Skinny Dipping Season

by Cynthia Tennent

  I didn’t want to ask the obvious question.

  Her smile faltered as she glanced down at my shirt. She blinked very quickly and put a finger to her lip. “Um, you might want to fix that . . .”

  Tilting my chin down, I stole a glance at my chest. A ragged inch of toilet paper was peeking out from my T-shirt. I lifted my empty tray and hugged it to my chest. “Whoops. Excuse me a moment.”

  The one advantage of a place like Booties was that the ladies’ room was completely empty. I slumped by the sinks and concentrated on breathing.

  I could do this.

  When I first left Grandma’s cinder-block house earlier, I had wanted to run away from my family again. But somewhere between M-33 and Main Street I realized that wasn’t really what I wanted. Truhart had become home. What I really wanted was to wipe away all the things I hated about my family. I wanted to show the world I was different from them.

  I wanted to check off the last line on the last page of my journal. Take a big risk.

  But all the anger and desperation I had felt earlier had fizzled in the reality of happy hour.

  Bootie had assured me that my lack of experience was no problem and hired me on the spot when I walked through the door. He had been surprisingly nice, even if he did seem a little rough around the edges in his Black Sabbath T-shirt and gold chains.

  “You know, we lost a waitress a month ago and the girls are giving me hell for spreading them around so thinly.” He eyed my breasts dubiously and I dared him to question their authenticity. I had used less than half a roll of toilet paper, after all.

  “You didn’t lose a waitress, Bootie,” laughed the bartender. “You married her!”

  One of the waitresses passed us. “Just in the nick of time too . . . she was eight months’ pregnant with your baby.”

  Bootie had grunted and given me a sheepish smile. He seemed so normal when he did that. “Okay, okay, enough. Call me old-fashioned, I know.”

  He held out the T-shirt and stretchy shorts on one finger, almost daring me to take the job. He thought I wouldn’t do it. So did I.

  Now, staring in the bathroom mirror, I barely recognized myself. I wore the same uniform all the other waitresses wore. Black shorts that rose so high in back that the lower part of my cheeks felt exposed. And a white T-shirt emblazoned with the name BOOTIES across the front. The placement of the O’s across my chest couldn’t have been more obvious.

  Earlier, before most of the customers arrived, I’d had a brave moment and used the extra can of hair spray in the ladies’ room on my curly mass of hair. By spraying it with my head upside down I had achieved the Booties-girl look. I had taken my new makeup out of my purse and applied eye shadow and eyeliner and blood-red lipstick. With the teeny-tiny see-through shirt and shorts, and the big red leopard-print bra, I could be a cat lady in a rock music video. Except for the toilet paper in my cleavage, which I tucked in now.

  I was beginning to suspect that coming here was a misguided mistake. Like a bottle of cheap wine and a stale cigarette. I picked up my tray from the bathroom countertop and headed toward the kitchen to see if the fries were ready for one of my tables.

  So far, Bootie was right. His establishment didn’t need anyone with much waitressing experience.

  Just man experience.

  Two home teams were losing on the big screens. This made the crowd at Booties restless and ugly. The Detroit Tigers’ star starting pitcher choked in the first inning, allowing five runs, and the game went downhill from there. The Lions were in the hole twenty-four points in a televised summer scrimmage game that held little promise for the season to come . . . again.

  I watched the other waitresses cheerfully console their customers with more beer and chili fries. Thank God for comfortable plastic flip-flops. I had bought them when Marva had pointed out my bare feet at the Family Fare. Who knew how much running around waitresses did on any given night? My appreciation for them doubled.

  I stood by the bar waiting for tequila shots and did a mental check.

  Table five was on its third pitcher of beer. Table six had ordered tequila shots all around, and table seven was challenging table eight to a game of darts for a round of beer and chili fries. For the most part, the men had behaved as I expected: flirtatious and obnoxious. Especially when it came to comments about my bra. If they even noticed the color of my eyes I’d be surprised. Their gaze hadn’t drifted above my neck once this evening.

  The tip the first group of customers had left me barely came to ten percent. I had been propositioned twice and proposed to once. The proposer was now asleep in a corner booth.

  Although he was doing a fine business tonight, Bootie didn’t seem too happy either. As the last strikeout in the ninth inning closed the Tigers game, he walked over to the main TV screen, changed the display, and attached a microphone to the speaker system.

  “It’s Bootie-girl trivia time!” he announced in a growling voice. Several of the waitresses standing near me moaned.

  The redheaded waitress propped herself against an empty stool next to me. “I hate this game. Bootie told me last week we weren’t going to play it no more. I always lose!”

  A darker-haired waitress, whose ragged haircut would have horrified my mother’s stylist, reached around me for a pitcher of beer and cocked her head. “Red, I told you, stop buying books for the pictures. Learn to read and at least you might answer one question right.”

  The redhead pursed her lips and turned to me. “Just ’cause she went to a year of junior college she has this superior attitude toward the rest of us . . . and I can read!” she yelled after the brunette.

  “I could beat you without a year of college, Red. You want to win trivia and play with the big girls, you gotta have one thing: An IQ bigger than your tips!” the brunette said over her shoulder, swaying her hips and thrusting her chest out, ready for the competition.

  “What does that mean? God, I hate her! Just once, I wanna get a question right and show her I know something she doesn’t.” She hunched her shoulders and walked off toward Bootie, who was rounding up the girls.

  I had no intention of playing. But Bootie waved me over too. I had seen that wave before—from my dad, when he wanted me to join him for a photo op. It made me nervous.

  One by one, Bootie introduced each girl to the crowd. The men cheered and whistled for their favorites. Predictably, Tiffany—the dark-haired waitress—brought in the most applause. The fact that she jumped up and down with her hands in the air, making the most out of her jiggle, might have had something to do with it.

  My applause was bland. With one exception: Dylan Schraeder stood on his chair and released an ear-piercing whistle. Turning my head away, I ignored him. This was beyond humiliating. I stared at the door and thought about walking out right then and there.

  Bootie went on to announce that the Bootie girl who won trivia would win a free pitcher for each of her tables. That brought the noise level to a higher intensity.

  The game seemed simple enough. We were positioned facing the TV screen with our backsides to the customers. Of course, the men loved their view of the little shorts from behind. Bootie stood on a small platform in front of us so he could see our hands go up when we knew the answer to the question. He warned the men to keep quiet or they would lose their winnings.

  “Okay, first question, girls.” Bootie held his hands up and lowered them several times so that everyone could hear.

  Bootie read the first question from the screen. “What cathedral in Paris was home to a famous hunchback?”

  Before I considered whether I was going to lower myself to participate, the brunette, Tiffany, raised her hand. Bootie placed the microphone in front of her mouth and she smiled coyly.

  “I love this cartoon! The Hunchback of Notre Dame. It was Notre Dame!”

  A cheer went up behind us as Tiffany turned and pumped her hand up in the air, doing a victory dance. Bootie peeked over at me and raised his eyebrow.

  Next to me, the
redhead stared dejectedly down at her feet. I felt sorry for her.

  “Okay, Tiffany,” said Bootie as she kept dancing around in a circle. “They penalize players in the NFL for doing that kind of thing. Let’s return back to the game.”

  He flicked a switch and the next question appeared on the screen. “In what country does the famous running of the bulls take place?”

  I put my hand over my mouth and whispered to the redhead: “Spain.”

  Her eyes widened and her hand shot up. Bootie raised his eyebrows and pointed at her to answer.

  “Spain!” she shouted.

  “That’s right, Josie. Man! That has to be one of the first times you got a question right! Everyone give a hand to Josie!”

  The crowd hooted and hollered for Josie. She narrowed her eyes at Tiffany. Then she turned toward me and mouthed thanks. I lifted my shoulders and smiled.

  “Next question . . .”

  For the next fifteen minutes Bootie posed trivia questions to us. Whenever Bootie or Tiffany weren’t looking, I fed answers to Josie. With the score tied at 6-6 for Tiffany and Josie, Bootie pulled up the last screen for a tiebreaker. I could have sworn he winked at me when he read the question to himself.

  “Okay, girls, here it is. Who wrote the famous words, A rose by any other name would smell as sweet?”

  Tiffany shot her hand up before I could feed the answer to Josie. “I know this, I know this!”

  Damn. I had wanted to win this for Josie.

  Josie’s head dipped. I guess sometimes the underdog just couldn’t win.

  Tiffany moved her shoulder back and forth in excitement. “It was Dr. Seuss, wasn’t it?”

  Several men behind her snickered, while another said he was sure he had read the quote in Green Eggs and Ham.

  “Aw, now I’m sorry, baby. You’re wrong.” Tiffany exhaled in disgust.

  I pretended to scratch my shoulder and whispered to Josie under my breath. She put her hand up.

  “Josie! You got the right answer?” Bootie didn’t seem to care that I was cheating.

  She grinned from ear to ear and nodded her head affirmatively. “It was Shakespeare!”

  Taking her fist in his hand, Bootie turned to the crowd and raised it in the air. “The winner!”

  Josie’s tables went crazy. She walked over to them and exchanged high fives all around. I frowned as several of them patted her butt and hugged her a little too eagerly. My own tables cast me long looks of disappointment and turned back to their beer and fries.

  So much for trivia.

  Bootie cranked up the music and turned the TV to the ESPN game wrap-up. It was getting late, but things weren’t settling down.

  I regretted every impulsive act that had brought me to this place. My little breakdown had run itself out. I wouldn’t be back tomorrow. I was going to quit at the end of the night.

  I took orders from a couple of my tables for the next round and headed back to the bar. Suddenly, a hand stopped me as I passed a booth by the window.

  “My dog could have gotten more answers right than you did.”

  Dylan Schraeder grabbed my arm and sneered at me with the red-rimmed eyes and the flushed cheeks of a man who was well into his alcohol.

  I pulled my arm away and stepped around him.

  “I guess that about explains why you keep ignoring me. It’s your IQ. You aren’t smart enough to know a good thing when it stands right in front of you,” he said.

  I walked backward and put my hand to my chest. “Your words are razors to my wounded heart,” I mocked, quoting Titus Andronicus. I couldn’t help myself.

  “Huh?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I should have used a Bugs Bunny quote instead of Shakespeare. More your level.” I continued to the bar. Behind me, several men laughed.

  “Bitch!” he murmured after me.

  This night couldn’t end soon enough. I clenched my fists and resisted the overwhelming urge to wash my hands in the bathroom until they were raw.

  Several of the waitresses congratulated Josie at the bar. She glanced at me and blushed. When they left with their orders, she leaned across and said, “You could have won. Why didn’t you raise your hand for anything?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I just wanted you to win.”

  Josie chewed on her lip. “How did you know all that stuff? I mean, you weren’t any good at the sports questions. But you knew so much real stuff. Like books and history.”

  I hugged the tray to my chest and watched the TV above her head. “I went to school to learn it.”

  “Oh . . . you finished high school?”

  “No. College. I am—I was—a teacher.” I hadn’t said those words for a long time. It felt good.

  The redhead’s blue eyes opened wide and she tilted her head. “What are you doing here? I mean, this is Booties, and you’re a teacher?”

  “Well, it’s kind of a long story—”

  “Hey! Who’s the hot guy who just walked in and can’t take his eyes off you?” interrupted Tiffany from behind us.

  Whipping my head around, my heart dropped to my flip-flops at the sight of J. D. standing in the doorway. My knight in shining armor for the second time today. Actually, he seemed a little less shiny now.

  He wore a gray T-shirt and jeans and his shirt hung outside of his pants at an awkward angle. His hair was a mess, as if he’d been running his hands through it. He seemed out of place here.

  Our eyes caught and I felt a shock prickle through me. He was mad. He headed straight for me, wading through several men without excusing himself.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Calm down, J. D. I know what you’re going to say—”

  “You have no idea what I’m going to say. If you did, you wouldn’t be here!”

  “Okay, just stop. We can talk about this later.”

  His fierce expression raked me from head to toe, pausing momentarily on my chest. “Jesus! What are you wearing? You look like a—”

  “We’ll talk about it later!” I said. Tiffany and Josie were staring. I gave a nervous laugh. “Really, J. D. I’m going to be fine!”

  “Well, well!” said Bootie, coming up behind J. D. “Our ‘guns and badges’ night isn’t until the end of August. But I’ll buy you a free beer now if you want, J. D.”

  For the first time, J. D. seemed to realize that there were people around. Turning to Bootie, he shook his head and struggled for control.

  “Chili fries?” Bootie offered, trying to defuse the tension. “Why don’t you just sit yourself over there at the open booth and I’ll get some fries for you?”

  “Come on, J. D. I’ll walk you over there and we can talk on the way.” I grabbed his arm and squeezed it as hard as I could. Painting a smile on my face, I walked with him to the empty booth. He stared down at me with steely eyes that made me feel like a child. For a moment he refused to sit.

  “Just sit down . . . please, J. D. I know you’re really mad at me. And if it makes you feel any better, everything you’re about to say is absolutely right. Okay?”

  “Then let’s leave,” he said in a low voice. He was doing everything he could to stay in control. But there was something edgy in his tone. It scared me.

  “Why are you taking this so personally?”

  “Because you’re personal!”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. Those were the nicest words any man had ever said to me.

  “I’m just going to wait until this evening ends.”

  “Why the hell would you do that?”

  “Well, Bootie and some of the other girls have been nice and I don’t want to leave them shorthanded. Did you know his wife is nine months pregnant?”

  He shook his head at me like I was crazy. “Look J. D., I have a better idea. Why don’t you go home? I’ll be by shortly.”

  “Not until you come with me.”

  I felt guilty for causing his unmistakable fury. It was going to take a lot of work convincing him I was fi
nished with the wild-woman behavior. Still, as much as I knew working at Booties had been a mistake, a part of me was a little miffed that he was acting like such a caveman. I half-expected him to pull me out the door by my hair.

  “I’m a big girl. I can handle things here just fine until it’s time to go home.”

  “You have no idea what you are getting yourself into this time, Elizabeth. This isn’t some pole-dancing party with a bunch of middle-aged women. These guys can be real jerks.”

  “I know, I know.” I placed my hand on his chest and pushed him forcefully into the seat.

  He sat down and a muscle in his jaw clenched.

  “Hey, babe! We’re still waiting over here!” A few tables down, a group of men impatiently waved at me.

  “Get it yourself!” yelled J. D.

  “Who the hell are you?” one of them asked.

  J. D. put his arm up on the booth and turned around to glare in their direction. I was stunned by the sudden explosion of anger. “Someone who is ready to give asses like yourself the boot if you yell at her one more time!”

  I’d never seen him act this way. “I have to get their drinks, J. D. It’s my job. Nothing’s going to happen. Okay? I’ll be back . . .” I pleaded. “Don’t worry.”

  Before he could say anything, I was gone. I felt his eyes boring into my back as I walked away. Maybe I should talk to Bootie about leaving early.

  As I stood at the bar nervously waiting for my table’s order, Tiffany coolly walked over to me and handed me a twenty-dollar bill.

  “What’s this for?”

  “That man there says he wants you to bring him his next round. This is your tip, he says, for waiting on him.”

  Turning to the table Tiffany indicated, I saw Dylan Schraeder sneering at me. I pushed the money into her palm. “Tell him to get lost and leave me alone.”

  Tiffany looked down at the twenty and twisted her lip. Shrugging, she stuffed it in her bra. “All right . . . your loss.”

  I thought things couldn’t get any worse, but I was wrong. I brought the table near J. D. a free bowl of salsa and chips with their drinks to keep them happy. But they were in a staring showdown with J. D., whose furious gaze dared them to so much as look at me the wrong way.