“Why don’t you? We, and by saying we I am including you, know he has been mooching off of everyone for months.” Darla sounds like she is trying to cover her disgust, but it isn’t necessary. I am sicker over my stupidity than anyone.
Tears seep from my eyes, turning my eyeliner into obsidian rivers. Instead of heading back to the brightly lit mirrors that will show the full extent of the damage, I go to my purse for a compact. Facing only a small part of the disaster is easier. “I have to get to the bottom of this. There is a small chance things are on the level. Battling depression can do a number on someone. Shoot, if you looked at this trailer right now and saw what being overwhelmed is doing to me, you’d think you were witnessing a version of Bailey from an alternate universe. If Carlos is really struggling, and I assume he is just a creep, I’m a bigger loser than we think he is.”
“Bailey, no matter what you find, you are worthy of someone special. Promise me you won’t forget that.” I know those words are laced with compassion, but Darla sounds pissed. I would not be the least bit surprised if she hops on a plane and confronts Carlos before I do.
“I promise.” I dab away the tears and close my cherished compact. Although she bought it on eBay, how it came from my long-passed GranGran makes it feel like a family heirloom. The garnet-encrusted rose on top radiates style and sentiment, just like she did. When she died, Dad held on to her every treasure. “You know, Darla, if all men were sentimental sweethearts like Dad, womankind would never have gotten jaded. Where can you meet men like that?”
Her sigh is heavy enough to hear over the phone. “Sadly, Bailey, no such place seems to exist.”
“Things still golden with you and Chris?”
“Yeah, it goes to show you never know where you will find Mr. Right. If I can find a guy like Chris in a bar like Mulligan’s, there is hope for finding decent guys in sewers and Porta Potties.”
“Thanks, Darla. Keep reminding me of that. Go knock ‘em dead today, little sister.”
“You too, bestie.”
Oh, I’m gonna do some knocking all right. When Carlos gets home Sunday, I’m getting to the bottom of this. If he is battling with depression over losing his job, I will find a way to help him get over his hurdle. However, if he really is cheating on me, he will wish I only knocked him dead.
“Bailey! Bailey, you in there?” Katherine screams from outside my trailer. I rush to the door and find her on the lot street, standing with her arms out to her sides, covered in dripping gore.
“Oh my God! Are you okay?”
“The damn blood cannon malfunctioned! I’m off to wardrobe to get out of this goopy mess. Everything needs to be scrubbed and reset, including three of us. Prepare yourself, because in five minutes your trailer will look like the apocalypse hit.”
All of the warmth in my body drains down to my feet and oozes into the floor as the magnitude of the job ahead sinks in. Here it is, getting close to quitting time, and I basically have to start my day over.
Oh Lord I just—I just can’t think about this right now. I need coffee.
Or alcohol.
Or a lobotomy.
I storm out and walk with Katherine.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“I’m saving everyone time by having wardrobe slip me into a straightjacket, then dropping me on Stage Five, right into the padded cell they are using for a horror movie. I’ll make a perfect extra.”
Scattin' At the Kit Kat
DALE
A malt-filled breeze hits my nose as I step out of the LA sun and into the place more my home than where I keep my bed. Ah, Mulligan’s—my version of Cheers. Take that old-time look, add stained glass as fake as most starlets assets, dim the lights, and you’ve got Mulligan’s. Our relationship is part love affair, part nightmare. The owners made the proper business decision to salvage it from the battered-looking pool hall it once was, yet they killed its old charm. Mulligan’s was a worn-down version of a club in a Sinatra movie. Often it took all I had not to bring fresh Naugahyde and a staple gun with the intent of returning the place to its old glory. Some days I regret not doing so; others I praise God for common sense.
Though I am only two feet in, Daryl shouts from behind the bar, “Dale! About time you got back. What’s it been? Six months?” Not only does it feel like it has been that long, how his usually short, dark hair is now shoulder length makes me think my time away was even longer. With a chilled mug in one hand and a lowball glass in the other, he teeters while I weigh my options. My point to the glass is followed with a thumbs up. I’m so damn happy to be home my return warrants whisky from the top shelf.
“Would you believe I was only gone three weeks this time?” I call back. “Sure as hell felt like forever. Half the regulars probably had kids and sent them off to college since I last set foot in here.” Not only that, I never should have been shipped out of my region in the first place. Come the day after tomorrow, I’m back on the road because one of my peers can’t whip his team into shape. Thus, I’m working on deals he should have long closed while keeping track of my own guys.
My glass is ready before I reach the bar. I’m quick to lay down a twenty with no intention of keeping the difference. Daryl’s hand refuses my cash. “On us. Don’t be gone so long next time.”
I raise my glass, saying both cheers and thank you before leaving the twenty for his tip jar and heading for the back room. Damn, it is good to be home. Unfortunately, my stay is so short, coming back seemed pointless to everyone but me.
The crack of a slapped puck, followed by a blowing horn and the infamous anthem, “Rock and Roll, Part Two” floats over the threshold, greeting me with amusement. As soon as I round the corner, I catch doom and gloom emanating from the man I have called my best friend for nearly a year. Brandon is long out of his suit and into his signature look of pristine jeans, a T-shirt toting the accolades of some band pretty much no one has heard of, a black leather jacket that looks solid despite being a thousand years old, his mid-length dark hair neat, combat boots fully laced, and unlike normal, his head drooped and shaking in shame.
“Let me guess,” I blurt out, “you are watching the Red Wings game, and judging by that glorious sound, The Sharks are killing them.”
“Boy, you haven’t even planted your butt, and I already can’t wait for you to get shipped back to Canada.”
“You love me and you know it.” I glance to the waitress across the room—a leggy blonde in a skirt so tight it makes fighting the fantasy of removing the thong underneath it impossible.
Damn it. Maybe I really am a pig. Just where is the line between admiration over a woman’s figure and being a rat? I’m pretty sure I crossed it.
Catching my leer, she rushes to the table. “I’d like to treat my friend to something special,” I say. Her eyes go to Brandon, and a spark burst forth. “Would you please ask Daryl for one of those drinks he and I were hammering out the details on before I left? He’ll know what Brandon needs.” She smiles sweetly before heading off, and I take my seat across from the man it pains me to admit I missed. “Is it sexist to notice this place seems to hire every struggling cutie that invades Hollywood?”
Brandon’s eyes veer toward the waitress. “You mean Zira?”
“Zira?” I turn to catch another glimpse of the cutie. “Isn’t that the monkey in Planet Of The Apes? How shamefully unfitting.”
The faked annoyance in his smirk brings forth my smile. “You mean, the female doctor who happens to be an ape, you know, like the title implies? It’s somewhat appropriate. She’s attending USC on nearly a full scholarship yet also makes time to work a few nights a week. Smart girl.”
Maybe I have been gone longer than I thought. The last time I sat in this booth, Brandon was back to being in a funk over the untimely death of his fiancée. Although it happened nearly ten years ago, lately he hasn’t been handling it as well as one would expect. I’m kind of surprised he is getting to know someone, but I am happy he is returning to realit
y. “So, uh, you’ve been getting to know Zira?” He rolls his eyes so heartily you would think I asked how she was in bed and if she has a sister just as willing. I can be crass but … That must have come out wrong.
“It’s not like that. She’s a nice girl—too nice for you—but despite how cute she is, there are no warm tinglies worth pursuing.” He shoots a finger at me, telling me he’s got my number. “Not even for just a night.” Despite his taunting, the pain surfacing through the cracks in his voice show his funk is far from over. Brandon’s eyes have glossed, and he hides it by returning them to the TV.
My own memories knot my throat. Brandon and I have far more in common than I ever share, but we fight our demons differently. Allowing himself to feel pain keeps Brandon in his own lonely boat, while diversions have become my crutch. “I’m not saying to molest her. But if you share a fondness, there is nothing wrong with a few bedtime follies.”
He chuckles, and the glow of my friend slips back. “Remind me why I missed you? Seriously though, I can’t do what you do. Sleeping with someone for the sake of doing so feels …” His pause tells he is looking for a word that won’t insult me. Am I really that bad?
Dammit, aren’t women the only ones who question how people see them? Worse, I’ve been questioning how I see myself. As much as I joke about it, the word playboy is not the one I want to define me.
“I don’t know,” Brandon says. “It’s not my thing.” On the TV a horn blows, the crowd cheers, and “Rock and Roll, Part Two” plays as the Red Wings go down another point. “Gah! Somebody shoot me in the head.”
“Okay, so what have I missed? What stupid antics are going on at work?” I swear, Brandon works for the scariest company ever to have made anything claiming to be edible. Not only does Endeara Candies “product” churn your gut, my poor friend has to market it. That must be like walking up a down escalator between walls of fire. If you fail, the company burns. If you succeed, people try your product, vow to never do so again, and the company burns anyway. Creating a steady stream of new suckers is the only way to survive.
A female voice comes from behind—springing from the other bane of my existence. “Ah, the hell hole! Well, one of the machines caught on fire and smoked up my lobby, setting off the fire extinguishers and giving me the king of all excuses to go home and put on jammies, yet for some crazy reason I put on something respectable and came here.”
Darla slips in next to Brandon and steals a swig of his beer. The woman is downright beautiful. However, when it comes to her fashion sense, the term respectable may be true, but it is also a little, shall we say, overplayed. While the tight jeans, high boots, and leather jacket are sleek, her neon yellow T-shirt, layered over a bright orange one, lend the only colors remaining in the rainbow not reflected in her long mane. Gorgeous or not, a single gaze in her direction is like forcing yourself to look into a solar eclipse.
I lean on my palm and force my words to sound droll, yet my irrepressible smile conveys, in some twisted way, I missed her. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of having peacock woman greet me on my first night back in town?”
Playfully, she smacks my arm, and I fake it being knocked out from under my chin. “Don’t go getting all excited and flattered. You know my friends and I can’t avoid this place on Fridays.”
“Or any other night,” Brandon moans nearly under his breath.
Darla cocks her head at him. “True. But on Fridays, it’s like a magnetic force engulfs LA and pulls us here—regardless of what direction we start off in.”
I let out the softest sigh I can fake. “I’m still going to take this as a sign you missed me.”
“Dreamer. Although I have to admit, basking in your presence is better than being in the middle of a sudden downpour at work, complete with a screeching alarm serenade.”
“So I am more enjoyable than a tsunami?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Oh, but he is so good at it.” This time the voice coming from behind is male, and it is not one I wish to hear in my home. One of my clients steps up with sparkling eyes, a locked grin, and an extended hand.
Automatically, I pop to my feet and shake that hand with gusto. “Embers! How are you?” If I buy him a couple of rounds while making polite conversation about his family and slipping in some stealth pitches, could I milk more money out of him? What was his son’s name again? Zack, The Little League King.
An itch of dread travels up my back—an alien one I’ve no clue how to address. Why do I suddenly feel so … off?
“What brings you to a dive like this?” Embers asks. His guard hasn’t dropped a millimeter, so milking him now won’t work. Maybe I can plant a seed.
His eyes drift to Brandon and Darla, who have their heads down. That’s odd. “Great drinks and a terrible hockey game,” I tell Embers. “What’s your excuse?”
“Just scoping the neighborhood for a new place to take associates. Guess I can scratch this one off the list.” That plastic smile, now aimed at my friends, suddenly gnaws at my gut. “Have a good night.”
I take my seat while feeling thrown off of my game. How Darla and Brandon are eyeing the room like outsiders deepens my odd state of mind. Another plastic smile is aimed my way—this one coming from Darla. “Who was that?” she asks.
I rattle my head, unsure of what I am trying to clear. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. Albert Embers is a client.”
“Oh.”
She pats Brandon on the arm, and he returns the gesture with a squeeze to her hand and a smile of understanding. Darla slips out of the booth. “I should grab a table. This room is already looking full.” She leans over and tweaks my ear so lightly I almost don’t notice. “Welcome home,” she whispers. “Don’t be gone so long again. And if you think that means anyone missed you, you’re nuts.”
She takes off, and Brandon’s eyes go to the TV. He sure finds that commercial for light bulbs fascinating. “What’s going on?” I ask.
Brandon’s eyes stay astray. All I get out of him is a noncommittal grunt.
“Why did this go from happy hour to dismal day? You both got awfully quiet.”
Brandon shrugs. “It’s nothing. That guy showed up and you popped into sales mode. We can’t relate to it. That’s all.”
“I’m not buying that.”
“Seriously, that’s it.”
My eyes stay on him.
His exhale signals surrender. “Whenever you go into sales mode you get an air about you that’s …” He sucks his lips in while pondering words. They are said cautiously yet feel harsh. “Plastic … and predictable. It makes us see we can’t relate to your world. We get it is part of the game.”
The word plastic drives it home. Once it was aimed at my friends, Ember’s game face even agitated me. Then the forced smile Darla popped on felt distancing. Is that how my friends see me when I am in sales mode? When I am in my world? This place and the people in it are my world—more so than my family.
Brandon slams his beer on the table when a familiar horn blows and “Rock and Roll, Part Two” plays. “Son of a—!”
Of course I’m different when I’m at work. Everyone is different with his friends than with colleagues, right?
But now Brandon is acting much like he does when I talk about women and he doesn’t want to play along. Something isn’t right.
Zira reappears with the special cocktail Daryl and I designed for Brandon. The layered, black and teal concoction, which happen to be the rival team’s colors, perfectly add to his misery. “Oh, man,” he says with a groan. “So not funny.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you saw your face.” As my laugh roars out, I catch a glimpse of Fedora Guy stepping up to the bar. Just what is the deal with him?
Darla reappears. “Move over, buddy. Despite all logic, this place got packed. We’re stuck with you guys tonight.” She slides in and nudges me down. I almost tell her to hold up so I can make for the bar, but Fedora Guy has already disappeared. He sure likes
to show up just enough to let me know he is there. I wish he would also tell me why. Darla draws me back into the moment, asking, “What the hell is this?” while pointing to Brandon’s new source of misery.
I motion to the game on TV. “A Shark Bite.”
She smacks the table and bursts out with a laugh. “That is hysterical! Hey, Zira,” she calls, “can we get a round of these?”
Brandon’s face falls into his hand as we laugh. When he peers through his fingers, it is straight at me. “Remind me again why I missed you?”
“Because life is boring when you don’t have someone jabbing you in the ribs.” And I missed you because you have an uncanny way of teaching me about myself when I need it most and want to hear it least.
It’s A Sin To Tell A Lie
BAILEY
Although part of me wants to burst in and yell at Carlos for being a lying, cheating, deadbeat, I pause to dab away tears before opening the door to my apartment. GranGran always told me to trust my gut. All day it screamed to make damn sure I know what I am up against. Hot headedness masks the truth.
Stepping inside my living room, I’m greeted by walls covered in a set of three enlarged Harper’s Bizarre covers from the forties. Their subdued earth tones nearly beg me to curl up on the cozy, chestnut-colored sofa beneath them with a good book. However, the sound of water bouncing off of the shower walls steals my attention. Shouldn’t Carlos have showered already? It’s after seven, which is awfully late to be getting home from a fishing trip.
Remember, Bailey, your red flag may be waving, but if he is faithful and depressed, you will never forgive yourself for stomping on him. Find the truth.
I cross the room and slip left into the kitchen. Framed food ads from eras past bring life to the simplicity of white walls and walnut-stained cabinets. The rays of the setting sun barely illuminate the photos littering the refrigerator. It’s bad enough I got stuck working on a Sunday, but without Elsie’s incompetence I would have been home hours ago. At least she had it together enough to pick up groceries for me. I fear seeing what she got. She probably reached for yogurt and grabbed guacamole.
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