by Conn, Claudy
***
January 8, 2001
I gasp, completely flabbergasted by my reflection. “Oh my …
“Oh my God.
“This is perfect! Absolutely perfect!”
Like a magician waving a wand, Bailey has turned a mirror in front of me. After a week of experiments that have left me unsatisfied, I can’t believe what I see is real. I look so cool yet so elegant. If I saw me on the street, I would not know if I was going to a swanky, fifties cocktail party or if I am headed for a club. This makeup is so colorful, yet it’s not all that bright. It is nothing like I would’ve done, but I absolutely love it! “How did you come up with this idea?” I ask Bailey.
“I finally caught on to the obvious. Dad would freak if I did too much, so I pulled an Elizabeth Taylor. You two have a similar complexion and softness to your features. She never looked overdone, even though her eyelids were heavy and her lips were bright red. The big difference is that I worked off of your green eyes with the shadowing. The base has Forest with a hint of bright green in the corners to make them pop. I also went for a brighter, pink lipstick than most women would wear.”
She hands me a tube of lip gloss. The glitter in it makes me swoon. “Knowing you,” she continues, “it was hard not to add this, but that would have been a little much. Save it for later. If people give you a bad time, I am sure you will want to fuel the fire. This would really give them something to talk about.”
I laugh, partially because she is right and partially because I’m so darn thrilled. “You know me too well. Seriously though, do you think I look overdone for school?”
“I don’t believe for a second that you would care. However, you are a little borderline for getting past Dad. You might want to slip out before he sees you. Then again, if you wait until the last minute to leave, I doubt that it is heavy enough for him to make you late by forcing you to wash it off.”
God, it is so perfect, yet I can’t help but want more. “Didn’t Elizabeth Taylor have a beauty mark? What if we put one right—”
“You’re done.” The thunk of the eyeliner pencil Bailey drops into my makeup case drives home her point. “Don’t mess with my masterpiece. Besides, I need to get out of here. I’ve got a new class starting today.”
I can’t stop looking in the mirror. I look fun, wild, and—Oh my God, I look freaking glamorous! I can’t imagine people giving me a bad time like Bailey thinks they might. Then again, wearing neon green tights with a yellow skirt made them go crazy. What gives others the right to be judgmental over my wardrobe?
I just don’t feel done though. This little splash of color is pretty, but it is too sedate for who I feel I am.
“Oh no you don’t,” Bailey warns.
“What? I haven’t said or done a thing other than look in the mirror.”
She wags a finger at me. “I know you. That beauty mark comment was the tip of the iceberg. We’re on the verge of getting us both in trouble now. Give it a couple weeks before we push the envelope, okay?”
Reluctantly I agree. “It’s a deal.” I hate it when she is right.
I head out, on time, with an excited kiss of approval from Mom and a hesitant compliment from Dad; yet when I put my hand on the doorknob, I am reluctant to leave. There is something missing. Something key that I need to do …
Like a bolt, I race to the bathroom and pound on the door. When Bailey answers, I drag her out. “Come on, you need to drive me.”
“What? You aren’t late, and I have to go to—”
“GranGran needs to see this.”
She tries to blow me off. “We can go after school.”
“No. You won’t be home until late. Let’s go!” Still, she doesn’t budge. Her face reeks of me being an annoying little sister. I give one last, grand plea. “Come on! She is going to be so proud of us. I really want her to see this while it is fresh. Remember how when you wanted to go to beauty school, she was the one who stood up for you? Don’t you think she deserves to—”
Bailey throws her head back. “Fine! I’ll meet you in the car.”
Ten minutes later we are pulling into GranGran’s driveway. I sprint up the walkway while on my cell phone with her. “Okay, open the door … now.”
The door flies open like the woman is a teenager who is eager to see a friend. She drags me inside to get a good look. I chuckle at her yoga attire. I must have caught her on her way out. That’s a huge relief. She has really had me worried.
She clasps her hands together. “Gorgeous! It is absolutely gorgeous! Tell Bailey I have the utmost faith in her abilities. Now, both of you go get to school on time and knock them dead!”
We are just out of the driveway and Bailey has hit the accelerator when GranGran dashes out as fast as needing a cane will let her. I roll down my window in haste, but we are already too far away. Mid way across the lawn, she stops and blows us a kiss.
“I am so proud of you. Never let anyone quell your spirit or silence your voice. I love you and Bailey with all my _”
That was the text GranGran was typing to me when she died. Based on what the paramedics found, I put together that when she got back inside she typed part of it, called them, then kept typing until God took her. That’s how much she loved me.
She knew her body was failing. She should have sat down. She could have picked up a picture of her children and held it to her heart, but no, she chose to encourage the growth of my spirit.
For hours I have tried to take my eyes off of this message, but every time I look away a knife seems to jab its way into my heart. As long as I have this message, she can’t really be gone, can she? Then again, maybe if I can just bring myself to focus on something else, I will wake from this nightmare.
A tuft of hair falls into my face. Rox tucks it behind my ear and forces a smile. When I got the news at lunch, she and Jacqueline raced me home. It is nearly midnight and we’ve been sitting on my bed and crying ever since. “GranGran was a true wonder,” Rox says. “Remember when she taught me how dresses are structured so I could alter my thrift store finds? Until then, my wardrobe looked like I dragged it out of a bin for homeless people. Outcasts like us would be lost without free-spirits like her.”
Rox looks so different with all of her crazy eyeliner cried off—like a little girl lost. It could not be more obvious that her love of hippie and mod fashions is seeded deep in her soul. Her passion for what she calls The Golden Age of Music runs so deep that her father gave her the nickname of Rox, a homonym for rock and roll. The name could not be more perfect.
Seeing Rox looking so out of her element drives home that GranGran was right. I do need to be true to myself—like really true. I won’t live a lie any longer. I won’t let GranGran down, and I certainly will not go to her funeral looking like someone other than who I know I really am.
I pop up from my bed like a shot from a cannon. If Bailey won’t help me, or if anyone protests, I’ll go to a salon first thing tomorrow and let a stranger do it.
Bailey sits in her room, staring at the wall. I turn GranGran’s phone to face her. The message shows loud and clear, even through our tears. “You got any bleach?” I ask. “I’m not letting anyone stop me.”
Bailey nods and heads for her supplies.
I promise you, GranGran, no one will ever quell my spirit. In fact, it is time for it to soar.
Christmas Wrapping
The Present
No matter what paths I choose to take, destiny dictates that on Friday nights there are no forks in the road, only the way to Mulligan’s. I’d like to say the events that originally led my friends and I here, all those years ago, were pretty normal but … Well, nothing in my life has ever been what most consider normal.
The day we first walked through that dive bar door had already been epic. Rox and I work for Endeara Candies, the company that makes the inedible stuff you find in the dark recesses of drug stores. Since I spend my time in the reception area, right between the elevator to the offices and the door to manufact
uring, I often find myself smack in the middle of ridiculous situations.
On that day that led us here, the head of sales was sweating bullets while awaiting targets for what would be the sales pitch of the decade. Suddenly, shrieks came from the warehouse. The door flew open, and the crew emerged, covered in glops of red. Our hearts darn near stopped, but our panic slipped into confusion when the crew started laughing. A jellybean tumbler had malfunctioned, and engrossing syrup made everyone in splashing distance look like Slasher film victims. Not only was the goo tracked all over my lobby, but also when one of the workers slipped, his smacking butt splattered the liquid onto the pants of the head of sales. The guy flipped out—screaming like a banshee while doing zip to rectify the situation.
Just outside the door, people in designer suits were getting out of cars that might as well have had gold-plated dollar signs for hood ornaments. I paged the janitor, but also took no chances. After two decades of friendship, all it took to get Rox dashing to my aid was a call with me whimpering, “Red dye. Help, please.”
The sales guy managed to stall the guests while Rox and I used every napkin and towel we could get our hands on to clean the mess. In true Endeara style, the janitor had gone missing. Rox and I got roped into helping in the warehouse as well. When all was said and done, we were so covered in crusting sugar that we looked like rejects from the Peeps factory.
Jacqueline’s day had not been much better. She’s a marketing person for Sporting News Today. She also has features that would make a director crazy not to cast her as Wonder Woman. Sometimes a single glance from Jacqueline can put a guy on the verge of selling his soul for a chance to be with her. However, all that beauty also results in none of the men at work taking her seriously. That day she had dealt with more than her fair share of sexist idiots.
We were barely able to function enough to pick a restaurant, let alone order food. Afterwards, going to bed sounded like riding a cloud to Heaven, but the need to blow off steam seemed just as great. However, the last thing any of us wanted was to go to a club filled with bad music and men with cheesy pick up lines. Once we had finished gorging on Chinese food and the fortune cookies had arrived, we didn’t have long to come up with an alternative to watching bad movies and pigging out on ice cream.
Jacqueline groaned when I handed her a cookie. “Great,” she said, “with the day I’ve had, this will likely be one more thing telling me something I already know, like ‘Confucius say: Men can’t deal with women in their domain.’ Seriously, my determination to break down barriers seems futile.”
All through dinner, Rox had barely been able to keep her eyes open. But somewhere between taking her last bite of rice and us getting the check, her glow of life came back. She had become so perky that just handing me my cookie made her DayGlo bangle bracelets clank a tune all their own. “We are no longer griping,” she said. “I have absolute faith that our luck is about to flip on its head.”
Her new-found enthusiasm breathed life into me. I ripped open the wrapper, cracked the cookie, and yanked out the fortune. “ ‘All you need is right in front of you.’ ” Okay, so it wasn’t exciting, but it was right. The world could come crashing down, but as long as I had my friends, all was good.
I toyed with my cookie’s wrapper while Rox ripped into hers. Despite the return of my ambition, fatigue was causing my vision to blur. Somehow though, the print was as obvious as my multi-colored mane—Daisy Fortune Cookie Company, San Francisco, California.
Oh wow.
The significance hit deeper when Rox read her fortune, “ ‘A fantastic adventure waits.’ ”
“I think you should have gotten that yesterday,” Jacqueline said.
“Nope!” Rox stated with a bounce. “I told you, our world is about to change.”
Boy was it ever, and someone was making sure I knew it.
Suddenly Rox’s eyes went wide, and she gasped.
“Oh no,” Jacqueline said with a tone of warning. “I know that look.”
So did I. Rox was onto something. Although seeing the name of that cookie company had curiosity racing through my veins, I felt the urge to play along with Jacqueline. After all, it’s just what we do. “Yeah, this is either going to be totally brilliant, or by the end of the night we will be praying for a cliff to drive over.”
My money was on brilliant.
Rox pointed to my fortune. “Read this again, and then tell me what you see in front of you.”
Jacqueline was fast to keep up the harassment. “A wack job in DayGlo who makes us need drinks.”
“Exactly!” Rox thumbed to the window behind her. The clank of her bracelets reinforced her command for attention. “Look behind me. Where have we always said we would check out and never have?” All eyes landed on the bar across the street—the same bar we sit in now.
That was years ago. In many ways, I feel like my butt has never left this stool. Back then, Mulligan’s hadn’t changed much since it opened in the fifties. Recently, the place was revamped to have a Victorian feel. The ornate, wood bar is stellar, but the stained glass windows are plastic. On the surface, Mulligan’s is cool, but once you start paying attention to the details, you find that some things are not quite right. Regardless, here we are again.
Jacqueline raises her glass for a toast. “What shall we drink to?”
Rox adds her glass to the mix. Her board-straight, brown locks sway to their own beat. “To peace, love, and happiness,” she says. Her toast is the perfect complement to her dress that is covered in yellow, white, and hot pink flowers. It would have had Twiggy crying with jealousy. People tell me I’m ballsy with my use of color. (Seriously, what is wrong with wearing bright, yellow shoes with an electric blue dress? As long as the saturation is right, it’s ascetically all good.) However, when it comes to style, Rox’s love of vintage fashion makes me look like a wallflower.
After a clank of our glasses we raise them to our lips, only to stop as if cued. Our eyes shift at each other in suspicion. Mulligan’s has been refining its menu. We’ve opted to try the new specialty—Mexican Chocolate Martinis made with vanilla vodka, chocolate liquor, Irish Cream, and cinnamon. They sound great, but this is Mulligan’s. In this place, you never know what you are in for.
Jacqueline shrugs, and we all dare to go in for a sip. The cold tribute to gods of old is filled with rich, chocolaty goodness that glides down my throat with ease. I pop up my head and scan the room. “Did we enter an alternate universe? This drink rules!”
Jacqueline sets down her glass with lightning speed and drops her hands into her lap. “This is a bad sign. If the drinks are good, the clientele will change. If the clientele changes, Mulligan’s will become trendy, and then we will never get a table. Worse, trendy places eventually crash and burn. We need to start scouting for a new hangout.”
I smack my hand on the table. It’s a little loud, even for me. Maybe it’s the wine we had with dinner talking, but I can’t help but blurt out my idea. “We should open our own bar! We can serve killer drinks, and we will make it part of the business plan to update the décor every few years so that we stay edgy. Finally, we can get out of our crappy jobs!”
Jacqueline groans, but Rox’s eyes come alive. “That’s a great idea! You know how crazy Martinis are all the rage while classic drinks never go out of style? One side of the menu will be all hip with new stuff and the back can be all retro with classics.”
“Hip?” Jacqueline asks. “You are using the word hip to describe something modern? I already see a flaw, Granny.”
“Hey! I may have a throwback vocabulary, but that doesn’t mean my ideas are bad.”
Jacqueline nods in agreement. “It is kind of interesting.”
We may be onto something. Then again, we come up with new career ideas all the time. Once we start thinking them through, we find them to be crazy. However, I’m convinced that eventually one of us will come up with the right one. Right now though, I need another sip of chocolate perfection. Seriously, this stuff i
s …
Oh, wow.
Just above the rim of my glass, I catch a pair of eyes staring at me—electric-blue eyes attached to Heaven on legs. He’s not all that tall. Maybe like five foot ten. He’s got a slight tan, but then again, so does everyone here in Los Angeles. His medium-brown hair is combed over and fluffy on the top yet cleanly slicked on the sides—sort of like a James Dean-type, only without the overuse of hair gel.
He’s also got that look—the one you expect to see accompanied by a wild amount of tattoos and a motorcycle helmet—yet judging by his pushed-up sleeves, all he has are the leather jacket, tattered jeans, and boots. The man who stands next to him is a more extreme version—tall, bulky, inked to the gills—the full biker persona. They look to be polar opposites, yet something about them screams peas in a pod. I’m intrigued.
Rox catches my peering and looks at the guy. “Wow! He’s cute!”
Cute, hot, in desperate need of my affection—he’s all of those. I can’t stand the in-your-face look, so his subtlety has me pining.
We start playing the glance/get caught/turn game. It’s lame, like two mice playing cat and mouse. I hate games, but sometimes you need to play them while you figure out what to do, just like now. I’m not so sure I’m willing to buy. This guy has a look in his eyes that says he knows he is good looking; however, when I catch him staring, how he turns away implies modesty. Modesty revs my engines.
Words are exchanged when his friend catches on to our game. His friend nudges his head in my direction like he is coaxing the guy to talk to me. Personally, I think that is a wonderful idea.
After another swig of his beer, my dreamboat stands. Rox nudges me. “Look! Mr. Super Cute Hottie is on his way.”
Jacqueline peers in his direction. “Wow! He is gorgeous. Let’s hope he doesn’t know it.”
“Oh, he knows it!” Rox says. “How could he not?”
Mid way to me, he sidesteps toward the bathroom. It is just as well. I’m not really crazy about forward men. Then again, how do you meet someone if you don’t say hello?
