Amateur Night at the Bubblegum Kittikat Read online

  Rachel knew where I worked, though she’d made me swear I wouldn’t mention it to her mom and new in-laws, which I wouldn’t have anyway. I never hid anything from her and though she never approved, she’d always reluctantly accepted that I lived in sin with Evan and that I wasn’t a virgin, just like I’d accepted her wacko religious beliefs. Because we loved each other’s company and had such a good time together, because it’s so hard to find someone who’ll make a midnight run to Krispy Kreme with you in pajamas just because the “Hot Donuts Now” sign is flashing, we agreed to disagree. I made concessions when people were worth it and Rachel was. I loved her and the memories we shared. After the break-up, I’d been as heartbroken to leave her as I was to leave Evan.

  You’d think that Rachel’s parents would have forbid our friendship, but shockingly they didn’t. I think they liked my flowered dresses and saw in me some kindred prudery that they believed could be honed to even greater virtue, plus I was a fellow teetotaler, so really, I had all the trappings of a potential Jesus Freak, just without the Jesus. Maybe all along they thought I’d come around, that they could show me the light of Christ and I’d fall into line, dump Evan and meet a fine Christian gentleman to breed with. Yeah, sorry. That sure hadn’t happened and definitely wasn’t going to. I guess maybe Rachel had hoped to save me as much as I’d hoped to save her.

  After the airport, we met up with the Joneses, Rachel’s soon to be in-laws, for lunch at a dumpy Italian restaurant that was so inauthentic that the first four specials on the menu were pulled pork, fried catfish, a cheeseburger and fried chicken (the kind without marinara and mozzarella). It was a canned Ragu kind of place with red gingham tablecloths and plastic grapes clumped on a dusty arbor tacked to the drop ceiling. Rachel’s sister Rose was already there with Big Daddy Cave, Mr. and Mrs. Jones and a chubby, teddy bear of a guy with wire rimmed glasses, pleated pants and a plaid shirt. So this was Caleb, and he was either so shy or so autistic that he couldn’t make eye contact or speak above a mumble when I introduced myself. His mother certainly didn’t have that problem. The first question she asked me was what church I attended.

  “Oh, well, I just got off the plane from Florida, so I don’t go to church around here,” I said, hoping that would satisfy her, but of course it didn’t.

  Connie Jones, a squat little thing with a blonde, mom-ish mushroom cut and big glasses with gold filigree arms, was one of those women whom their husbands refer to, shaking their heads, as spitfires.

  “Well, where do you go to church down there?” she persisted.

  “Um, well…” I looked to Rachel to save me but she was already sitting primly beside Caleb, holding his hand and staring at him with a deeply annoying Mona Lisa smirk and big moony eyes.

  “I don’t. Actually. I don’t go to, um, church. No. I, uh, well. My dad’s Jewish and my mom converted from Catholicism and so we observe the Jewish traditions mostly but we still celebrate Christmas.”

  I pretty much needed a chart and a graph to explain it all and really, any reasonable person would have just said “Oh that’s lovely, so have you tried the penne alfredo here, it’s fantastic,” but Connie Jones looked as if I’d just told her I was a Satanist who sacrificed goats to the devil and ran with people who had pentagram tattoos on their foreheads. She stared at me blinking and then sat down at the opposite end of the table with a curt “Oh.”

  After we ordered, Connie informed Rachel of a problem with the florist. Per southern tradition, the groom’s family paid for the flowers and not being extravagant folk they’d held strong and fast to a strict budget which only allowed for silk and plastic flowers and only enough of them to decorate the sanctuary for the ceremony. Connie had suggested that Mrs. Cave and Rose pick some magnolia leaves to decorate the reception hall or else pay for extra flowers themselves, knowing full well the Caves couldn’t afford more than the preacher’s fee. Now it turned out that the florist wanted an extra eighty dollars to decorate the altar and provide a simple, tulle-covered white arbor for the bride and groom to exchange rings beneath. Rachel was crestfallen and pushed her red plastic cup of sweet tea away.

  “I thought that was included,” she sighed.

  “I had thought so too, but apparently the florist has now decided that it isn’t and he had to nerve to tell me I’d misunderstood, but you know he’s one of those HOMOSEXUALS, so what can you expect?” Connie said.

  Everyone at the table except me mumbled “Amen.”

  “Of course I’d never have hired someone like that had I known ahead of time and in this town there isn’t another florist. I’d have had to have gone into the city and frankly, I’m sure it would be worse there,” Connie continued.

  “I know Rachel had really hoped to have some altar decorations. The church is so spare and plain. A few flowers and the arbor would make it much more romantic,” Mrs. Cave said.

  Connie sniffed.

  “When Mr. Jones and I married I don’t remember caring a whit about any decorations. I just wanted to seal our covenant with the good Lord’s approval, didn’t I darling?”

  “Huh? What’s that? Oh yes, dear. Yes, that’s exactly right,” Mr. Jones said and then resumed staring out the window at something in the parking lot.

  “We’re already paying one hundred and twenty-five dollars for what’s essentially rented flowers, so I refuse to pay eighty dollars more. It’s principle really. I can’t give any more money to that man and our budget is strained as it is. I hadn’t counted on Rachel choosing so many flowers.”

  “So how about we don’t decorate the pews,” Rose suggested, “That could save some money.”

  Connie shook her head.

  “That won’t make a bit of difference. That’s not the costly part at all. But of course Rachel could forgo the bridesmaid’s bouquets altogether and tone down her own bouquet significantly. I don’t think the roses are necessary. Too showy really and the carnations are a far more humble choice.”

  “You can’t have bridesmaids with no bouquets! What would we carry?” Rose protested.

  The waitress set bowls of iceberg lettuce drenched in creamy Italian in front of us and the conversation ended abruptly when, as if in response to some silent cue I couldn’t hear, everyone at the table bowed their heads for grace. I’d forgotten about this part. I hated it when I lived there and now that I’d moved away the ritual seemed even more ridiculous and embarrassing. Being thankful for your meal is all well and good, but making a public spectacle of yourself in order to give thanks creeps me out.

  “Dear Lord,” Big Daddy Cave bellowed as if he were in the pulpit, “We thank you for this bounty in Christ’s name which you have so generously provided and we ask you to bless our meal and blah blah blah blah.”

  It went on and on and on so long I feared the lettuce would wilt beneath the oily dressing before he shut up and as soon as the Amens ended, Connie started back up again on the cost of the flowers.

  “It’s fine. We can do without altar decorations and I’ll switch to the carnations if that makes things easier,” Rachel sighed.

  Seeing how disappointed her oldest daughter looked, Mrs. Cave suggested that we join in prayer and ask the Lord for a solution and damned if everyone at the table didn’t clasp hands and bow their heads again and start praying. There was truly no hope for the iceberg now.

  “Heavenly father, we pray that you could bless Caleb and Rachel on their marriage day by bringing us a solution to our financial woes. We would love to provide a ceremonial atmosphere that is beautiful and befitting of their love in Christ and each other but Lord, it’s hard dealing with sinners. We ask in Jesus’s name that you help us in this trying situation,” Big Daddy preached.

  For crying out loud. This was ridiculous and I couldn’t stand listening to this display of public foolishness a second longer. I had five hundred dollars in cash in my Kate Spade wallet. Last week’s tips. I wasn’t about to miss a measly eighty. I’d make four twenties back in an hour when I got home. I wanted my best friend
to have whatever flowers at her wedding that she wanted. It was the least I could do for her and I was thrilled that I could afford to grant her wishes.

  “Ok,” I interrupted, “I’ve got eighty dollars right here and I’d love to pay for Rachel’s extra flowers and altar decorations and if there’s anything else she’d like to add, like maybe some centerpieces for the reception hall, it’s all on me.”

  Silence. Connie Jones absolutely glared at me from her end of the table.

  “Well then,” she clipped.

  A mortifying Hallelujah went up. Mrs. Cave raised her hand to the sky and closed her eyes.

  “Thank you Jesus!” she exclaimed.

  “The Lord has provided!” Connie said.

  The Lord? What the hell? The Lord didn’t provide, I did! How about thanking me maybe? But no one did. I wish I could have been more altruistic and I wish that being able to give Rachel the flowers was enough to make me ignore her family, but it wasn’t. I was insulted and maybe I shouldn’t have been mad, but I was. Whatever, I thought. At least I stuck it to that church lady bitch and helped make my best friend’s wedding a little nicer and I have to admit, it gave me a passive aggressive satisfaction knowing that the money had come from whore mongers.

  32

  The next morning we had to be up early for some last minute wedding preparations that amounted to a lot of running around freezing cold, rural Georgia with Rachel’s mom and sister. We picked up Rachel’s friend Faith, whom I’d never even heard of, so she and Rose could get their bridesmaid’s dresses fitted one last time. Rachel met Faith right after I moved back to Florida. She’d been hired at the same Christian book shop, the one I’d persuaded Rachel to work at, and I guess they’d really hit it off being that Rachel’s asked her to be in her wedding after only knowing her a couple months. Faith was all right. She was a lanky girl with springy curls, who seemed young, like she still ought to be in high school although she was in her early twenties. Rachel was probably attracted to her persistent cheeriness. When I complained that my fingers were about to fall off from frostbite, Faith piped up that she just adored the cold because her mittens were so fuzzy and her breath looked so pretty puffing out into the sunny morning. She used the word “so” a lot and finding myself in a petulant mood, I thought she was SO annoying.

  “I can’t believe they haven’t built a Starbucks out here yet,” I said, “I can’t wait to go into the city later.”

  I’d convinced myself that if we got back into Atlanta, things would be normal again. It would be like before I’d moved.

  “Starbucks is SO yummy. I’d be SO thrilled if they built one all the way out here in Paulding County but I love going to Atlanta. Atlanta is SO exciting,” Faith chirped standing on a box having her bridesmaid’s dress pinned in at the waist.

  The rinky-dink dress shop they’d gone to, where every Baptist highschooler from Douglasville to Carrollton got her modest, long-sleeved, prom dress and subsequent high-necked wedding gown, only had one chair and that was for Mama Cave, so I settled for the floor and man, how I needed a cup of coffee. Oddly enough I even kind of craved a cigarette even though I’d never smoked in my life. Maybe I was addicted to the secondhand smoke from spending long hours in the club or maybe these goody-goodies had gotten to me and I needed something vice-like to counter all the blessings and praise.

  Rachel emerged from behind the dressing room curtain in her wedding dress, an elegant sheath in candlelight silk with a cowl neck and three quarter length sleeves. She’d always had great taste and this dress, though simple, was way more old Hollywood starlet than podunk princess; further proof that she didn’t truly belong with these jackasses who’d brainwashed her. The sad thing was she still thought she was one of them and who was I to try to convince her otherwise and ruin her prenuptial joy?

  I choked up when I saw her, my best friend, finally getting her greatest wish. She was beautiful, radiant, chic, but how could she settle for such a doofy guy? My parents’ dog had better social skills than Caleb and that’s not saying a lot because, if you recall, the Doberman had to wear a shock collar to keep him in line. At least the dog made eye contact. I got the impression that the reason Caleb was a virgin in his early thirties was not so much out of his love for the good Lord, but rather because celibacy was his only option. Religion had been good to him. Without it, he’d never have gotten a girl as lovely as Rachel and I hoped he knew how lucky he was.

  “Rachel, you look stunning,” I said.

  Rose wiped tears away.

  “SO pretty!” said Faith with a dramatic sigh.

  Mrs. Cave pursed her lips and tilted her head.

  “Hmmm,” she said, “I’d rather have had a fuller skirt, but it’s beautiful dear. I only wish you’d reconsider a veil.”

  “Mama I’m wearing a jeweled headband. It’s more modern,” Rachel replied.

  “I just don’t like all this ‘modern’ talk sweetie. I’m not comfortable with it.”

  “Why Mama Cave?” I asked, “Rachel’s still a good girl.”

  “It’s just, well, you start with one thing and before you know it Satan takes notice and finds his way in and it’s all downhill.”

  “So you mean Rachel wears a headband instead of a veil and next thing you know she’s smoking crack on Bankhead Highway?” I asked without, of course, even the slightest hint of sarcasm.

  Mrs. Cave nodded.

  “I’m still devastated she cut her hair,” she said.

  “Mama come on. Let’s not start this again. Lots of women have short hair. Even Connie has short hair,” Rachel said.

  “The Bible says a woman’s hair is her crowning glory. I know lots of women these days cut their hair short, older ones mostly, but I believe in the Word of God as my authority and the Lord likes women to have long hair. I’ve never met a man who didn’t prefer long hair,” Mrs. Cave said. She wore hers piled atop her head in an enormous Gibson Girl bun.

  I almost blurted out that she was definitely right, at least when it came to strippers. Out of a rotation of probably a hundred exotic dancers at the Bubblegum Kittikat, only two that I could think of had short hair. There was poor Nixon the charity case, with her bowl cut, who never made any money and Donatella, a body builder with a Brigitte Nielsen style, platinum, spiked, crew cut. She worked day shift and had a couple regulars who were into her, but generally she got rejected for table dances and barely made enough to cover her fee. Strippers based their appearances on what men liked because that was how they got paid, so if they all had long hair, even doling out hundreds of dollars for extensions and weaves to ensure lengthy tresses, you could pretty much bet your ass that it was because that was what guys considered sexy.

  “Mama, I apologize but my hair was so long that the ends were dried out. It was all dead and I wanted to cut it to get it back healthy again. Look how much more body it has now. Plus, Caleb really likes it,” Rachel said.

  “As long as your husband likes it. You know your duty as his wife is to please him and men are very visual. They like their wives to look a certain way,” Mama Cave explained.

  Again, every word she said was true as it pertained to the strip club. The Kittikat’s patrons were visual and they liked to gaze upon women who looked a certain way. No wonder so many preachers get caught with hookers, because apparently there was only a fine line between strippers and Christian girls. Both submitted their bodies to the desires of men in order to be taken care of. Both allowed men to treat them like objects and possessions. So what was the difference? A ceremony? A pole? At least the strippers made more money and while we’re at it, they were at least allowed to have a few drinks to get them through the tough times.

  When we finished with the dress fittings, we had to drive back to Atlanta, since that was where we’d find the closest shopping mall, to purchase Rachel’s trousseau. Much ado was made regarding the wedding night and I was sick of hearing about how pure Caleb and Rachel were because neither one of them had had sex before marriage. I hadn’t had
sex in two months, so was I repurifying?

  I couldn’t be so cynical though. All brides, Christian or heathen, want something pretty to wear on their wedding night and after I’d finally located a suitable double latte, I felt slightly more amenable to lingerie shopping. I’d have preferred that Mama Cave with her proselytizing and Faith and Rose their incessant giggling and blushing had been absent, but I figured I could tune it out. I was doing it for Rachel. I was there to support my best friend even though she was marrying a dork.

  We went to Victoria’s Secret and God damn that place. It was the bane of my existence. You just don’t understand what aggravation is until you share a name with a panty store and work in a strip club.

  “Oohh, what’s your secret?” Faith twittered at me when we walked in.

  “Ha. Ha. That’s the first time anyone’s ever asked me that one. I must hear that at least twenty times a night at work and every guy thinks he’s so clever for thinking it up,” I said.

  It just came out. I hadn’t meant to say that at all but my mouth was working faster than my brain. Rachel shot me a look of combined panic and shut the hell up. Honey looked confused.

  “Where on earth do you work?” Faith asked.

  “Oh, you’ve got a new job? Where do you work now?” Mama Cave wanted to know too.

  I tried to distract them by admiring a blue silk negligee.

  “She um, she works in… she’s a hostess,” Rachel said.

  “Where?” Mama Cave asked.

  “A restaurant?” Faith asked.

  I nodded.

  “Mama, what do you think of this pink nightie over here with the roses?” Rachel called from the opposite corner of the store.

  Mama Cave craned her neck to look, but wouldn’t give it up.