by Rani Wesley.
Sabrina and I met at a dance studio. We were two of maybe five black members. She moved to L.A. from the South like me. She was from Atlanta, Georgia and I moved to L.A. from Clearwater, Florida. Not that it was exactly the same thing, but I assumed there was some kind of kinship because we were both from the lower east side of the country.
We both wanted to be actors and she became one. She was the bubbly and delightful Janet McCoy on “The McCoys and Me.” I moved from office job to office job while taking acting and dancing classes for fun. Things were going well for Sabrina for a long time. Then her character was written out of the show as a result of some conflict with one of the producers. When her contract was up, so was she. And she went from Janet McCoy to “KiKi” three nights a week.
I’m at the courthouse downtown when Sabrina invites me to meet Major, her biggest fan. Major is a regular at the club. He is a friend who doesn’t sound like a friend, but I am curious enough to want to meet him. He used to watch Sabrina dance at her last club and now he has followed her to “The Gold Rush” on Flower and Seventh. He was barred from Sabrina’s last place of employment for making racist remarks and drinking too much.
I can’t believe I am called into jury duty three weeks after being arrested. When I opened the notice, I tried to laugh but couldn’t. I remember the day, but parts are missing. It still feels like it happened to someone else. Plus, I still don’t even know why I was arrested. I felt torn apart and spit out when I was lying in the dark on the ground that day. The summons at the courthouse seemed like a bad joke – like the city is laughing at me and wants me to leave.
I can hear Sabrina eating and she asks if I have the batteries she asked for. She ended up buying some shoes that light up in the heel. “Sparkly and new,” I think to myself. I imagine her feet lighting up as she walks, flickering like the bulbs that encrust the stage. We are friends. . .I think. She hangs up just as I’m making a sarcastic remark about how the courtroom looks different when you don’t have blood in your eyes.
Sabrina meets me at the entrance of the club. It makes me feel cool to know someone that works here. I give Sabrina the batteries and she smiles, not with gratitude but as a silent confirmation to herself. “I can get her to do anything,” she is probably thinking. A velvet curtain swings open and closes behind me as I follow Sabrina inside. It’s four in the afternoon and everyone is moving around in the dark.
I follow Sabrina as she walks toward a red, shiny booth with two middle-aged, white men in polo shirts. One is soft and affable looking while the other is a crew cut squinting toward the stage like he needs glasses. They are both overweight and look like they are in their fifties or early sixties.
“Why couldn’t these guys be cute or at least our age?” I think. I follow Sabrina even though I don’t want to.
“Sabrina, how old. . .”
Sabrina quickly turns toward me and says “Kiki.” At the booth, Sabrina says to the crew cut
“Lest. . .Major this is Jackie.”
“Hi,” I wave.
His hand darts towards me.
“Hey Jackie. Nice to meet you.”
I shake his hand, “Nice to meet you.”
“This is my friend, Boon,” he says pointing next to him.
Boon slowly extends his hand. He looks like the officer from three weeks, ago.
“Hi, Boon,” I say.
He smiles.
My right arm starts shaking and I grab it with my left hand to stop it.
“Have a seat girls!” Major says.
Major and Boon slide to the left to make room in the booth. I tell myself that I am only staying for an hour or so. I don’t want to stay out all night and then feel shitty tomorrow at work. A couple of more patrons walk in and a sliver of sunshine shoots through the club before the curtain swings closed, again.
I sit next to Major, but am careful not to sit too close. I don’t want our legs to touch, our arms to touch, or to feel him breathing. He is a fat old man. Sabrina almost skips to the other side of the booth and sits next to Boon. Boon, Major, and I are three of maybe seven customers in the club. It is four thirty in the afternoon, but we are sitting in syrupy dimness.
“Jackie, what do you do?” Boon asks.
“I work at the post office, but I was in jury duty all day.”
“That sucks,” Major observes.
“What do you guys do?” I ask.
“I’m an engineer. Major is a venture capitalist.”
“Cool,” I say.
Major motions for a waitress nearby to come over and he orders a drink. Boon goes next, Sabrina passes, and then Major looks at me like he is waiting for something.
“I’ll have Makers,” I say.
Major nods in approval.
Sabrina’s tight, muscular body is turned toward Boon and she seems to be having a decent conversation with him. I wonder how long they’ve known each other. Boon shows her something on his phone, she giggles, then asks five or six questions. Sabrina listens intently as he talks about his industrial design degree, what went wrong in New Orleans, how windshield
wipers were invented by a woman. Boon looks excited to have engaged someone but he never takes his eyes off his phone. Sabrina’s attention keeps going from his phone, to his face, and then back to his phone again.
“How did you become a venture capitalist?” I ask Major.
“It’s something you just do,” Major says.
I give up on trying to make small talk with him and hope to lose myself in the music.
The song is something I’ve heard before but can’t place.
Let’s walk and talk, Baby
Let’s walk and talk
It’s whatever you want, Baby
Whatever you want
Our drinks arrive and Sabrina’s coworker, Honey, joins us. Honey is thirty and looks nineteen. She has clear, tan skin and big hazel eyes. Her body is tall, slender, and mostly legs.
Her long, sleek ponytail swings behind her as she walks towards us. She sits between Boon and Major and now we are sitting – girl, boy, girl, boy, girl. We drink while Honey and Sabrina quietly make fun of Major. He complains about how Honey is always sick whenever he calls her to see how she is doing. Honey and Sabrina remind him that her Irritable Bowel Syndrome
always acts up when she is not at work. Major keeps trying to buy Sabrina a shot and she keeps reminding him that she doesn’t drink. Boon is quiet and will only speak if you ask him a question.
“Let’s go sit at the stage,” Major suggests.
There are maybe ten people in the club now instead of seven. I jokingly ask Boon to teach me how to throw money, but he actually knows how to do it. He shows me how to spread the bills out into a fan and the right way to move my wrist so the money shoots up into the air, balloons out into a cloud, and comes raining down. It was fun to do, but once the demonstration was over I was ready to go back to the booth.
“Have you ever danced?” Major asks.
“No,” I say.
Major looks at my chest and then back at the stage. I’m dressed for the courthouse, so I’m not sure why he looked. I’m an A cup hidden underneath a T-shirt and a cardigan in the middle of a strip club. None of the dancers are huge, but some are still spilling out of their triangular bikini tops. I thought about getting breast implants for years, but never went further than a consultation. It had nothing to do with wanting to be an actress. I just always thought I looked out of proportion. An old roommate worked at a medical office that was offering free implants. It was a study researching an alternative to silicone. The surgery was free, but upon meeting the physician I was told that if something went wrong I couldn’t sue and there was a possibility the breasts wouldn’t be the same size. I gave up on it, went home, and threw away my back issue of Playboy when the publication still included nudes. Carmen Electra was on the cover and my plan was to take it to various plastic surgeons and ask, “Can I get breasts like these?” I didn’t
think it was any different than finding a haircut in a magazine and asking a stylist for the same look. I turn and see Honey and Sabrina who are having an animated conversation. Major keeps leaning into them, eager for any moment that will allow him to comment on whatever it is they are laughing about. Women keep walking on and off the stage and I noticed some appear to be professionally trained dancers. But unlike a “normal” performance, none of them look at us or smile.
Major starts to look restless. His attention shifts from Honey and Sabrina, to the stage, to the entrance, and then back to Honey and Sabrina. Whatever they are talking about shuts out everything around them. Major’s eyeballs almost look like they are swelling out of his head – slowly reaching out towards the hope that one of them will pay attention to him.
“Let’s get out of here,” Major says.
“What?”
Major shoots out his arm, brings his wrist to his face, and looks at his fake Rolex. A Hispanic woman with short, black hair and a bird tattooed on her entire back walks pass us and onto the stage. A song about a Chevy comes on and Major downs the last gulps of his drink. The ice cubes crash into each other as he slams the drink down on the edge of the stage. The Hispanic woman looks at him then makes eye contact with someone at the door. Major squirms in his seat and cracks his neck.
“I said let’s get out of here.”
Major leans over toward Sabrina and yells it.
“Let’s get out of here!”
Honey and Sabrina both jump in their seats a little. I look for a waitress and Major reaches for his glass even though it is empty. Honey and Sabrina start chatting again and Major yells,
“Let’s go!”
I jump in my seat and Major slides his chair backwards with the force of a bull. He grabs his glass then grabs for Honey and Sabrina’s cups of water. They both leap to snatch their cups back as if saving them from a tornado. Major takes Sabrina’s clear plastic cup from her hand and bumps into her chair. “Let’s go!”
Boon keeps looking at the stage without blinking – like he isn’t sure of whether or not to move. I take a sip of Maker’s and hold it in my mouth like I always do. The warm, smooth liquor is comforting and I try to keep it from running down my throat, splashing into my empty stomach. I didn’t drink the first nine months I lived in L.A., and I wonder why that is so impossible now. I don’t consider myself a person who drinks too much. But it’s hard for me to be around new people without having at least two. Lately, I’ve been having five. I can feel the brown reservoir start draining into my throat. I know that if I stay here, I’ll have another drink and need to eat.
“I haven’t eaten. I didn’t eat lunch at the courthouse,” I say.
“So?” Major said.
“I haven’t eaten all day. Why don’t we stay here and get hot wings or something?” I ask.
Instead of backing me up, Sabrina and Honey just look at me. I thought I was helping but suddenly it hits me that maybe I don’t actually know where I am or what the rules are. Honey and Sabrina know each other. Sabrina and Major know each other. Major and Boon know each other. I only know Sabrina. “Walk It Talk It” by the Migos starts filling the club. It is louder than the last song, starting from beneath the carpeted floor and slowly rising.
Take my shoes and walk a mile
Something that you can’t do
Big talk of the town, big boy gang moves
I like to walk around with my chain loose
She bought a new ass but got the same boobs
Maybe that’s what sunk me. Listening to loud rap music before I was pulled over. . .
“I’m going to the bar to get you another drink. Amy knows just how you like your. . .” Sabrina starts.
“I don’t want another drink. Not here,” Major says.
I see a pack of Marlboro Reds peeking out from his pants pocket. I don’t want a cigarette, but I want to smoke just to have something to do besides this. I imagine taking another sip of Maker’s and holding on to the liquid a little longer this time. Boon is still looking at the stage even though The Bird Woman is gone and the next performer hasn’t made her appearance, yet.
“Why are you gonna be like that even though you just got here? You know you aren’t ready to leave. The sun hasn’t even gone down. It’s happy hour. Let Amy mix you a. . .”
Major must have read my mind, because he digs into his pocket and rips out his Marlboro Reds like they are burning his thigh. He steps on Boon’s foot as he leaves and storms outside through the purple velvet curtains.
Honey and Sabrina stand up, turn around, and walk toward the ladies room. I follow them and watch Honey’s long, sleek ponytail swing from side to side. Honey bursts through the swinging door of the restroom and she goes directly to a mirror. She tightens the elastic on her hair and smooths out some stray strands. There are only a few. Calmly she says, “I can’t go
with you guys to Major’s, right now. I have to stay here and work.” She explains that her mother’s birthday is coming up and she has a bunch of parking tickets. She also needs two hundred more dollars for rent so she has to say for a few more hours at least.
“I’ll meet you. I’ll meet you guys, there,” Honey says.
She doesn’t look at us and leaves.
Sabrina turns on the faucet and washes her hands.
“Can you drive?” she asks.
“Oh, we’re going?”
“I mean. . .I don’t know. We’ll just have to see how things go here, I guess,” she says.
“Well if we do go, I don’t want to drive,” I say.
“Why?”
“Why can’t you drive?” I ask.
“My tags are expired,” Sabrina says.
“Well, I don’t want to get pulled over, again” I say.
“You’re still worried about that?”
“It’s not that I’m worried. . .”
“You know that cop was crazy. It’s not like that every time. Plus, it’s not like there’d be a reason to pull you over,” she says.
“There wasn’t a reason to pull me over three weeks, ago” I say.
“You need to get some cocoa butter and some fade cream and start rubbing it on those bruises.”
I touch my right shoulder, that has the biggest one. A big, dark brown mark covering the whole landscape. Suddenly, I can feel myself getting mad. It doesn’t hurt, but I always know that it’s there even when I’m not looking at it. There’s the bruise above my right elbow and the one on my left wrist. I walk to a sink to wash my hands too, but I pass on looking in the mirror.
“I don’t want to drive,” I say.
Sabrina doesn’t say anything and the way the quiet sits, I can tell she knows she needs to drop it. She rips a couple of crunchy, brown paper towels from the dispenser and complains about Major always wanting her and Honey to hang out.
“Why are you friends with him?” I ask.
“He’s not that bad” she says.
“Really?”
“I mean. . .I know he would do anything from me,” she says.
“I guess he’s nice then,” I say.
“Anyway, it’s almost done. He’s about to dry up. He’s burning through his retirement and then he’s going to move in with his kids in the Philippines.
“I don’t want to drive,” I say.
Sabrina and I walk out of the ladies’ room pretending to be brave. Major is back and he and Boon have returned to the big shiny red booth. Honey is on the other side of the club talking to two guys with USC t-shirts sitting at a small table in the back. Major and Boon aren’t drinking as we had hoped. They are just sitting there. Waiting. The last thing I want to do is go to this
guy’s house, but Sabrina seems obligated. I thought that by going I would nourish some kind of sisterhood – that if Sabrina wasn’t truly my friend now then surely she would be after this. It was a rough introduction, but I didn’t know this guy. It is possible that Major “wasn’t that bad” and I tell myself that he may have a nice layout on a hill or behind a majestic gate of iron and gold with concrete lions and gargoyles guarding the front door. No doorbell. There’s just a brass ring that almost breaks your wrist as you knock and wait for the maid to answer its call. Maybe he just doesn’t like to spend money on watches.
“Is Boon married?” I ask.
Sabrina doesn’t answer.
“Do you have the money for the batteries?” I ask.
On top of being arrested, they gave me a ticket. I still have to pay.
Sabrina walks ahead of me and I notice her back stiffen. Boon smiles at her and I see that another dancer was about to approach them but then walked away when she noticed Sabrina.
Sabrina doesn’t sit down but starts telling Major I’m hypoglycemic and I need to eat before we can leave. “She can’t really wait. She needs to eat right now before she passes out,” she says.
Major actually looks concerned and says that he has food at his house and that he doesn’t live that far. Sabrina tells him that she can’t leave the club because she’s supposed to be here at least until eight. Major tells her to just tell someone named Steve that she’s sick and makes a comment about how she isn’t a slave.
“Where do you live?” I ask.
“Alhambra,” Major says.
“You’re ready to leave all this scenery and drive all the way to Alhambra? You can’t get all this at home!” Sabrina says jokingly.
Major doesn’t laugh.
Sabrina suggests that we get a quick appetizer before she gets her things together to leave. Major grumbles that I can put whatever I want on his tab, but he wants to leave in thirty minutes or so. I was never so excited about the prospect of eating cheese sticks, or fried pickles, or whatever bar food they have that people probably rarely order. The bartender, Amy, pours two
glasses of water and sits them in front of us as soon as we get to the bar. There is a man behind the counter on the phone, holding a croquet mallet with a red ball tucked into his armpit. He hangs up on someone, says something to Amy, then goes outside to what I assume is a scene from Alice in Wonderland.
“That’s John, one of the managers. He and his buddies. . .all they do here is take phone calls and play croquet,” Sabrina says.
I order a small pizza, eat three bites, and am full. I take a sip of water and even that hit my stomach the wrong way. I tell Sabrina I am done eating and we go to the locker room so she can change and get her things.
A few women are walking out, as we are walking in. They are laughing and chatting and I can tell from the bones in their faces they are Russian. They have a lightness that seems impenetrable by what Sabrina and I are feeling. One of them jokes about how she found herself when she started working here and complained about how people always want to watch but not tip.
Sabrina slips on her jeans without saying anything. As she gets dressed, I notice the back door. No one is using it to go in or out, but I’m guessing it’s not locked. The standard exit sign with red letters is posted above the frame. Someone’s deflated duffle bag sits on the floor nearby, lonely. I walk to the door and carefully press my body into the steel bar. I push my weight against the door a little more and look outside as it slowly opens.
Blue. It’s all a dull blue. It’s like someone screwed a blue lightbulb into the socket where the moon is supposed to be. It spills over everything. Cars, buildings, people – all black shadows in the rays of the blue. I quickly close the door, wait five seconds, and open the door again. Still blue.
“Sabrina?”
“Yeah?”
“What time is it?”
“Huh?”
“Do you know what time it is?”
“I think it’s like, five o’clock.”
“Five?”
“Yeah.’
“Do you know if it was supposed to rain?”
“What?”
“I mean, did you listen to the news or anything? Or the weather, earlier?”
“Why?”
“Was there supposed to be a storm or something? A full moon? A tsunami?”
“What are you talking about, Jackie?”
“Come here.”
I wave Sabrina over to where I’m standing. She gets to the exit and I move in close to her as I cautiously start opening the door. I hold my breath as if I’m trying to brace both of us for what we are about to see and I suddenly realize we are alone. We’ve been alone this whole time. Sabrina stands with a resolve that looks like boredom. I want to move closer to her, but then
maybe I was already too close. I throw the door open with force before I can lose my nerve and she just stands there unchanged.
“Oh that,” she says.
She pulls her sunglasses out of her purse and wipes the lenses with her shirt before putting them on her face.
“That always happens when I’m afraid,” she says.
I think back to when I was afraid. In my car alone on Wilshire Boulevard. I was driving from my dermatologist’s office in Beverly Hills to my studio apartment in Koreatown. It was sunny (like today) and I was in a good mood. Hoping to relax and zone out for a few hours with Netflix before going to work. I was listening to the radio. . .loud. . .like I always do, when I was pulled over for what I didn’t know.
It was the fourth time in three months. It’s always for minor traffic violations but you would think I signed up to be pulled over for a living. Some tried to say it was because I was in a nice car. Some say it was because I was “pretty.” But whatever it was, it turned into something it wasn’t supposed to be and now I’m a person I never wanted to be. I pulled over. I
argued. I asked questions. I wanted to know why. He told me not to tell him how to do his job and I wanted to know why the police cared about little ‘ol me so much. I did what he told me to do, but I paid anyway. I was grabbed then I blacked out. Once I was awake, I was on the ground and in pain. I felt his weight on my body. I heard him say “stop moving” and I stopped even though I didn’t want to. Someone was standing next to us with an iphone – freezing everything forever. One of the few details I remember is the officer’s name, Ernest Gentry O’Malley.
And now I’m here with Sabrina. I can’t even guess what she’s thinking. Whatever is happening does not seem to rattle her and I wonder if she too feels like she’s constantly being thrown against an invisible wall. I touch the bruise on my shoulder and know it will be there forever. It will be there no matter how much time has passed, no matter how the case is settled, no matter what anyone tries to tell me in comfort, no matter how much bleach or fade cream I drown it in. I stand with her (whether she wants me to or not) and I accept that part of me was killed by an Irishman.