Objectify Me: A Fireworks Novella (The Fireworks Novellas)

by Rizer, Bibi

  “You should.”

  “Yeah? What about you? You’re in pre-law?”

  “I guess so.”

  “You don’t sound very convinced.”

  Maybe that’s the most insight anyone has had into me in three years. Including myself. I have a sudden urge to dive over the table and kiss her on the lips. “I suppose I’m not. I thought I might do environmental law. You know, suing oil companies or whatever but I have a feeling law school is a bit like a pinball machine. You just bounce into whatever field at the end of it without much control. I mean I could end up a tax lawyer or something.”

  “Ew.”

  “Right?”

  “Tax lawyers are lousy tippers.”

  “Maybe because they can’t deduct it.”

  She laughs so suddenly, she almost spits out a mouthful of beer. I pass her a clean napkin and wonder what would happen if I just ditched Omar and Buck, my flight tomorrow, and the rest of the semester, and stayed here in New Orleans eating junk food and having sex with a lap dancer until the heat of summer drove me back to the coast.

  Charlotte looks at me, her head turned to the side. “What are you thinking about?”

  “I think my parents don’t really expect me to live up to the standard my sister set.”

  Shit. I didn’t mean to say that. It doesn’t seem to faze her though.

  “Well, I’m an only child, and the standard set by my parents couldn’t be lower. So there’s that.”

  Not sure if she thinks she’s luckier or unluckier than me. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

  I snatch the bill as soon as the waiter drops it, and wave away Charlotte’s attempts to pay. She doesn’t put up much of a fight. I appreciate that. Sometimes when women get super insistent on paying, it starts to feel kind of insulting. As though they think that I think buying them an eight-dollar burger entitles me to sex, like I’m some kind of caveman. Sometimes I just like to pay. I have money. I have a good job and well-off parents. Also, there’s nothing worse than trying to split a bill with tip and everything. Then if she pays, I start to wonder if maybe she thinks she’s entitled to sex.

  I’m over-thinking it. I realize that.

  Charlotte takes my hand as we step out into the cool night. The action on Bourbon Street has mellowed a bit, but there’s still a steady stream of people, dripping with beads and alcohol, wandering in and out of the few businesses still open. I look at my watch. It’s nearly four in the morning. We could roam around the French Quarter for a couple of hours then watch the sun come up over the Mississippi. Or we could duck into the bodega for a box of condoms and go back to the room to fuck until we can’t walk. Or I could stand here, looking at my watch, feeling her soft little hand in mine.

  “This is one of those moments that’s hard to call,” she says. “Whether we should power through to dawn or go back and get some sleep.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing.”

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. I consider ignoring it, but four in the morning is pretty late even on the coast, so it’s probably not my mother just checking up on me. I dig the phone out and click the screen on. It’s a text from Omar.

  Check this out.

  Then there’s a selfie of him and Buck, their arms around two very young looking girls in spangly bras. Charlotte looks over my phone.

  “Hookers,” she says casually. “I hope they’re not planning to bring them back to your room.”

  And there’s the difference between us. I’m fuming with judgment and Charlotte is as calm as a nurse. I have a brief flickering fantasy of us growing old like this, bouncing off each other like charged particles.

  The next text is an address and another message. Come join us, dude. It’s epic.

  I would literally rather be boiled alive. And as for girls in sexy underwear, I’ve somehow managed to hook up with the most beautiful one in Louisiana. The girls in the selfie look sick and scared. I’m just about to turn my phone off and forget about it, to drag Charlotte down to the bodega for condoms and maybe some cheap champagne and nacho chips, to throw her over my shoulder and carry her back up to my room where I can tie her to the bed and do dirty things to her until we pass out from exhaustion, when another text pops up.

  One of them gave me her phone number, I think.

  And then there’s a photograph. Some scribbled letters on the back of a business card. I stare at it, thinking maybe I’m drunker than I thought because I can’t seem to make the letters mean anything. Then I lock my screen and turn the phone upside down. The letters seem to blur and reform like the blocks I played with at my great-grandmother’s house. Russian letters.

  “Holy fuck,” I say.

  “What is it?”

  It’s not a name and phone number. The letters say Please help me.

  Chapter Eight – Charlotte

  “How far away is it?” Levi sits in the passenger seat of my crap-wagon Mazda, staring at the image on his phone.

  “About ten more minutes, I think.” The address was somewhere just past St. Bernard’s Parish. Out where the busses don’t run. It’s been half an hour since Levi got the text, and I can see he’s getting worried about his friends. He’s texted them back about a million times, and they haven’t gotten back to him. “They’re probably just dancing and having fun,” I say.

  He’s been pretty quiet since we left the French Quarter. We were lucky enough to squeeze onto a packed bus along North Rampart and got back to my place in under ten minutes – some kind of record. Then my car started – pretty much a one in three chance – which means that so far, this mission, whatever it is, has been blessed with some good Louisiana juju. I hope it stays that way.

  “You speak Russian, huh?” I say to break the silence.

  “Just a little. My grandmother taught me some writing. Mainly because I wanted to draw violent comics at her place all the time. There’d always be someone hanging from a cliff or on fire or something, and they’d be screaming ‘pomogi mnyeh!’ And then the hero would kill a bunch of people to rescue them.”

  I shouldn’t laugh when he’s so tense, but that really is funny. I can just imagine him as a little dude drawing superhero cartoons.

  “I was kind of a geek,” he says. “I guess I still am.”

  “Do you still like comics?”

  “When I can find ones that aren’t horribly misogynistic.”

  We drive in silence for a few seconds.

  “You know, I’ve never heard a man say ‘misogynistic’ before.”

  That makes him smile. “My sister has a Ph.D in women’s studies.”

  “So she wouldn’t approve of me?”

  “I don’t know. I know she doesn’t approve of me.”

  What a hard-ass his sister must be. Here’s a guy who’s too polite to properly enjoy a lap dance, who tips, who complimented my kimono and shoes, paid for dinner, and gave me two screaming orgasms. And he wants to be a socially responsible lawyer? What the hell more could you want?

  “Your sister needs to chill.”

  He laughs, clicking his phone off and tucking it away at last. “What about your family? Your Dad’s not well?”

  Well, captive audience and all. I might as well go for it. “He got brain damage from drinking too much.”

  There’s a long silence.

  “Jeez, Charlotte. That’s awful. I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah. He needs twenty-four-hour supervision, because he wanders off and gets in fights, so I found this private group home deal. It’s not too bad. Better than jail.”

  “And you have to pay for it? You don’t have insurance? Where’s your mom?”

  “She died a long time ago. Drug overdose.”

  This time he doesn’t say anything. He just puts his hand on my thigh. I let one hand fall off the steering wheel and rest on his. He gives it a reassuring little squeeze.

  “I bet your stuck-up sister is looking a lot better now, huh?” I say.

  “You know, I think I’ll buy her flowers when I get ho
me.”

  “I believe you actually will, too.”

  I slow down to avoid hitting a couple of feathered parade escapees crossing the road in precarious shoes. The horizon ahead to the east is just starting to lighten to a purplish blue. And I’m wishing somehow this night would never end. But I know Levi just wants to go home – to collect his troublemaking friends and get the hell out of this crazy-ass town. Who could blame him? And it’s not like I’m anything special for him to hang around for – a lap dancing dropout with a fucked up family. God knows what he thinks of me.

  I could just leave it there, but I’m tired and sad now. Talking about my father always brings me down, and thinking about how trapped I am makes me even sadder. And the icing on the cake is that this nice young man probably thinks I’m some kind of slut. That I can’t live with.

  “You know, I’ve never done that before,” I say before I can stop myself.

  “Done what?”

  “Had sex with a guy from the club. I don’t do that.”

  “Oh. Okay,” he says.

  “I know my family is trashy, but I’m not.”

  He turns to look at me. “Of course you’re not.”

  “I had a scholarship to UNO. I had it all planned. I was going to focus on hydraulics and work on the levies.”

  “In case there’s a another tidal surge?” he asks “Like in Katrina? That’s awesome.”

  “The lap dancing thing – I have to do it for money.”

  “I know. Why are you telling me this?”

  The GPS on my phone tells me it’s time to turn off St. Bernard. I head right, down towards the swamp. The Cypress trees along the road drip with ghostly Spanish moss, turned blue in my headlights.

  And I let it all out. Everything I would probably tell a therapist if I could afford one. “I don’t want…I’m just trying to get…I don’t like the idea of you bragging to your friends about making it with some stripper in the Big Easy. I probably should have thought of that before having sex with you but…well…I don’t know why I did it. You seemed nice, and you’re really cute, and I’ve just been really… depressed I guess. It’s depressing what I do, dancing for old fat lawyers and bankers, when I had dreams about saving this city. Anyway, I just have to deal with it for now, but I guess I wanted to pretend I had a nice, decent man for a few hours.”

  This would be the moment he says ‘let’s connect on Facebook and keep in touch. You could come visit. We could Skype,’ but he just sits there, looking out at the trees flying by us.

  “Your destination is ahead on the left,” my phone says, and the moment passes.

  “I wasn’t going to brag to my friends,” he says. “I’m not like that.”

  Of course he’s not. Now I’ve completely screwed it up. Whatever it was. Which was basically nothing.

  “So, I’ll just go and find Omar and Buck. Will you wait for us?”

  Change the subject. Good strategy. “I’ll come in with you.”

  “No way! A party like that is no place for a lady.”

  I slow down, park across the street from a large warehouse, and turn to look at him. “You seriously think I’m more likely to get into trouble than you are?” I ask. “Baby, you picked up a lap dancer on Bourbon Street. You are not to be trusted.”

  “I don’t normally do that either,” he says.

  “So what’s your excuse? Depression? Anxiety? Obsessive-compulsive politeness disorder? Just couldn’t say no?”

  “I don’t know. I think I was just doing as I was told. You told me to pick up a girl. The doorman at the guesthouse said the same thing. I guess I’m obedient.”

  “Well, lucky I came along then.”

  “Yeah.” He takes a breath. “I mean that, Charlotte. I’m really glad I met you.”

  Oh, how I wish he hadn’t said that. I was just starting to get my fingertips around letting him go, dismissing him as just another jerk, and moving on with my sad little life. I open the door and get out onto the cold, empty street. Levi jumps out and joins me on the road, putting his arm around me protectively as we cross.

  “So what’s our plan when we get inside?” I ask.

  The warehouse is dark, but as we walk through the packed parking lot, I start to feel the telltale, low vibration of a killer sound system.

  “Look for Omar and Buck, I guess,” he says. “Don’t really know what to do about the girl. I mean I suppose we could call the police.”

  “But get your friends out first.”

  “Fuck, yes. If the police bust it up, they’re likely to get arrested. Omar especially.” He goes quiet for a few seconds. “I mean, you know how the police are with black guys.”

  “I’ve heard, yes. So, fine. We find your friends. Drag them out. Call the police. Good plan.” I don’t want to break it to him that the police probably know all about this little soiree. The chief of police is probably in there right now, balls deep in some teenager. I keep that to myself. “Let’s be discreet about it, though. Will your friends make a scene?”

  “I doubt it. They talk a big game, but Buck mostly just wants to get wasted, and Omar is kind of a pussycat to be honest.”

  The door to the warehouse is closed. No sign, nobody there. The only indication of anything going on is the faint sound of thumping dance music, made tinny through the thick steel. Levi shrugs at me and knocks lightly on the door. A few seconds later, the door cracks open to a familiar face. One of Objections’ bouncers, Thaddeus Hunter.

  “Thaddeus!” Levi and I say at the same time.

  “Well, look at this,” Thaddeus says. “I’m some kind of magician. Charlotte, don’t tell me you let this nice young man buy you for the evening.”

  “Whoa,” Levi says. “It’s not like that at all. I ran into Charlotte after her shift and…uh…took her to the Ivy Grill for a late meal.”

  Well, he left out some incriminating details, but I’m okay with that. “Levi’s friends are here and he’s worried about them.” I say. “Let us go look for them.”

  “I’m not supposed to let anyone in without a password.”

  “I’ll tell Jack you’re moonlighting at a dirty old pop-up brothel, Thad. How’s that for a password?” I glare at him. “I’ll tell your mama too.”

  He pulls the door completely open. “All right. All right. No need to launch WMDs. Come in. Come in.”

  I take Levi’s hand and push past Thaddeus and through the door. “Thanks for thinking the worst of me. You owe me an apology.”

  Thaddeus hangs his head. “Sorry, Charlotte. Please don’t tell Mama or Jack. I’m just trying to put together some money for my sister’s wedding.” He closes the door and follows us in.

  We’re in a completely empty and rather dark room. The floor is littered with old machinery parts. There’s a faint smell of motor oil. The dance music is a fraction louder but still sounds pretty far away. Where is this party?

  Thaddeus points to a grimy and unremarkable door. “Go through there. Up two flights of stairs. Password at the top is “Delacour”. When you’re ready to leave, come back down the same stairs. Don’t use the back stairs. Just trust me on that. The back stairs are not for decent people.”

  I wonder what he means by that. But before I can clarify, Levi puts his arm around me and leads me across the room to the door.

  “Hey, Levi,” Thaddeus says, as Levi pulls the door open. “Keep an eye on her. Most of the women here are, you know, working girls. Don’t let anyone get the wrong idea.”

  Levi gives my shoulder a squeeze. “I won’t let go of her,” he says. “Count on it.”

  Damn it. Why can’t he just be a jerk? It would make my life so much easier.

  We slip through the door to a dim stairway beyond. The door swings shut behind us.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Levi says.

  “Star Wars,” I say. “I got that reference.”

  “Captain America. I got that one.”

  Fully geeked out on fandom, I head up the stairs in a much happi
er mood.

  On the first landing, the door is boarded shut, which seems a little inauspicious. Levi stops and puts his ear against the wood for a moment before shrugging and following me upstairs. We find another door, this one steel, behind which we can really hear the music now. It’s mainstream dancy hip-hop of the most inauthentic kind. The bass is rattling the steel of the door.

  Levi knocks, and a second later the door swings in. I half expect Thaddeus to be guarding this door too, but it’s a big white guy who looks like he’s had his nose smashed with a hockey stick one too many times.

  “Delacour,” Levi says.

  Smash-nose steps back and lets us in to a kind of cloak room. Another bouncer tugs Levi aside and runs him up and down with a metal detector.

  “Open your bag,” says the first one. I unzip my tote bag and he shines a flashlight in, pawing around the contents a bit with his large hand. “Are you a cop?”

  “I’m a dancer at Objections,” I say, and point at Levi who is now being frisked. “He’s a client of mine. In town looking for something a little extra.”

  The bouncer smiles a little too salaciously as he hands me back my bag. “He’s okay,” he says to his colleague. He lets Levi go.

  Another door is opened, and finally, we’re at the party. Levi squeezes my hand so tight it hurts.

  Chapter Nine – Levi

  “Holy fuck.”

  Charlotte steps closer to me, pressing into my side. I put one arm around her and take her hand with the other.

  “This is a lot more….untidy…than I expected,” she says.

  Untidy is one word for what we see – a large open space, flashing with colored lights and shaking with music. Half-dressed servers of both sexes drift through crowds of mostly men with trays of drinks. Sofas and tables are arranged haphazardly around the space. In between those, completely naked women dance around poles on pedestals, lit up by bright-blue lights from underneath and above. They appear to be attached to their poles by jeweled chains. Above us, a haze of fragrant smoke hangs over everything, like an enchantment.