The Journey Prize Stories 30

by Sharon Bala

  At least the tips are good. Especially around this time of year. ’Tis the season. Ho. Ho. Ho. And it beats plucking chickens at the Castle Brand processing plant, which is where most people wind up in this piece-of-crap town. So when Papa Dick says, Now get out there, girls, and shake what your mamas gave you, we do.

  We shake it across the wooden bridge surrounded by koi ponds, artificial tropical plants, and flaming bamboo torches. We shimmy beneath the night sky painted on the ceiling. Hula past the recirculating waterfall, the ginormous tiki statues belching smoke, and all the losers getting sloshed on Rum Rickies and Mai Tais.

  We do the dance of the mysterious volcano god, the mysterious sea turtle, the mysterious coconut that just landed on our heads—and ya, you’re right, we just make shit up as we go along.

  Halfway through our performance, Papa Dick takes centre stage. “And now,” he says, “Castaways’ exotic beauties would love to share some of their island, ahem, magic with a few lucky patrons.”

  Customers laugh. There’s wolf-whistling. Man, I frickin’ hate audience participation time.

  Me and the girls pass out cheap floral garlands made outta plastic. Some balding, middle-aged jerk with bad breath grabs me around the waist and asks how much I charge for a lei—nudge nudge wink wink, like I haven’t heard that line like a bazillion times before. I pry loose, thinking if I hadda dollar for every drunk d-bag that tried that line on me, I’d be so loaded I wouldn’t have to work in this dump.

  The girls start pulling people up from the audience. Janine zeroes in on some salesman, in town for the night, from Winnipeg. Tina and Enza duke it out over a stud-muffin celebrating a birthday. Me? I’m attached. My boyfriend’s name is Kyle. So I drag up this elderly couple, try and convince them that doing the hula is actually pretty doable after hip replacement surgery.

  I gotta say they’re a sad and sorry sight. Not even three hours of drink specials during Happy Hour’s enough to loosen them up. When my gran was alive, she’d say white folks wouldn’t know rhythm if it came and slapped them right upside the head. Said they’re all stiff and rigid cuz of that rod shoved up their ass. I loved Gran to bits, but she was like soooo prejudiced. Made me wonder, did she think the same about me, or at least about the half of me that’s white?

  When the show’s over, we pose for photographs with customers. Split the profits 50-50 with Papa Dick, who acts as the photographer. You’d be surprised how many guys are willing to spend ten bucks just to have a photo taken with a couple of half-naked girls in hula outfits—or maybe not.

  At the end of my shift, I punch out with $65 in tips and two phone numbers. The money I stuff in my purse. The phone numbers I give to Enza. They’ll wind up written in Sharpie on a half-dozen bathroom stalls around town. Added to Enza’s “great wall of douchebaggery.” Call Nico. Fred. Ted. Et cetera. Loves to cheat on wife. Girlfriend. Taxes…you get the picture.

  “How many didja get tonight?” I say.

  “Four d-bags for the wall,” Enza says. “And one for me. The hottie from table seven.”

  “Bull-crap,” says Tina.

  “Bitch, I know you ain’t calling me a liar,” says Enza.

  “Bitch, I know you ain’t calling me a bitch,” Tina replies.

  “I’d like to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony,” Janine says.

  Tina glares. “Shut up, Janine.”

  So does Enza. “Ya, Janine. Zip it.”

  Janine tears up. Grabs a bag of Cheezie Puffs from outta her knapsack. “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful,” she says.

  I dab on some of Enza’s patchouli oil and fetch my coat from the locker.

  “Don’t forget,” I say to Enza. “The babysitter will have given Sammy-Jo supper. So it’s just bath time and—”

  “Snack, then a couple of books before bedtime,” Enza says.

  Tina nods, tells me not to worry.

  “You’re in good hands with Allstate,” Janine says. She gives me a thumbs-up. Her fingertips are Day-Glo orange.

  Enza sighs. “You and Kyle are so rheumatic.”

  “No kidding,” Tina says. “You’re like Romeo and Juliet. Cross-eyed lovers and shit.”

  My family can’t stand Kyle. They think he’s a total loser. And I’m a little too tan for Kyle’s parents’ taste—if you catch my drift. They also think I’m a slut. That I got pregnant just to trap him. Which I most definitely did not.

  I grab my things, tiptoe down the hall.

  Papa Dick steps out of his office. “Mele Kalikimaka,” he says, and points at the plastic mistletoe tacked above his door.

  “Merry Christmas,” I say, making a run for it.

  * * *

  —

  Castaways is located in a strip mall across the street from a Petro-Can and a Motel 6. I wade through snowdrifts in the parking lot. The sound of snowplows echo in the distance like the last gasps of dinosaurs. Kyle’s waiting for me in his van. His van kicks ass. Has an air-brushed mural of Smaug wrapped around the sides.

  The door’s locked.

  “Open up,” I say. “It’s frickin’ freezing outside.”

  Smaug lets loose a cloud of smoke as the passenger door opens. The van reeks of pot. Kyle’s eyes are bloodshot. Almost as red as Smaug’s.

  I climb in. Slam the door.

  “You’re blitzed,” I say. “Again.”

  “No shit,” Kyle says with a laugh.

  I shake my head. “At this rate, we’ll never save up enough money to get a place of our own.”

  “Aw, you know you love me.”

  He’s right. I do. Regardless. In spite of. Which Mom says is proof positive that I don’t have the brains God gave a gerbil.

  We play tonsil hockey for a little while and then head over to his place. Well, actually his parents’ place. They’re gone for the weekend. Went to visit the KKKs—Kyle’s sister, Kimberly, her husband, Kevin, and their six-month-old daughter, Kelly, over in the next town. No shit. That’s what they call themselves…the frickin’ KKKs, which I think, at a minimum, is kinda insensitive. Kyle says I’m taking things the wrong way. That his family’s not like that, that people aren’t like that here in the Great White North. I think, Easy for him to say, cuz for people like me, unlike people like him, living in the Great White North ain’t always so great.

  We have a couple of beers in the kitchen. Make out a little, then head upstairs. There’s this huge gallery wall next to the staircase. Kyle and his family on vacation. At Christmas. Celebrating birthdays and graduations. Man, I’ve never seen so many pictures of people wearing cardigans in all my life. There’s not a hair out of place, not a single zit. They look like the model family photograph that comes in the frame when you buy it at the store. The one you pull out and replace with your own crappy snapshot from your own crappy life. There’s, like, a ton of pictures of the KKKs. Guess how many photos there are of me and Sammy-Jo? Zero. Nada. Squat.

  Kyle’s room looks like a bomb went off.

  I’m lying in bed, wearing my grass skirt from Castaways and nothing else.

  Kyle’s naked, except for the Polaroid camera draped around his neck. He’s jumping on the mattress. His thing bobs up and down, like one of those dashboard ornaments. My tits are bouncing like crazy.

  “Stop jumping,” I say.

  Kyle straddles me. He points the camera in my direction. His you-know-what’s pointing too.

  “Smile,” he says.

  I do. I don’t mean it. I can’t stop thinking about that frickin’ gallery wall. How it’s like some stupid shrine to Kimberly’s baby.

  There’s a whirr. A click. A chemical smell. The camera flash hurts my eyes. Kyle’s covered in spots. He dives into bed beside me. The comforter makes a whooshing sound as he lands. He watches the Polaroid develop. I watch his spots disappear.

  “God, Amber,” Kyle says. “You’ve got great tits.”

  I grab the photograph. The image is kinda grainy. I’m overexposed and the colour’s off. Story of my frickin’ life.


  Kyle leans back. “Smile.”

  I make a face at him instead.

  He takes a picture anyways.

  “You’re gonna get rid of them?” I say.

  “Sure…at some point.”

  “Whadda you mean, ‘at some point’?”

  Kyle grabs the Polaroid. Takes one last look. “Babe, a guy’s got needs. It’s just a little something to remember you by when we’re apart.” He places the photographs in the drawer of his nightstand. He nestles against my side. Starts feeling me up.

  “No glove. No love,” I tell him.

  “But—”

  “But nothing.”

  Kyle bitches. Grabs a rubber.

  Too bad. So sad. But after having a kid at sixteen, I’d like to think that I’ve learned my lesson. So now he’s got to wear a raincoat or forget it.

  “You’re my Tahiti sweetie,” he says.

  I turn away. “I told you to stop calling me that.”

  “Tahiti sweetie.”

  He starts nibbling on my ear.

  I can feel his hard-on pressed against my thigh.

  “I swear to God, Kyle. Keep that frickin’ thing away from me.”

  “Fuck’s sake, Amber. What’s your problem?”

  “I’m not in the mood.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since right now.”

  “You’re always in the mood.”

  Not always. I’m not like a nympho or anything.

  Kyle frowns. Lights a joint. “We finally get some alone time and this is how you want to spend it?”

  Can’t help it. His parents want nothing to do with me? Fine. See if I care. But Sammy-Jo’s a different story. She’s three, and still hasn’t met them. Kyle says they need time to adjust. I gotta say they’re sure taking their sweet time about it.

  We stare at the ceiling, the walls, and each other for what feels like forever—and then go back to doing it.

  * * *

  —

  Before I can get the key in the lock, Enza swings the door wide open. In the background there’s wailing, like someone’s killing a cat.

  “I thought you’d be gone the whole weekend,” Enza says.

  “What’s wrong?” I say. “Is Sammy-Jo okay?”

  “Sammy-Jo’s fine. It’s you-know-who that’s the problem.”

  “No way.”

  “Way,” Enza says.

  I take off my coat and boots. Sammy-Jo waddles up, dragging my old doll. Poor Darling Dolly-Walks-A-Lot has really taken a beating over the years. What’s left of her blond hair is all chopped to shit. There’s permanent marker all over her face.

  I pick Sammy-Jo up. Give her a hug. She’s the one thing me and Kyle got right.

  “She’s baaack,” Sammy-Jo whispers in my ear.

  “Ya, I’m not dealing with it,” Enza says. “You deal with it.”

  “Good luck!” Tina shouts from the living-room. “You’re gonna need it!”

  Tina’s vegging on the couch with Janine, who’s halfway through a container of ice cream. They’re both in PJs, watching Sesame Street.

  “It’s not easy being green,” Janine says.

  I follow the sound of wailing down the hallway. Sammy-Jo trails behind. I knock on the bathroom door, tell my sister I’m coming in.

  Donna’s cross-legged on the floor. She’s bawling. Got mascara and blue kohl eye shadow running down her face. She looks a whole lot worse than poor Darling Dolly-Walks-A-Lot.

  “I…hate…them,” Donna says through tears. “I’m not…going back. You…can’t…make me.”

  I nudge Sammy-Jo. “Auntie needs a hug.”

  Sammy-Jo looks at Donna, lets out a scream and takes off. There’s this kathunk kathunk kathunk from Dolly’s head banging on the floor.

  “What’re you…doing home?” Donna says.

  “Change of plans.”

  “What happened?”

  I tell Donna his parents came home early. I don’t mention how Kyle frickin’ kicked me out of bed and snuck me out the window. I hand Donna a tissue. She blows her nose, gives me some advice.

  “Amber, you’re not doing yourself any favours. You gotta dump that loser.”

  Like she should talk. Donna’s got a thing for trouble. Me? I got a thing for Kyle. Her social worker says it’s cuz we both suffer from low self-esteem, which Mom says is garbage. She figures the only thing we’re suffering from is a severe case of stupid.

  The phone rings.

  Enza shouts my name.

  Donna lights a smoke. “If that’s Mom, you tell that bitch I’m not talking to her.”

  Ya, well you’re not the only one—not that it matters. I head for the kitchen and the wall-mounted telephone, next to the refrigerator.

  Enza holds out the receiver. Rolls her eyes.

  There’s this squawk on the line.

  “Mom?”

  More squawking.

  My mom can’t stand Enza. Thinks she’s a bad influence, as if juvenile delinquency was catchy, like a case of influenza.

  When me and Kyle met, a few years back, it was at a wedding social for one of Enza’s cousins. I was sitting at a table with a fake ID and Enza. Kyle was there with friends. He was staring at me real hard. I thought he was cute. He thought I was Italian. “Take a picture,” I said. “It’ll last longer.” Kyle pretended to do just that. The rest, as they say, is history—or my downward slide into damnation, depending on who you ask.

  “Mom…Mom!” I wrap the phone cord around my neck, pretend to strangle myself.

  “Amber? Is that you?”

  I untangle the cord.

  “Yup.”

  “You tell that Enza she’s going straight to Hell.”

  I shake my head. Mom’s been this way ever since she found religion through Reverend Ray.

  “Mom.”

  “What?”

  “Donna’s bawling her eyes out in my bathroom. What’s going on?”

  I hear my stepdad preaching in the background.

  Dad took off when we were little and we haven’t seen him since. Mom was at a loss, raising two kids on her own. Until the Reverend Ray showed up and married her, and took us under his wing. Mom calls him her “personal Ray of sunshine.” He calls her naive for having married outside her race, calls us ungrateful brats, a couple of coloured Whores of Babylon.

  “Mom, tell Ray to shut the fuck up.”

  “Language,” she says. “You know the Reverend doesn’t mean anything by it. He only has your best interests at heart.”

  “Sure…whatever you say.”

  “The Reverend says he’s praying for both you girls.”

  “Mom?”

  “What?”

  “When you coming by to pick up Donna…Hello? Hello?”

  * * *

  —

  Waikiki Wednesdays suck. Seriously, they blow. But renting a cute little bungalow won’t come cheap, so it doesn’t matter if Waikiki Wednesdays suck, which they totally do, or that I’m under the weather with a severe case of stupid, which may or may not be accurate. “The show,” as they say, “must go on.”

  At least that’s what Papa Dick said right after firing Janine. The show must go on, which is how I got the extra hours. Poor Janine. She was getting kinda chunky around the middle. And Papa Dick says we cater to a certain clientele. Respectable businessmen who work hard for their money and don’t want to be staring at jelly bellies while they’re eating their poi poi platters and drinking Hawaiian Sunsets. If jelly bellies is what they wanted they’d go home to their wives after work.

  I feel like a traitor but Janine understands. Mom and Ray gave Donna the boot. So now, on top of everything, my fifteen-year-old sister’s my responsibility.

  The hostess stand is too close to the door. I got goosebumps in places I oughta not have them. I think my lips are turning blue. Have they turned blue? I pucker up. Change my mind, cuz the guys from Castle Brand’s head office are piling in, and I don’t want to give the wrong impression.

  I’m
freezing. Seriously, like in or out. But close the frickin’ door already. I wish I had a parka, or a sweater. Man, I’d even settle for a scarf and a pair of garbage gloves. But rules are rules. Gotta follow the script.

  “Welcome to Castaways. We’d love to get you lei’d.”

  * * *

  —

  There are two malls in town. The good mall and the bad mall. The good mall’s shiny and clean. Harte’s Portrait Studio’s located in the good mall. The good mall’s in the better part of town, unlike the bad mall, which’s in the worst. Guess where you’ll find Castaways? If you picked the good mall, you might wanna guess again.

  Kyle was supposed to drive us, but something came up. So, he’s going to meet us at Harte’s. The good mall’s packed. Christmas carols play over the loudspeakers. Everyone’s in a shopping frenzy.

  “You better stick to me like glue,” I tell Donna.

  “But I wanna look at stuff,” she says.

  “Like glue.”

  “What good’s coming to the mall if I can’t even buy stuff?”

  “You got any money?”

  “No.”

  “Then end of discussion.”

  I gotta get Sammy-Jo outta her snowsuit without her taking a hissy-fit. Donna wanders off. So does Sammy-Jo.

  “Get back here,” I say, and they both start whining.

  I unzip zippers, unbuckle buckles, stuff Sammy-Jo’s toque and scarf into the sleeves of her snowsuit. She’s got hat head. And what the frick happened to her green barrettes? The ones matching her velvet dress that cost me a week in tips.

  In the middle of the mall is Santa’s Village. There’s an oversized rocking chair in front of a fake log cabin covered in polyester rolls of artificial snow and mini-lights.

  “I wanna see Santa,” Sammy-Jo says.

  There’s a winding lineup of parents and kids, being herded like cattle.

  “Later,” I tell her.

  By the time we get to the portrait studio, Sammy-Jo’s in tears cuz she hasn’t seen Santa, Donna’s pockets are crammed with five-finger discounts, I’ve got a frickin’ headache and Kyle’s nowhere in sight.

  Harte’s is real professional-looking. Lots of pictures of happy families.