Reinventing Mona

by Jennifer Coburn

  Adam said that he was willing to go to Vicki’s karaoke night, but he said he’d like to spend time without the group, too. I resented that he didn’t see this as an opportunity to meet my friends and win them over. If I was still interested in him and he invited me to meet his buddies, believe me I’d be scrambling to make sure they gave me the guys’ seal of approval. Meeting the friends is really the prerequisite to meeting the parents. And in my case, meeting the friends was doubly important. Why Adam seemed indifferent to the idea was irritating. I wondered if I might just be looking for an excuse to be annoyed with him so I could justify breaking up.

  “Listen, if you really don’t want to go—” I said.

  “I want to go. I want to meet your friends, but I also want to spend some time with you. It’s been a while. There’s something we need to talk about.”

  He wants to have sex.

  He wants to break up.

  He wants me to meet his friends.

  He wants me to come to Jesus.

  He wants to discuss my tax liability.

  “Okay. Why don’t we have brunch at the Big Kitchen on Sunday morning?” I asked as I silently calculated the caloric intake of Judy’s biscuits and gravy. If I ran about eight extra miles I could work off about half a portion. Worth it, I decided.

  “Okay, sounds good to me. I’ve got a two o’clock I still need to prepare for, so I’m going to run. Call me later, or I’ll call you,” he said sweetly, though it sounded like a threat.

  As I turned on Alameda, I saw the navy guys waving in the car ahead of me. Then I realized there was no car ahead of me. I looked to my right and there were no cars there either. My car sat motionless, purring at the stop sign, ready to head straight toward home, but curious why the navy guys were waving me toward their gated entrance. They waved again and laughed a bit at my hesitation. I pointed at myself and mouthed Me? One guy looked like he was losing patience and started waving as though he was saying Come in or don’t, but stop pissing around at the intersection.

  Then it jumped out at me. A small navy decal was placed on the lower right corner of my windshield, and the guys thought I was one of them. Or at least had the right to be there.

  I saluted and drove into the base. “He got me in,” I said aloud to no one, smiling uncontrollably. “What do you know, the Dog got me in.”

  Chapter 40

  As I opened the front door, the theme from Gone With the Wind assaulted me. Vicki was dressed in full Southern belle garden party regalia, somewhat updated to suit her personal style. Surely, the proper ladies of Tara would have fainted to see her cropped frilly tank top just north of a full-length hoop skirt—a territory divided by a Confederate flag navel ring in front and a yin-and-yang tattoo on the small of her back.

  The first things I noticed were the deep burgundy plush carpeting on the floor in the living room contrasting with the marble foyer floor. Textured parchment color was thickly sponged onto the living room walls. In the center of the wall facing the garden, Vicki installed the funky Southern window we had found after the Kickin’ Chicks soccer game. On each dark wood end table sat pink painted parlor lamps, the kind that look like double-blossomed mums. She replaced the mantle and dining room table with the same gray marble as the foyer. In the corner was a mannequin wearing a full-length gown in the exact same pattern as the curtains.

  Vicki extended her white glove to me and curtseyed. “Tell me you love it. Say something, ‘cause frankly my dear, I do give a damn.”

  “I love it,” I said. And I did.

  She shrieked and clapped for herself. “Let me show you the kissing parlor,” she said, skipping out of the room.

  “The kissing parlor?” I asked. Upon seeing my small library—or what used to be the library—I needed no further explanation.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I saw this totally cute little sofa and the rest just kind of happened,” Vicki said, gesturing to a pink velvet love seat in the shape of a set of women’s lips. Crowding the walls were pink-framed movie posters featuring famous kisses. Casablanca. Roman Holiday. Niagra. Transglobe. And of course Gone With the Wind and It’s a Wonderful Life. In front of the lips sofa was a glass top coffee table resting on the brushed stainless steel letters X and O. A red glass candy dish held chocolate kisses, but my favorite touches to the little-needed kissing parlor were the Blarney Stone replica in the corner and the Jimi Hendrix dummy scaling the wall to kiss the sky.

  “Oh my God.” I stared in awe at the transformation of a hundred-square-foot nook.

  “Do you like the bottle?” Vicki asked. I hadn’t seen that she’d mounted a lain wine bottle onto a wooden base with the words “Peck,” “Smooch,” “Smack,” and “Make Out” hand-painted in each quarter. “It’s on a spinner, so we’re always ready for a party.” Vicki beamed. “I thought of that myself. No one else has their own spin-the-bottle game. Let me show you the rest.” She led me by the hand to another room. “Now this is a little different than what we talked about,” she warned as we stood outside the door. “But you said you find rainstorms soothing, so—” she opened the door dramatically.

  I can only describe my new spare bedroom as a dry, indoor rainstorm. The walls were painted a deep bluish purple with windows tinted the same color. The ceiling was covered with umbrella tops in solid colors with metallic undertones. Hanging over the windows were sheer white curtains. The bed was covered with a deep blue comforter, which was possibly the fluffiest bedding I’d ever seen. “Triple down,” Vicki said with pride, explaining that each of the eight pillows were just as luxurious. “Now watch this.” Vicki flipped the switch to what I thought would be the lights, but set off a storm soundtrack. The sound of pouring rain against a tin roof filled the room and suddenly a bolt of lightning appeared from the window, which I could now see was rigged. A flash of light illuminated the umbrellas on the ceiling and curtains were breezed subtly by low fans set into the windowpanes. I was about to comment on its beauty when a crash of thunder filled the room.

  “This is fantastic!” I shouted. “How clever of you to pick the guest room with the fireplace!”

  “Do you love it?” she asked, already knowing I did.

  We toured the rest of the house as Vicki told me about where she purchased each item and how every room evolved. She regaled me with stories of movers and contractors and how she did the impossible job of turning the house into my home in just over a week. She said that Captain John came by as she was finishing the rain room, and hired her to do some sort of nautical theme for his family room. “Do you think we could have a house warming party and invite your friends so they can see what I’ve done with the place, and maybe hire me if they need?” she asked. “That’s why I made you the curtain dress.” She giggled. “Remember that scene? I’m your mammy!”

  “You made the dress?”

  She nodded. “Do you like it?”

  “Like it? I love it!”

  “Good. I want to show you one more thing,” Vicki said, reaching into her purse. She pulled out a business card with her name on it as an interior designer.

  “No more stripping?” I asked.

  “Hey, it was fun while it lasted, but they fired me for being late again.” she grinned sheepishly. “And the bruises, you know. Not sexy.”

  “Not sexy?!” I gasped like Scarlett O’Hara.

  “Clearly these men are crazy.”

  Vicki was probably the sexiest woman I’d ever known. That weekend she proved it by keeping the patrons of the Lamplighter Bar roused with her absolutely horrid rendition of “Brick House.” It just goes to show you that in karaoke—and in much of life—attitude is more important than talent. When I say Vicki cannot sing, I don’t mean she’s mediocre. She butchers a song. The notes are so flat they hurt to listen to, but boy could she pull it off anyway. She danced on the speaker, walked into the audience and sat on some old Sinatra impersonator’s lap, and just looked like she was having the time of her life on stage. After the initial thirty seconds of sho
ck that someone so beautiful could emit such cacophony, people got into her over-the-top horrible act. They sang the chorus along with Vicki, partly because they were into it, and partly to drown out her voice. When the song ended, everyone rose to their feet and cheered. A smidge tipsy, Greta missed Mike’s hands for the high-five attempt. Everyone was in a drunken state of giddiness. Everyone except Adam, who suggested we call it an early night.

  “And next we have Mike,” said the hefty karaoke disc jockey. “Ready Mike?” Mike filled his thick gray cotton Naval Academy T-shirt and Levi’s that were so well-worn, the knee was beginning to guitar string.

  “That’s you.” Vicki shoved her brother.

  “I didn’t sign up to sing.” He shrugged. “Must be a different Mike.”

  “Mike? Is there a Mike in the house?” the man announced again.

  “I signed you up.” Vicki shoved him again as the music began. The words “‘Just the Way You Are’ by Billy Joel” unfolded in red lettering on a large screen and piano music began.

  “Come on, Mike, stop being a weenie and get up and sing,” blared through a microphone. Everyone in the bar started cheering, chanting his name like the final football game in Rudy. He held his hands up in surrender and stumbled onto the stage just in time for the second verse. “‘And don’t imagine, you’re too familiar and I don’t see you anymore,’” he sang a beat behind the music. His voice was uncomfortable, like he was speaking, trembling slightly. Good God, Mike was actually nervous. I loathe confessing, it was thrilling to watch. It was like seeing a glimpse of myself in a self-assured, often arrogant, guy. I snuck a peek at Adam and had the slightest tinge of guilt over the fact that I was hoping Mike was thinking of me as he sang about loving a woman just the way she is.

  I would have felt thoroughly awful if Adam wasn’t acting like a petulant brat that night. His arms were folded and he sulked as singers got up and worked their hardest to entertain us. I remember Vicki telling me once that, just as our teacher Tabitha promised, for every lap dance she hustled, she was rejected five times, and that it was a real ego drain. I couldn’t imagine how beautiful vivacious women like Vicki could even bank a nickel of their self-worth on what a bunch of average Joes thought of them, but when I saw her get up onstage and work the crowd so hard, I saw a well-concealed hunger, an aching for adoration. Sure, Vicki was in the game for the money, but there was a natural fallout from being rejected forty times a night. I felt like Adam, with his sour puss, and disengaged body language, was rejecting Vicki and Mike. And soon it was my turn.

  “Excuse me, but could one of you ladies accompany me in a duet,” Ollie asked, approaching our table.

  “Darlin’ I’m about to take these boots out a walkin’ if y’know what I mean, but maybe my friend here can help y’out?” Greta gestured toward me. Finally, she was a fully enlisted partner in crime.

  “Oh no, I couldn’t,” I said, glancing at Adam to see if he’d encourage me.

  “Go ahead, Mona,” Vicki said. “This is a very nice crowd.”

  When you look like Vicki, every crowd is a nice one. Though this was planned and Ollie and I had been rehearsing for months, I was apprehensive. Terrified. Vicki was truly the worst singer I’d ever heard in my life. Mike was a little better. Greta who was sizing up the width of the bar to see whether she could prance across it with her boots that were made for walkin’—has a mediocre voice. Yet I was the one who was light-headed with terror because I actually cared. There was a part of me that was dying to get up on stage and have all eyes on me. Another part was frightened not just of what I wanted, but because I wanted it. I had always been quite satisfied being life’s wallpaper. That night, I wanted something more.

  We waited another five songs, including Greta’s shameless version of Nancy Sinatra’s hit, complete with dance moves from the Vicki school of gyration. “Are y’ready boots?” she asked. “Start walking.”

  Ollie and I had no dance moves. I shook with fear as they called our names for our duet. We sang “Cruisin’” like Gwyneth Paltrow and Huey Lewis in Duets. Ollie harmonized perfectly and I made it through the tough parts I’d practiced no less than a hundred times in the shower as the audience sat silently watching us. I thought we are either bombing or rocking, but in the glare of the stage lights, I couldn’t see a single face in the audience.

  When we finished, the audience clapped politely but no wild cheering like they did for the theatrics of Vicki and Greta. I returned to the table and Adam looked downright angry, but before I could ask what was bothering him, the old Sinatra guy approached our table and asked if I could sing another song for him. “Can you do something contemporary, something more urban?” he asked.

  Mike winked at me, and I realized he must’ve set this up for me to look cool in front of Adam like I had fans. Even though I knew it was staged, it was thrilling to have someone asking me to sing again. Or maybe it was just the prospect of singing again that was titillating. Six months ago, I would’ve picked Nelly Furtado’s “I’m Like a Bird” because when I heard her sing that she doesn’t know where her home is, or her soul is, I knew exactly what she meant. This night, I tried something different.

  “Do you mind?” I asked Adam.

  “Knock yourself out,” he said, letting me know he wasn’t at all pleased with me. It sounded like something he might say before my first boxing match.

  I had another two glasses of red wine before it was my turn to go on stage. By then, all inhibitions vanished.

  I winked at Vicki, who recognized the humming intro to Christina Aguilera’s “Beautiful.” We smiled, remembering Tabitha the stripping teacher telling us about how she sang this into the dressing room mirror before she started her shift. Before I could wonder how the rest of them were doing—how Bettie Page’s wedding went, if the Viagra prescription was filled, how the coffee table pole dancing was going—it was my turn. “‘Every day is so wonderful,’” I began.

  Being on stage alone is possibly the most naked and vulnerable feeling I’d ever experienced. Still, naked and vulnerable had its advantages. There was a potential payoff from naked vulnerability that cloistered anonymity just did not offer. I squinted to see Mike, who gave me a thumbs-up. I don’t even remember singing the song. I just remember that when I finished, my group howled applause and the rest of the bar seemed to join in. Sinatra came back and handed me his card. “You got a great sound,” he said. “You working with anybody?” Shit, now I’m going to have to reveal that I have been taking voice lessons.

  “You mean, like a voice teacher?”

  He laughed. “I mean an agent.”

  Mike winked again, and I realized that I’d recruited a true believer in the art of public relations. How sweet of him to stage this for me. I grinned and winked back.

  “No. I just sing in the shower,” I told Sinatra.

  “That’s a waste. Give me a call this week. We’re looking for a cute young thing with your kind of sound to front a new girl band we’re putting together. You may be a good fit. No promises, but who knows.”

  Classic!

  “Oh, okay.” I winked at Sinatra.

  As we all walked toward our cars, I sidled up to Mike and whispered “thank you” in his ear.

  “For what?”

  “For that. Back at the bar.”

  “For singing?”

  “No, stupid! For Sinatra. He was perfect. I don’t think Adam was too impressed by it, but it was sweet of you to set up.”

  “Mona Lisa, you’re drunk.”

  “This is true, but it’s also true that you’re a total sweetheart.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, I’m into the sweet talk, and if you ditch Grumpy over there, I’ll give you something to really thank me for, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “That Sinatra guy!” I reminded him by drawing out the sentence. “The way he came over and asked me to sing, then gave me his card for his chick band. That was your doing.” Mike stared blankly. “Wasn’t it?” He said nothing
. “Wasn’t it?!”

  “Mona Lisa, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I am so on to you, Mr. Navy sticker putter-oner,” I slurred.

  “Mona, listen to me. I put the sticker on your car. I didn’t put that guy up to approaching you.”

  Really? Someone really and truly thought I might be good enough to sing in a band? Ahhhhhhh! I silently screamed with elation. Ahhhhhhhhh!

  “Oh.” I smiled. “That could be fun.”

  Chapter 41

  As it turned out, Adam had no particular affinity for music. Every article I’d found in my Google search, which quoted him loving opera and theatre, and contributing to the chamber orchestra, was actually written about his father—Adam P. Ziegler. Further, Adam explained on the drive home that evening, he didn’t like seeing me sing with another man.

  “First of all, you were pouting waaaaay before I sang, and secondly I was just singing. It wasn’t like, like we were ... I can’t even believe I’m explaining this to you! Who cares if I sang with someone else?”

  “I care!” he shouted. “And if you cared about me, you’d care, too. Mona, I am starting to have very real feelings for you, and it seems as though I’m in this alone!”

  And suddenly all of my righteous indignation evaporated. Adam was right. I had been using him to fill a void all along, and it was patently unfair to him. He wasn’t the E ticket to the wonderful life I’d hoped for, but he was a kind and decent person who deserved better than what he was getting from me. That night I vowed, I would absolutely, positively put an end to this scam of a relationship. And yet, when he dropped me off, I told him I’d see him soon.