Sovereign Ground (Breaking Bonds)

by Hilarey Johnson

  He laughs, but then looks at something in the distance. We say an awkward goodbye.

  I watch him leave. I know behind me, Thom watches too.

  Chapter 8

  This isn’t real. I fold the check with shaking hands.

  Sunlight gleams from the Sir Car Wash sign on the side of the building. Two weeks of bending and dipping pruned fingers into lukewarm water in sixty to seventy degree weather. Two weeks of wet, dirty, sore feet, ashtrays, rust, grime dripping. Two weeks of minimum wage.

  The manager, Cal, stands there—waiting like he’s the one who paid me.

  “Thanks for handing this to me.” I wave the check, sure that my sarcasm floats just above his oily comb-over.

  The folded check fits in my back pocket; I hope it doesn’t get wet. It’d be worth even less.

  “Uniform switches to shorts next week. I can’t wait.” Cal peruses the length of me for emphasis.

  I stand and put my hand on my hip and shield the sun from my eyes. This Lorna pose comes in handy.

  Cal clears his throat. “Because it gets mighty hot out here.”

  Nice save on his part, really. If I hadn’t worked at the Wild Lily, I might not be so adept at distinguishing his innuendos. I feel sorry for the other eighteen-year-old girls, the unsuspecting ones who attend churches like Hayden’s.

  Hayden.

  What did I think? I would get a job I could be proud of? Go to church and become Hayden’s lover? I bend, wipe, reach and lean for eight hours a day while the manager ogles me. And now, I have my reward: seven dollars and twenty-five cents an hour. A week of taxed income amounting to less than what I made in two nights at the Wild Lily.

  Hayden, you didn’t even call.

  “That would bring in more business.” Cal folds his arms and focuses on a group of girls across the street. They dance around in T-shirts and shorts, waving signs that advertise their cheer team fundraiser.

  One particularly bubbly girl pulls off her T-shirt and bobs up and down in a bikini top. She must move like that because she’s freezing. Cal raises his eyebrows at me as though I might share his enthusiasm. Another girl pulls off her top as well—they’re getting braver with the passing cars’ honking encouragement.

  They dance for free—well, maybe not free. They’ll get new uniforms or something. Why is working at a place like the Wild Lily so much worse? Getting paid makes me the smarter one. How many people prostitute themselves like that for free?

  “I can’t believe the grocery store let them use the parking lot across from us. They probably don’t have permission. Shouldn’t you complain that they’ll take our business?” I ask the back of Cal’s head, since he still stares at the girls.

  “You’re right, I should go over there.” He walks away with all the determination of a kid near a free snow cone stand. I turn back to my job.

  Water drips down the cracked windshield of the Land Cruiser in rivulets like dirty tears.

  On my lunch break, I walk to the nearest casino and cash my check, the best place for someone without a bank account. It’s in the low seventies today. Maybe warm enough for my clothes to be dry when I go home. Whoopee.

  I step into the hazy, electric cacophony of lights and sound. Several gray-haired men and women hunch over their cigarettes and drop their legacies into a box of dreams, coin by coin. Nice way to spend an afternoon, I can’t wait to grow up. A cocktail waitress wearing fishnets delivers a drink with an umbrella. An old guy hands her a ten dollar bill.

  “Something for you.” He has a gravely, smoker’s voice.

  This might be a good place to work. Good tips.

  I look down at the neon squiggles in the carpet. This is my aspiration? Three years from now I’ll be twenty-one and all my dreams will come true: sunset colored drinks in a mini skirt?

  I need better dreams than this.

  The wrinkled-face lady behind the cage requests my ID and thumbprint. I press it into the back of my check next to my signature. A crisp hundred and several twenties—how will I fit this stack into my wallet?

  Dames of Desire. Brody’s business card is an ambulance chaser following the scene of my injured wallet. I shove the cash next to it.

  He asked me to come by and say hello.

  I touch my cheek. All healed.

  Brita.

  Brody wanted me to let him know how I was doing. I haven’t talked to Misti, Buzz or Cassie once since my last night at the Wild Lily. What was I thinking? I could just pretend it never happened? I really should check in.

  After a twenty-minute walk, I turn the corner and the sight of those golden arches arouses a beast in my stomach. The McDonald’s is just around the corner from Brody’s bar, a good place to grab a bite. I’m on my lunch break, after all.

  The line is short, so it doesn’t take long to get French fries from the dollar menu. It would be nice to not order from the dollar menu. I chew my meal slowly.

  I watch a man outside rub his saggy jaw as though all he sees in the window is his reflection. He turns and shields his eyes with a dirty, chapped hand. Stringy, shoulder-length hair flips lightly, dancing above his OD green field jacket. He looks like a mangy alley cat, one who’d rather steal than beg.

  I get back in line.

  When I hand the homeless guy a bag with a couple dollar menu cheeseburgers, he doesn’t say anything. He just nods from where he sits on a torn sleeping bag. At the rate I’m earning, that could be me soon.

  Dames of Desire is a two-story building. All I can read is the word “Desire” because the front is obscured by construction workers on wooden platforms. They’re removing the letters and re-facing the building. A very tall, thin man halts construction when I approach.

  “Afternoon, ma’am.” He tips his hard hat like a cowboy. “Are ya going in?”

  “Do you have the time?” I point to my wrist where a watch would sit, if I had one.

  “Two-oh-five.”

  My lunch break ended five minutes ago. Looks like I just quit Sir Car Wash.

  The men watch me walk past. They almost have awe in their faces, at least compared to my, um, ex-manager. I’d rather be thanked when I’m looked at than to have the looks stolen. I’d rather be paid, than to give them away like a cheerleader.

  The inside has the same amount of hammering and drilling noise, but it’s captured by the walls and therefore louder.

  I no longer expect to see Cassie, Buzz and Misti. This is not the Wild Lily. My worn sneakers look out of place on the rosy, stone tiles. Off to the corner, men are still laying the tiles.

  I look around for a safe place to stand.

  “That’s fine ma’am. You’re okay there; just don’t go past this rope.”

  That’s the second time today I’ve been called ma’am.

  The high-arched ceilings wear fans shaped as tropical leaves as well as chandeliers that dangle with soft, blush lights. The walls are decorated with framed close-ups of stamens and pistils inside exotic flowers. Bamboo screens shield private areas, tables or booths. Lush, tropical plants are pushed to one side, but I can envision them spread throughout the room. A large circular stage is the center of the room, where the ceiling rises above it a good fifteen feet. There are rows of lights above. Some have different colored lenses. Off to the left is a rounded stage, up against the corner.

  “What took you so long?” Brody walks up behind me.

  “How did you know…”

  “What are you going to do? Work for ten—twelve bucks an hour?”

  If only. He doesn’t meet my eyes; he simply stares at the logo on my Sir Car Wash polo shirt. It’s hilarious to him, but thankfully he doesn’t laugh. “I knew you’d be back.”

  Brody cups a hand to my cheek and rubs where it used to hurt. “You look good. How do you feel?”

  “I’m all right.” I return his smile; I haven’t had anyone to smile at in days.

  “Come with me. Excuse the remodeling.”

  I follow Brody on the right side of the main stage and wait
while he unlocks a door. We walk up a staircase and down another hall of closed doors. At the end he uses his key again and I follow him into an office. There’s an overstated, dark desk, expensive looking furniture and pictures of the “Biggest-Little-City,” arch at night.

  Just inside the door is a conspicuous red and blue shrine with a picture of a young Brody kneeling next to a football. The focal point is a shadow box with a UNR jersey and several newspaper clippings.

  Monitors line a wall and Brody sits on a chaise lounge underneath them. I look at the TV images of the stage, a dressing room with several girls, restrooms and every corner of the bar.

  “I’ve become a bit paranoid.” He rubs the brocade-burgundy seat. “So with the remodel I decided to upgrade everything, starting with the security system.”

  “Did the Wild Lily have a security system?”

  “Unfortunately, no. And it doesn’t matter anymore, she’s completely gone.”

  “Will you rebuild it?”

  “So many questions. Would you like something to drink?”

  After a long walk and salty French fires? “Yes.”

  Brody rises and goes to a carved cupboard. He mixes liquid from a few bottles and adds a cherry, pouring a little juice in with it. The cool sweetness soothes and quenches. I tasted Thom’s drink once; it was nothing like this.

  “Aren’t you going to have something?”

  One side of Brody’s lip smiles a little higher than the other. “I never drink.” He sits again, places his ankle on top of his knee and leans back. I had forgotten how soft his eyes are.

  “Then why do you have a bar in your office?”

  “Clients.” He smiles and it’s like he is taking a deep breath by looking at me. “Former employees and other esteemed guests.”

  We chat about the weather. He tells a joke. I recline, following Brody’s body language. He offers me another drink.

  “No, thanks. I just came by to say hello. Since the—”

  “You aren’t coming back to work for me?”

  “Brody.” I stand and return my glass to the bar. “I’m not old enough.”

  He shakes his head. “Cassie broke a lot of rules. Drinking on the job is just one of the reasons I let her go.” Brody stands and straightens his tie. “When will you be eighteen?”

  “I’m eighteen.”

  “You’re old enough to work here.”

  I raise an eyebrow. He laughs at my face.

  “Even minors can perform and entertain. Alcohol is only served in the lounge. You’ll work on stage.” He walks to his desk and pulls out a piece of paper. “We’re a gentlemen’s club. Mostly businessmen meet here. We aren’t just a bar, we offer…more. Burlesque show, not just strippers.”

  Brody hands me the paper. “Fill this out. We require our exotic dancers to get a license. Do it at the sheriff’s station; it costs about a hundred and fifty dollars.”

  I can feel the weight of my car-wash-earned cash. Good thing I have it.

  Brody continues. “Takes several hours because they do a background check. You’ll need a birth certificate. Here’s a packet with a referral slip from TorchLight.”

  “TorchLight?”

  “Yeah, name change with the remodel. Here’s my new card.” The shiny card is all black with a close up of a flower, like the pictures in the main room. “Think you can get all of that done by tomorrow?”

  I take the card and a manila envelope that has “Dancer Packet” written in Sharpie. “You want me to start tomorrow?”

  “No.” He squeezes my shoulder and kisses my check. “I owe you a night on the town.”

  “Sure, I guess.”

  He leaves his office so I follow and wait while he locks the door.

  “I need a date for a benefit. Do you have a formal dress?”

  I look down. “Uh…”

  “Never mind, let’s visit props and costumes.” He walks a few steps down the hall and opens the last door before the stairwell. Within is a jungle of color.

  He takes me past a rack of costumes to an armoire.

  “Here are the special dresses.”

  He opens it, and inside hangs a dozen shiny fabrics under dry-cleaning plastic. Brody slides several hangers across the wardrobe bar. I saw an old movie once where a woman tried on several costumes for a man. I hope he doesn’t ask me to do that.

  Brody lifts a few and holds them up to me alternately.

  “No, too low-cut.” He holds up another. “Here’s the one.”

  I can see the midnight fabric shimmer under the plastic bag. It’s so dark it looks black from one angle and navy from another. I lift the plastic.

  “Satin.” Brody is pleased with himself. I begin to take it. “Naw, come back tomorrow.” He pulls the hanger back. “You can get ready here. I’ll send a car for you.”

  I’m actually relieved. No way I could’ve explained away that gown.

  “Where are we going?”

  Brody looks at the dress and then me. “Yeah.” He languishes over the word and bites his lower lip with perfect teeth. He has seen many women topless, but he wants to see me in this dress. Me.

  “It’s a fundraiser.”

  “Oh?” What kind of a cause would motivate a strip—burlesque club owner?

  He closes the armoire and hangs the dress on the front knob. “Bringing art or music to under-privileged kids. You know, the standard boring crud.”

  I don’t laugh with him.

  “It’s a way to mingle with our clients.” He puts his hand on my back and guides me out of the costume room. “Show off my new bird.”

  My breath halts, caged in my chest. I forgot that he knows my real name from when he saw it in the hospital. Brody closes the door and waits for me to lead the way down the stairs.

  “Right there. Stop.”

  At the bottom of the stairs I pause. He puts a hand on the door handle and looks at me. “I want to introduce you to some of the girls. They’re doing makeup.”

  Brody reaches behind me and I feel the flat of his hand under my hair, against my back. “I’m really looking forward to our evening tomorrow.” He pulls me close and whispers near my ear. “I’ll send the car for you at six.”

  The puff of air against my cheek unnerves me. “No.”

  He looks at me with the same expression he had when his eyes were laughing at the Sir Car Wash logo on my shirt. I cover the embroidery with my hand even though he isn’t looking at it now. “I don’t need a ride. I’ll be here at six.”

  “Perfect.” The door swings wide to reveal the room I saw on the monitor.

  “Fab-u-lous!”

  Several girls call back a hello or other generic greetings. I’ve never seen so many beautiful women in one place, at one time. What am I doing in this room?

  “Everyone, I would like to introduce you to our newest stage dancer.”

  The room hushes dramatically. All eyes fix on me, and I see different emotions in each pair: awe, disappointment, envy.

  Brody takes a deep breath like a ringmaster. He promised.

  “Baby Bird.”

  That was close.

  Names are pitched in my direction. It will take me time to remember them.

  “Cori, here, our fire dancer…”

  History, or something like it, wafts between Brody and Cori.

  “…is a licensed cosmetologist. She’s giving some stage makeup tips.” Brody backs from the semi circle of girls, leaving me to fend for myself. “Join in. Have fun. See you tomorrow.” He points a finger at me and tries a wink, but his eye doesn’t close all the way.

  Brita always winked.

  “Fab-u…” The door latches before Brody finishes.

  I look back at Cori. She would be the one to teach makeup. She probably buys it in bulk. Her round Atlantic eyes are framed in black. She has white-blonde, spiky hair cut short, but feminine. It juts in her face like the petals of an exotic flower. Her long neck is a sentinel above her carved collarbone, edged by tattooed talon on her right should
er. She is thin, but has the toned look of someone who achieved it through hard work.

  “Baby Bird, huh?”

  I can’t discern who spoke.

  “I didn’t see you at the auditions.” There are three girls sitting closer to each other. Two blondes with forced blank expressions, and the most beautiful one has long brown hair. It’s smooth and wavy like a conditioner commercial says hair should be.

  “I already knew Brody.”

  “She auditioned on silver sheets.” It’s from the brunette. The pride of lionesses roars.

  “I want to get out of here as much as you.” Cori speaks to them all at once and then hands me a picture of an eye with numbered steps. I take an offered cluster of pencils, tubes and brushes. In a moment, I can’t contain how tall I feel. Cori’s smiling nod is my grade. Makeup is both a new persona and a shield. When I turn to the group, most are already packing away their makeup.

  “Oh, wow, you look good.” An auburn-haired girl with tiny hands tells me.

  “Because she’s had practice…” the words are barely there, “war paint.”

  I know what I heard, but I raise my face to vacant stares and sweet smiles.

  The room empties in moments. There’s muffled laughter after the door encloses Cori and me in the room. I look in the mirror. I can see the whites of my eyes begin to shine. If I cry here—I swear, I’ll never come back.

  “You work at a car wash?”

  I look down at my Sir Car Wash logo. “I did.”

  “I did once, too.” Cori smiles a heavy smile.

  I smudge away a little of the eyeliner as I dab at the moisture, so I use another finger to smooth it out and lean a little closer to the mirror. “I quit today.”

  Cori cleans up the rest of her makeup. She doesn’t respond, and I wish I hadn’t said anything. There is a sink and I cup my hands to drink from it. It feels like that drink Brody gave me leeched every drop of moisture from my mouth. I refill my hands until I’m quenched. When I stand, there is water on my chin and I look around for a towel. Beside the sink, sits a water bottle. I know it wasn’t there when I first walked over. Cori has one light eyebrow raised higher than the other and she holds another water bottle in her hand. She laughs.