by Reid, Penny
I reflected on all that had happened. I didn’t feel an acute need to grieve the loss of him or the five years of our life together. In order to be confident of my feelings, I made sure the invisible closet door in my head was open, the light was on, and the box was unlocked, but detachment remained.
I knew that my preoccupation with the trivial was a direct result of my mother’s death, as well as what my therapist called an already natural propensity to observe life rather than live it. He called it self-preservation.
My paternal grandmother, ever a fangirl of pharmaceutical products and medical intervention, insisted that I needed therapy when my mother died. So, I started therapy at the ripe age of thirteen.
I thought therapy meant sitting on a couch being shown inkblots shaped suspiciously like blobs of ink and being told I was angry with my mother for her affairs; angry with her for running off with her latest lover; angry that she had gotten herself killed in a motorcycle accident; angry that she had left me with my somewhat dimwitted—albeit well-meaning—father and my two siblings, both of whom were prone to criminal activity; and angry at her for cooking veggie tacos on the Tuesdays of my childhood instead of the hot dogs and potato chips I craved.
The therapist did all those things even though I hadn’t felt particularly angry; I just felt sad, enormously sad.
It was why, the therapist said, my brain always took a hard U-turn when I was faced with difficult or uncomfortable emotional situations. Nevertheless, during that year, I also reluctantly learned strategies that worked. I learned that when I was overwrought with emotional distress, small things could be a trigger, like finding a bathroom stall bereft of toilet paper. The mundane became as insurmountable as moving Mt. Fuji.
However, I felt certain that I was doing my utmost to spend some time marinating in the end of my relationship. The most emotion I could conjure over its end was a wistful melancholy over the possibility of losing Jon as a friend. Admittedly, I also felt a twinge of regret when I realized I’d already bought him a birthday present.
Maybe that made me shallow.
Elizabeth thought I was in shock.
Whatever the truth was, I reasoned, once enough time passed, the truth would out. I liked to think of myself as Launcelot Gobbo from Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice; even a foolish man will produce some wisdom, given enough time to drone on and on in unchecked soliloquy. Since most of my time was spent in unchecked soliloquy, I held out hope for some wisdom.
The job search was in its infancy. Nevertheless, I sent out at least a hundred resumes, applied for every job on craigslist for which I might be the least bit qualified, and contacted all the temp agencies I could find in the Chicago area.
I was determined to be employed.
I had a meager savings account, but it wasn’t just the money at issue. I could not take a prolonged sabbatical from the working class because my temperament required that I be, at all times, gainfully employed.
The recognition that my temperament was less than ideal for appropriate integration into society was the reason I started tutoring elementary school kids in math and science every Thursday afternoon and evening. Admittedly, it wasn’t why I continued. I continued for selfish reasons: the kids liked comic books, they were funny, and I liked doing it.
If left to my own devices, I would eventually become a hermit, sans my weekly tutoring on the South Side. I knew the longer I was out of work, the more despondent I would become. I even considered learning to knit. I think this last revelation is what led Elizabeth to insist that we spend some time being outrageous.
And, therefore, we were destined for an outrageous night at an outrageous club.
The only items she approved of in my wardrobe were my shoes. In fact, she borrowed a pair of orange faux-crocodile leather wedge heels with a turquoise bow at the toe. I wore a zebra printed spiked heel; the rest of my outfit came from her closet. She said I owned the clothes of a radiologist and the shoes of an OB/GYN, which is like the medical doctor equivalent of saying that I dressed like a librarian with a propensity for fuck-me boots.
We wore the same shoe size, but she was at least a size smaller everywhere except her waist. She owned a mere two dresses that actually fit over my expansive derriere: an olive-green, button-down, Mad Men throwback, 1950s-style housedress and a cinch-waisted, almost backless, simple black dress that gathered and flowed nicely over her shoulders and hips but that merely stretched and puckered on mine.
The black dress ended mid-thigh. I looked at myself in the mirror, then gazed longingly at the olive green dress still hanging in the closet; it was knee-length.
Elizabeth met my eyes in the mirror and gave me a dirty look over my shoulder. She’d seen my attention stray to the closet.
She won. I wore the black dress. Even with the addition of thigh-high stockings to cover my bare legs I felt exposed and, if I must admit, a tad sordid.
We were able to enter the club with little difficulty, even though a long line of partygoers snaked around the length of the building. Elizabeth walked to the front and handed two large tickets to a man wearing sunglasses flanked on either side by two beefsteaks of man-meat.
As far as I could tell, the man in the sunglasses didn’t look at the tickets, but I got the distinct impression he was studying us behind his dark lenses. He nodded his head just once, and then moved to the side so we could pass.
Elizabeth tossed me a bright, carefree smile as the clicking of our heels was swallowed by the jungle sounds of the club. I gaped at our surroundings in uneasy wonder; it was definitely going to be an experience. She didn’t communicate to me that the name of the club was actually Outrageous. To be honest, Overwhelming would have been a better name.
The inside of the club was quite literally a jungle. Twenty-foot replicas of trees native to the rainforest towered above us, and I followed the line of one of the taller trunks as it reached to the ceiling, which had been painted or canvassed to look like the canopy of a rainforest.
Strategically placed lights filtered through the pseudo-branches creating the effect of twilight in the heart of the Amazon. The ground slanted downward from the entrance, and it was impossible to tell how big the room was; I guessed rather than saw that the majority of the walls were covered in mirrors, which multiplied the jungle atmosphere in every direction.
A total of 428 amphibians and 378 reptiles have been classified in the Brazilian rainforest; I wondered how many were represented in Club Outrageous that night disguised as human beings.
Unlike most clubs I’d had the misfortune of attending, the music in Club Outrageous wasn’t oppressive or omnipresent. I recognized the music playing unobtrusively over the sound system as The Mix-Up by The Beastie Boys, specifically the song B For My Name; intermixed with the 2007 Grammy award-winning album for instrumental pop were wildlife calls of the Brazilian rainforest.
Just as the bass strummed a low rhythm, a call wrenched forth from what I guessed was the giant leaf frog indigenous to the western and northern regions of Brazil.
It could have been a different frog species; admittedly, I was not at all familiar with all Amazonian frog calls. But, since I recently read an article about the giant leaf frog and the medicinal potential of its waxy secretion leading to biopiracy of the species, it was the first frog that came to mind.
At the center of the expansive room was a massive arch that was obviously meant to resemble an eroded sandstone canyon or cave, and underneath it was an impressively large bar that also appeared to be carved out of eroded sandstone. A waterfall cascaded over the top of the arch into a pool at the base of the bar.
The floor around the bar was illuminated with blue lights, and even from our place at the entrance, we could see the water flowing beneath clear glass tiles. A furry movement caught my eye, and I turned my attention to a previously unseen cage between our location and the center of the room.
“Look,” I leaned close to Elizabeth and pointed to the cage. “Wait, that’s a person. T
here is a woman in there with the monkey, and she is…she is naked!” I covered my mouth as I realized the woman was not alone. “Oh, my God, that looks like…oh, my God.”
Elizabeth laughed, presumably at my expression and lack of speaking ability.
On closer inspection, I noticed the club did an admirable job of making it appear that the woman was in the cage when, in fact, she was encased in a separate Plexiglas shell within the cage. There were multiple cages in the club; some were at floor level and others were suspended in the trees. Each of the cages held one or more exotic primates or monkeys and a Plexiglas cylinder in the center of the enclosure.
However, the woman was not alone within the cylinder.
I did a half-spin and gaped around the room, my wide eyes as they moved from cage to cage, my mouth hanging open. Behind, or next to, or in front of, or wrapped around each naked woman was a man dressed in a furry suit that obviously was meant to match the primate or monkey in the cage; the woman and man were engaging in what I only allowed myself to term as open displays of affection. It was hard to tell for certain what they were doing without venturing close to one of the cages and studying them for a prolonged period. I felt a little sick to my stomach.
“That’s distressing.” I swallowed hard, trying to look anywhere but at the strange theater surrounding us. Elizabeth just chuckled lightly as she pulled me into the room, and I shot her a hard glare. “You knew about this, didn’t you?”
She shook her head; tears of hilarity were pooling at the corners of her eyes as we navigated around trees. “No, no—I swear I didn’t! I think they’re just making out. I don’t think they’re…you know, doing it.”
We stopped at the bar and stood in front of two stools that looked like they were covered in fur. I couldn’t bring myself to sit down. I glanced at Elizabeth from beneath my lashes and couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at my mouth. She made no move to sit either.
I couldn’t speak any further due to my extreme discomfort with the situation, and Elizabeth couldn’t speak as she was caught in a new tsunami of giggles. Her amusement finally became too contagious to ignore when the soundtrack of jungle noises included a brief call from a macaw. I couldn’t restrain the laugh when it bellowed from my chest.
Elizabeth leaned her elbow on the bar and turned her smiling eyes to mine. “I had no idea what to expect, honestly. One of my patients gave me the tickets. All he said was, ‘Be prepared for something outrageous.'” Elizabeth turned to the bar and signaled to the bartender, briefly inclining her head toward me. “I think they switch it out every few months and try to outdo themselves each time.”
“Is it always a jungle theme?” I twisted my lips to the side in an effort to keep from laughing as I offered a sympathetic tilt of my head toward one of the cages. “I feel so sorry for the poor monkeys. I don’t want to see that, and I can’t even begin to imagine how they feel about being stuck inside with those gyrating bodies.” Suddenly, the fine hairs on the back on my neck stood at attention and I shivered inexplicably.
I had the overwhelming impression that I was being watched.
My attention skimmed the floor of the club as I tried to quell that omnipresent pressure associated with uncertainty and nervous expectation, but I couldn’t find any eyes pointed in my direction. I tried to shake off the sensation. I hoped it was just the combination of being an unwilling voyeur as well as the lingering distress I felt about my state of undress.
Elizabeth’s smile faded when she saw my expression, and she frowned. “Hey,” she placed one of her hands over mine. “We don’t have to stay. Why don’t we have one drink then get out of here?”
I pressed my lips together and shook my head. “No, no. It’s ok. I’m good. It’s just…” I sighed and let my eyes move over the room, allowing myself to look beyond the cages to the crowd of clothed club-goers that I somehow missed when I entered.
No one was dancing, which was understandable because the music was low and inconspicuous; instead, they sat on large circle shaped cushions that looked like giant lily pads. Other groups, mostly in pairs, were snuggled together in booths that had been carved into the bases of the trees.
Everyone was gorgeous, every single person, in that glossy, shiny, plastic way. It was like being in a room of animated mannequins. Their mouths moved, but rarely did their expressions change. I’m sure there were famous people present, but I didn’t immediately recognize any faces. I began to feel a familiar comfort envelope me, as I became an observer. No one would notice me in this room of plastic women and perfect, sinewy limbs.
“I’m good.” I finally met Elizabeth’s worried gaze and smiled as the bartender approached.
She eyed me with plain contemplation then nodded once. “Ok. But if you want to go, just say the word.”
Before we could order, a bleach-blond bartender with big brown eyes placed two glistening glasses of what I surmised was champagne on the bar. He gave us a crooked grin that was somehow perfectly paired with his Australian accent.
“Ladies, these are for you. I’ve also been instructed to put anything else you order on the same tab as well. I’m David. Let me know if you need anything.”
Elizabeth recovered faster than I did. “Uh, I don’t know if we can accept these without first knowing who our benefactor is.”
His smile widened and his gaze moved in conspicuous appreciation over her silky turquoise dress. “I can’t divulge that.”
“Then we don’t want them.” Elizabeth pushed the glasses back to the bartender, but he stopped her by leaning over the bar and leveling his lips with her ear. He whispered something that I couldn’t hear, and I frowned; my attention was diametrically split between their exchange and the rest of the room.
When he leaned back, her gaze followed his movements with obvious suspicion. He merely smiled the same crooked smile and winked at her, and then he added before leaving, “Like I said, let me know if you need anything.”
I met her pensive expression with one of my own. “What did he say?”
“He asked me to drink the champagne. He said if I didn’t drink it, he might get in trouble.” She lifted the golden liquid to her lips, her inky lashes hiding the movements of her eyes as they surreptitiously swept over the inhabitants of the bar with renewed interest.
“This is unexpected,” I said, dutifully picking up my glass.
A short laugh escaped her throat followed by an extremely unbecoming snort. “Not really; we look hot.” She tipped her glass against mine and lifted it in a toast. “To looking hot and getting free stuff.”
I tapped my glass against hers and we took a sip of the champagne. Elizabeth continued her survey of the room over my shoulder when, suddenly, I saw her eyes widen as she almost choked on the bubbly liquid. She set her flute down clumsily and coughed. Her hand went to her chest, but her gaze was still transfixed over my shoulder.
“Janie.” She coughed, cleared her throat, and tried to speak again. “Don’t turn…”
“Let me get you some water.” I started to walk around her, but her arm reached out and held me in place.
“Don’t!” She coughed, swallowed, lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper, and added, “Don’t move—don’t. He’s here!”
“Hey.” A male voice spoke from behind me, and it sounded strangely familiar. I turned my head toward the greeting and was met by the towering form of Sir Handsome McHotpants clothed in a black suit and open neck black shirt, his startling blue eyes directed squarely at me.
Chapter Four
My heart skipped two beats. I turned fully around.
Oh my God, it’s you.
“Oh my God, it’s you.” I realized too late that I said and thought the same thing in unison.
He gave me a whisper of a smile, his blue eyes moving over me: lips, neck, shoulders, chest, stomach, hips, thighs, legs, shoes. The slow deliberateness of his perusal made me shiver even as I felt a dismaying hot flush rise to my cheeks.
His gaze lingered on my s
hoes before it traveled upward again.
After a long pause, his blue stare met mine again, “Yep. It’s me.”
I was speechless; my usually cluttered brain was blank. I could only gape at him. Thankfully, Elizabeth spoke from behind me. “Hi, I’m Elizabeth.”
His eyes moved beyond me to where she stood. I took the opportunity to make some semblance of an attempt to gather my wits from where they lay scattered: on the floor, on the bar, on the ceiling, like blood from a gunshot victim.
“Hi, I’m Quinn.” He gave her a closed-lipped, socially acceptable for the situation, friendly enough smile, and I tried to think of something to say as Quinn and Elizabeth shook hands over the bar.
Quinn. His name is Quinn. I must remember to call him Quinn, not Sir Handsome McHotpants.
The best I could come up with was, “What are you doing here?” Then I tried not to cringe when I realized it sounded somewhat accusatory.
His attention moved back to me. “I’m working.”
“Are you a bouncer?” My brain, like a skipping record, seemed to be stuck on stream-of-consciousness questions.
“My company…” He paused for a moment as though considering something, and then he continued. “My company does the security for this place.”
“Oh—the same company that does the security for the Fairbanks Building.” I stated this rather than asked. The Fairbanks Building was where I used to work.
I started to feel marginally more relaxed in his company as his presence at the club made more sense. However, his presence at the bar, with us, was still a mystery. Before I could stop myself, I asked, “Are we in trouble?”
His eyebrows lifted. “Are you in trouble?”
I nodded. “What I mean is, did we do something wrong? Is that why you were sent over here?”
He shook his head, not answering right away; confusion and something akin to uncertainty flickered over his features. “No, no one sent me over here.”
“Oh,” I said, and my mind went blank again.
