I always looked worried, how she could decipher that I w a s more worried was beyond my powers. I had no children and thus had not yet been instil ed with the “Mom Ability” to sense danger, worry, sadness, boyfriend troubles and when girls were bitchy to you at school.
I decided to take the path of least resistance, choosing a topic that would throw her off the scent (in other words, I kinda lied).
“Eddie thinks I’m a racist.”
She gasped. “What? ”
I shrugged.
“What would make him think that?” she asked.
I put away the milk, “It’s a misunderstanding.”
“I’l say. Do you want me to cal him?”
I had my head in the fridge but at that, I straightened and whirled around.
“No! Do not cal him!”
My Mom would cal him, no doubt about it. She didn’t have his number, but she’d find it. Not only would she cal him, she’d cal his mother, just to cover her bases and get the mom-to-mom business going. And not only that, she’d get Trixie to cal him and I really didn’t want that. Then, they’d get my ex-boyfriends, Javier, Alex, Luis and Oscar to phone him as wel , as anti-racist character references.
“Indy’s straightening it out for me,” I said. This was also kind of a lie but also kind of the truth because I got the distinct feeling Indy was the kind of person who meddled.
“Wel I hope so. That’s awful. No wonder you look worried sick.”
I took a mental deep breath.
With that hurdle out of the way, we tackled the rest of the hurdles of the night: laundry, exercises, dinner, dishes and my transformation into Smithie Bimbo.
I was tottering out of the house in a pair of black pumps with three and a half inch stiletto heels and thin straps around the ankles, cal ing good-bye to Mom when I opened the door and let out a little scream.
Ada, our next-door neighbor was standing outside the door. Ada was older than dirt, deafer than a doorknob and had a soul made of pure sunlight. She smiled at me, looked at my slut attire and said, “What a lovely outfit.” I looked down at the ultra-mini, mini-skirt and the black camisole that showed too much cleavage that was peeking through the opening of the big black cardigan that I had to wear to keep out the late September chil . Then I looked back at Ada. Maybe she was going blind too.
“I’m going to watch television with your mother. There’s a good episode of Cops on tonight, I don’t want to miss it.” Ada was addicted to Cops and America’s Most
Unbelievable Police Chases and pretty much anything that had to do with policemen, bounty hunters, high speed chases, drug busts, hand-held cameras chasing after people running through backyards, and people whose faces had to be made fuzzy.
She shuffled in and I went out shouting, “Have fun girls!” When I got to my car, it wouldn’t start.
I tried it again.
It stil wouldn’t start.
I tried it a third time.
Nothing.
“Piece of shit!” I shouted, slamming my hand on the wheel and then maybe cursing more and even pounding my forehead on the wheel a bit.
Guess that tank of gas was a waste of good money.
I’d been in the market for a new car before Mom had her stroke but that went out the window. Mom’s car was worse than mine and we sold it when we moved in for part of the than mine and we sold it when we moved in for part of the deposit money. Now, the old jalopy that was second hand when I bought it five years ago was coasting on a wing and a prayer.
I yanked out my cel and cal ed JoJo, one of the dancers, who was also always late. JoJo came and got me and we both hurtled through the doors of Smithie’s fifteen minutes after we were supposed to.
Smithie was at the bar and he looked up at us as we came through the door.
“You’re fuckin’ late, a-fuckin’-gain,” Smithie greeted.
“My car wouldn’t start,” I told him, approaching the bar.
JoJo shot like a rocket backstage to avoid the Smithie confrontation.
He gave me my apron, I took out my cel and slid it into a pocket and handed him my purse and cardigan that he put behind the bar.
“At least come up with somethin’ original,” he said.
“I’m serious.”
“You’re a walking disaster.”
I smiled at him. Smithie was al bark and no bite, at least with his girls. He was a big, black guy, used to be muscle but he’d gone a little soft. He had half a dozen kids with four different women and he doted on al of them, including the women.
“Listen, Smithie, I need to pick up a couple more shifts.” He looked at the ceiling, “She comes in late and, right away, she asks me for more fuckin’ shifts.”
“I have to get my car fixed!” I cried, tying my apron around my waist.
around my waist.
“You work more shifts, I have to pay you overtime. I don’t pay overtime.”
“Smithie.” I gave him a wide-eyed, girlie, “please” look that I saw other girls use on him. It worked so I’d tried it and found it worked for me too.
Smithie wasn’t in a generous mood.
“You want more money, you work a pole.”
I looked at the stage. Three dancers were working poles, al oiled up, al wearing nothing but g-strings and pasties.
Not on your life.