass is only six-point-five on the hardness scale and . . .”
I looked behind him again. Marilyn shouted, “Fuck you!” or something like that to Lana, and Lana bent down, grabbed Marilyn’s date by the ears and kissed him, and stayed kissed, as if it were a breath-holding contest. The date, a small wrinkle of a man, tried to push her off and Marilyn slapped Lana on the back of her head, but Lana couldn’t be moved. She kept kissing and didn’t come up for air.
“...and sometimes I can guess their weight with only a glance. It’s a terrific workout for the mind. All my employees, they can’t believe how close I can estimate.”
Lana finally unglued her face from the date’s, and as soon as he was free, he coughed and spat bullets on the floor. He seemed more stunned than angry as he yanked his jacket and ran toward the front entrance, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Then Lana really did something I hadn’t expected. She reached for Marilyn’s face and tried to kiss her. Marilyn wasn’t having any of it, though. She screamed something, either I don’t owe you or I don’t know you, and pushed Lana to the floor before marching off. Slumped on the floor like that, Lana looked lost. She screamed up at the disco ball, told it to shut the fuck up, but the ball kept spinning and the music kept playing, whereas the people in the club stood frozen. Everyone seemed to be looking at her. Everyone except Eugene.
“... especially my sister. She thinks she’s pretty special for being a surgeon. What she doesn’t understand is that she owes it all to me. I took over the family’s business, so she could do whatever she wanted, and she’s never once thanked . . .”
Miss Mosely marched out from her office with Marilyn the tattletale following close. Lana was going to get in trouble.
I stood up. “I have to use the bathroom.”
“What?” Eugene grabbed my arm. His strength surprised me.
“I have to go,” I said, and pulled free.
The flashing lights made it hard to focus but you couldn’t miss Miss Mosely. She had a pin head and a thick torso—a drumstick squeezed into a ruby-red sequined dress that played miniskirt in front, evening gown in back. The dress tongued the floor behind her as she walked up to Lana, pinched the back of her arm, and ushered her off the dance floor and toward the back hallway. I followed at a distance, and when the three of them stopped in the middle of the hallway, I slid into the bathroom, left the door ajar, and peeked from there.
“Now, what was so damn important I had to hang up on my husband?”
“Pendeja’s psycho, that’s what’s going on,” Marilyn yelled. She puckered her lips and waved her finger, making Zs in the air. This was the first time I’d seen her up close, and I hadn’t noticed that underneath all that wig, she was very Dominican.
“At least I ain’t a lying bitch slut,” Lana said, trying her best to stay standing.
“Ay, puta borracha. Listen, maricón, when we’re working I ain’t your friend or whatever the fuck you think I am, okay? I got kids, okay? So you better not fuck with me making money, or I swear I’ll—”
Lana spit at Marilyn, and soon their fists and heads got tangled up in a big, ugly bow. Lana clutched a handful of Marilyn’s hair but all she got was the wig, and Marilyn screamed and dug her nails across Lana’s face, scratching her up good. It was strange watching a fight that wasn’t being stopped by anyone. In school, a teacher always wedged in, and that was that, but Miss Mosely simply stepped aside and raised a chubby finger for Bic to come over.
Even before Bic arrived, Lana and Marilyn grew tired and quit fighting on their own. Marilyn snatched her wig out of Lana’s hands, and Lana, she didn’t look too good. The fight had taken the bones out of her. She slacked against the wall and slid down until her butt reached carpet. Her lipstick was smeared, and her long, skinny legs were spread out in a V, showing a black lacy bulge of underwear.
“Clean this mess up,” Miss Mosely said to Bic when he got there. “And you.” She turned to Marilyn, who was in the middle of slipping her wig back on. “I want nothing more from you the rest of the night. You comprende what I’m saying?”
That’s when Miss Mosely caught me peeking, which shocked me enough to shut the bathroom door and run into a stall. Minutes later, when I realized she wasn’t coming after me, I poked my head out into the hallway again. Only Bic and Lana were there.
“Rise and shine.” Bic nudged Lana’s thigh with the tip of his cowboy boot. Lana was out. One of her fake eyelashes had fallen off, which made it seem like she was forever winking. Bic pulled her up by the wrists and slung her onto his back, like a knapsack, and lugged her down the hallway, not caring that her shoes had slipped off. Her nylon toes dragged along the carpet.
I looked both ways before coming out of the bathroom. I gathered up Lana’s shoes and tiptoed down the hall to where Bic had taken her. There were two doors—one marked TV ROOM, the other, EXIT. I opened that one, but Bic beat me to it and came back in, alone.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“I was just—” I held up the shoes in my defense.
“If I were you, I’d get my ass back to work.” He pushed me down the hall, and I tripped and
fell. My nose hit the carpet, and I dropped the shoes. Before I could think about collecting them, Bic’s cement hands locked onto the side of my arms and hoisted me up.
“Don’t.” I squirmed to get away.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, and moved me along. I tried to twist my arms free, to kick him in the legs, to elbow him. I fought with every part of me but he wouldn’t give. I felt dizzy. My nose burned. I kicked his shins and hit his chest with the back of my head but it was clear I was just hurting myself.
He shoved me off. “Fine. I don’t have time for your shit anyway.”
I ran back into the bathroom and shut the door, leaned against it to catch my breath.
“Hey, Chinita!”
Marilyn stood in front of the mirror, the top of her dress peeled down to her waist. She was bent over, with her huge jelly breasts dangling above the sink, rubbing pink soap crystals onto her chest. Her back was bare, syrupy skin, and she had on black high heels with long vinyl straps that drew Xs up her calves. I walked up to the sink and looked down. Ladybug drops of blood fell, one by one, onto the metal basin.
“Ay, puta, your nose is bleeding,” she said.
“Yeah. I guess it is.”
“Don’t worry, Chinita, it gets better. I promise.” The spikes of her heels scraped the bathroom tile as she ran into a stall and grabbed a wad of toilet paper. “The first day’s the hardest. That’s cuz you got all that crap in your brains about right and wrong and shit. That shit can kill you.”
I clamped my nose with tissue and tilted my head back. I told her that I didn’t understand.
“That’s what I’m esplaining.” Marilyn rinsed her breasts and made sure not to let any water drizzle down her dress. “Me? I’m a successful businesswoman cuz I don’t care about nothing but working and working hard. That’s it. Been hostessing for five years and it’s a good living. My two girls, they get skating lessons, dancing lessons, whatever they want, cuz on a good night, I’m on the clock, like all the time, okay? Fifteen cents a minute, times whatever, plus some of them like to pay a little extra, for, you know, the TV room and shit. Add that up and that’s a Benjamin. Easy. Take away what I gotta give Miss Mosely, but after that, that’s all my money. Stick with this and you can bank, okay?”
