The Jewel Box (5 page)

“Whatcha got?” I stretched my upper body to try and relax my stiff shoulders.

“
Leaving Cheyenne
and
The Last Picture Show
. Both books are being made into films. Wanna read ‘em?”

“Sure.” I blinked tired eyes. “I’ve never read anything by him.”

“Okay, baby.” Beau seemed thrilled by my acceptance. “He’s a native Texan. I’m not, but I love the old West and always felt like I was born a hundred years too late.”

Kat grimaced and reached behind her back with a stir straw. “Frontier stories aren’t my bag. I dig trashy romance paperbacks. Jill . . . oops I meant
Cherie,
can you reach my itch? It’s down below my shoulder blades but not quite to my butt crack.”

“Lovely.” I made a moue. Scratching her bronzed skin reminded me of our teenage years spent lounging on Surfside beach flirting with out-of-town guys. Kat always coated me with Coppertone so I wouldn’t burn my fair skin, while her olive skin darkened without lotion. On rainy weekends we stretched across her lilac lace bedspread reading novels and sharing every dream and fantasy while others did whatever it was they did in Lake Jackson for fun. Occasionally we hitched rides to Houston with her older sister to see French films, which spiraled our desires to depart Dullsville. And here we sat. Nothing dull about this place. Except a carpet due for its weekly steam-cleaning along with the Parson chairs on Monday.

“Okay, baby.” Beau nodded at me. “Shuffle these cards. I don’t trust Laura anymore.”

Katie yanked the deck from his hand. “Let’s play something other than Blackjack. And no tricks this time.”

“Cards with. . .with. . . without sleight of hand?” Beau stuttered and threw his fist against his forehead like he was having a brain hemorrhage. “There’s no damn fun in that. Hell, I might as well teach you the British version of Black Jack.”

“You must be off your trolley to think we fancy learning a game created by those bloody awful blokes across the pond who believe all Americans are turnips,” Kat said with a fairly decent Cockney accent. “Go ahead and give us the rundown. Just don’t plan on conning this bird out of me hard earned dosh.”

Beau grinned at her cute attempt at British slang. “It’s for two or more players with a sole aim of discarding all cards to win.”

“Boring,” I interrupted. “Why don’t you try Tarot readings? Seems more exciting.”

“You two girls always talk about excitement, but won’t do much about it. Just put all the suits together in this deck and verify the
Jack of Clubs
is intact.” Beau handed me the cards.

“It’s two-thirty in the morning, Beau.” I split the deck, knowing which card would vanish about twenty seconds after it fell into his hand.

Bam! Someone pounded the club door. Kat stiffened. “Saturday nights lead to weird Sunday mornings when drunks and people of bad intent ramble along streets and businesses looking for trouble,” she whispered.

My belly did flipflops.

Beau pulled his .44 Magnum from under the bar. “You and Kat stay seated and out of view,” he said quietly before walking to the locked door. “Who are you and what do you need?” Beau demanded in threatening tone.

“It’s Wesley.”

“Creepy jackass.” Kat scrunched her nose, making a sour face.

“So what?” Beau broadcast, this time with less intimidation.

“Well, I’d like to talk to Jill.” Wesley’s voice echoed through the heavy door. “Apologize. If she’ll let me.”

Beau looked over at me. “Come back in twenty minutes.” he said to Wesley, apparently reading doubt on my face. Beau then went back behind the bar, put away his Magnum and the playing cards, allowing me quiet time to mull over my situation.

“Whatever drew you to him, cutie?” Kat stood in her chair to stretch across the bar and retrieve her hidden pint of Bacardi from a shelf.

“Jeez, I don’t know. I’m self-conscious and he’s smug. Opposites attract. Who knows? Wesley perceives himself as Eros and brags about taking me down transplendent rivers of love, but his pushy drunkenness makes me feel like I’m up bleak creek without a paddle.”

“Transplendent rivers of love?” Beau let go a hearty laugh. “You read that in some romance novel didn’t you?”

“I did.” I nodded my head while meeting Beau’s eyes.

“Why don’t you ditch this character?” Kat poured rum into her Coke.

“He’s not that bad. And I’m incredibly insecure these days.”

“No way.” Kat stirred her drink. “You’ve always radiated confidence.”

“False bravado,” I admitted.

“That’s bound to backfire on you one of these days, baby.”

Next thing I knew, I was making excuses for Wesley, saying his behavior was triggered by this shameful job. Beau didn’t look pleased, but listened patiently to my rambling. “I just can’t do this. It’s not for me and would kill my mother if she found out. Well, maybe not.” My chin trembled. “She’d probably refuse to believe her daughter could deviate from such strong Southern upbringing into this sinful job. Or she’d spend the rest of her life praying for my soul.”

Kat reached over and gently rubbed my shoulders. “Cutie, I’m sorry for bringing you here. It took me a while to get over my guilt, but the money sure helps.”

I looked across the bar at Beau, who had been unusually quiet. “Sorry, Beau. This is my last night. It was nice meeting you, but I have to say it’s hard for a small town girl like me to understand a person like you owning such an immoral establishment.”

Kat moaned as Beau leaned across the bar, looking like Rhett Butler mildly irritated by Miss Scarlett’s commentary. His stunning steel-grey eyes weren’t twinkling as usual. “Are you finished talking?”

“Yes. Sir.”

“Then do me a favor and listen for a minute, before you leave this
immoral
establishment.” Beau’s emphasis on the word immoral seemed a tad scornful.

Knowing Beau well enough to know he needed more than a minute to make any statement, I placed my duffel bag on the bar thinking it would make a nice pillow if he got too long winded.

“Baby, if you act like a lady, you’ll be treated like a lady.”

“Oh pleeease.” My pulse rose. “That’s ludicrous! A
lady
working in a topless club?”

“What’s wrong with making a living by putting a smile on someone’s face? Men come in this club for many different reasons, ranging from those wanting to deviate from the norm to the curious, lonely, bored, and voyeuristic ones. Believe it or not, we occasionally get some nice, decent men in here. Some just need to be touched and a simple pat on the shoulder after seating them pacifies most and makes them less likely to touch or grab you. I’m not always nearby to defend, so if anyone touches you inappropriately, smack the crap out of them. And if they speak vulgar to you or any dancers, remind them obnoxious behavior is not tolerated in the Jewel Box. To
sum it up, if men get offensive, try handling it in ladylike fashion. Don’t let them talk down to you, touch you inappropriately, and for God’s sake, never let them kiss your lips.”

“Let me get this straight. I can parade around half naked in front of these guys, wallop a punch when necessary, tell them to go to hell if I don’t like what they say, but a kiss on the lips is incontrovertibly taboo.” I shook my head. “I’m sorry Beau, but this job goes against my upbringing.” I struggled to force my aching, swollen feet back into my high heels.

“Well, I hate to see you go, baby.” Understanding filled his face.

Moments later Wesley rapped on the door. Kat made another hateful face, but Beau gave me a sincere, almost fatherly smile as he took the keys to allow Wesley back inside the club.

Wesley thanked Beau, and apologized profusely to me, before making a solemn promise to stop drinking. He tried to humor Kat, but she wasn’t having any of it. Then Wesley urged me to come to El Paso with him the following week, bring Nikki, and forget this club situation ever happened. Kat hugged me so tight I thought she was trying to paralyze me so I couldn’t walk. But being with Nikki and heading west with Wesley seemed preferable to spending another night walking around in pasties and panties. I left with the man in the pinstriped suit.

4

Traveling so many hours through West Texas with Wesley was no fun, and the highlight of arriving in El Paso was me finding a
Jack of Clubs
card at the bottom of my purse. Wesley leased a big house and hired a woman to cook and clean, but the transformation I’d hoped for never materialized as the previously charming guy got more irrational by the hour.

We hired a bi-lingual lady to care for Nikki five hours a day while I worked at the office. She taught Nikki Spanish phrases as they played games or visited nearby parks, but within weeks our life began a downward spiral. Wesley’s moods fluctuated something fierce as he took control of everything, down to monitoring my soda intake. “Water’s free, hon.” He often stayed late at the office drinking himself comatose, and I soon learned liquor served as a chaser for any drugs he could find. Epiphany, Jill! The damn Tofranil he so valiantly saved me from “getting hooked on” months earlier had gone down his esophagus—not the toilet.

Wesley spent a small fortune on liquor and narcotics, and then insisted we be financially sensible and maintain only one car. Yep. His Lincoln remained and I never saw a penny from the sale of my Corvair. Totally dependent on his
high
ness for transportation, my optimism vanished as rapidly as my part-time income.

Mother always disregarded friction with my dad by simply ignoring him, but I lacked her knack for staying silent and composed. One night Wesley came home obnoxiously drunk, and began cussing everything, including characters on Mayberry R.F.D. “Aunt Bee’s a fucking magpie.”

“Shut it.” I shouted, appalled at his vulgarities entering my daughter’s ears.

A vase flew past my head and shattered against the fireplace. “You shut up!” his tone, crazy belligerent. “Bitches don’t back talk.”

“Please,” I begged.

Nikki started crying. Wesley got angrier. I got a fist in the face.

“You sorry SOB,” I said as blood dripped from my mouth. “You sorry SOB.” I ramped up my volume.

Wham! Wesley slammed me into the wall. Nikki started screaming at the top of her lungs. Remembering Mother’s “Silence is golden” quote, I inched away from Wesley. In a whisper, I begged my horrified little girl to stop crying. She intuitively understood my pleas and walked wordlessly to her room. Wesley’s rage ended abruptly with him passing out on the sofa as his grand finale.

The following morning when Wesley saw my body blanketed with bruises, and my right eye severely swollen and clotted with blood, he suggested I stay home from work. The moment Mr. Thoughtful walked out the door, I phoned Ellen, told her things weren’t working out, and asked her to wire money so I could return to Houston. Not only did she agree, she asked no questions. Unlike me, Ellen had absorbed Mother’s quote: “Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.” I had always been the family question asker. And the vain one who practically lived in front of a mirror, but I disregarded my appearance and walked four miles to Western Union, lugging Nikki on my hip most of the way. Two days later when Wesley left for work, Nikki and I packed our belongings and took a cab to the bus station, leaving the psychopath and El Paso.

It was my first and last bus trip, but that Greyhound ride felt wonderful. I stroked sleeping Nikki’s hair while allowing Sixties music to flow privately in my head, even though The Beatles
Lady Madonna
seemed to be on endless loop. By the time we arrived in Houston my black eye was less obvious, but Ellen never asked one question when I asked her to watch Nikki and loan me her car for a few days. I headed straight to the Jewel Box.

I walked through the door with the same apprehension I’d felt months before. Thankfully Kat met me with a big hug and we walked arm in arm to the bar.

“Baby,” Beau said warmly. “It’s great to see you.”

His calling me baby in such congenial and caring tone, almost brought tears to my eyes. “I just dropped in to see if anyone’s filled my white go-go boots.”

“I’d love to have you back, but you’ve got to stay longer than two weeks.”

“I promise, Beau. And unlike Wesley, I keep my word. The maniac sold my car, so it’ll take me a while to buy some wheels. Guess you could say I got myself into a worse predicament than waitressing in a topless club.”

“You’re a hard working girl. Welcome back. This is a peculiar business, but you’ll earn a nice sum of money and maybe become a pretty good judge of men along the way.”

“Cutie, you might even meet the man of your dreams here.” Kat batted her lashes.

“Pleeease. What a revolting thought. The last place I’d consider looking for love is here. No offense Beau.”

“None taken.” He wiped down the bar.

“Really, Kat. Would you date any of the misfits who stray into this joint?”

“Never in a million years. I’m just here for the money.”

“Baby, Laura told me about your problems with Wesley, and I say you’re better off here. Any man who strikes a woman is a savage, and even if he says it won’t happen again, it will. Now you’ve learned expensive clothing doesn’t make a man Prince Charming.”

“Well, Prince Charming, a.k.a. Marquis de Sade.”

“Life is an education. Take notes and you might learn more than you’d ever imagined working here. See you tomorrow night, baby.”

The year was 1969. Nightly newscasts flashed shocking photos depicting the war in Vietnam, angry protestors, men burning draft notices, and a growing divide in our country. Meanwhile thousands indulged in psychedelic experiences with pot, LSD, and other mind altering chemicals. In May the X-rated movie
Midnight Cowboy
debuted to record crowds. In June the musical
Hair
opened yet another simultaneous production in Paris, France, and at month’s end, the Stonewall
riots in New York City marked the beginning of America’s Gay Rights movement. In early July, scientists discovered the chemical structure of antibodies, and on July 20th “Houston” was the first word spoken from the moon by Neil Armstrong. Civil rights activists were making marginal progress after Martin Luther King’s death. Then came Woodstock. That’s the month I returned to the Jewel Box with a different attitude. A somewhat schizoid “I am woman hear me roar/please God, don’t let my family and friends find out what I’m doing” attitude.