Liberty Begins (The Liberty Series) Page 3

  I started the water on the stove for my macaroni and cheese; I hadn’t eaten anything today besides a cheese sandwich at 11 am. I was shaking I was so hungry. No wonder that wine had gone to my head; I hadn’t eaten enough today, or any day this week. I couldn’t stop thinking about John. I was pretty sure that some of the shaking was also from adrenaline. Thinking about him made it worse.

  While I waited for the water to boil I performed my nightly ritual. I had already washed all my makeup off at work, because they had every sort of industrial makeup remover known to man and I had nothing that good myself. So I took a one-minute scalding shower in my disgusting shower stall, holding my breath the whole time and trying not to rub up against the wall. Whenever I accidentally touch it, I think of algae and sewers and zombies — because that’s what the walls feel like — and I yelp. Tonight I’m lucky and don’t touch anything. I get out and spray it down with a mold and mildew spray that does nothing to the stains that were here when I moved in. It smells industrial-grade and makes me lightheaded, but it doesn’t seem to do anything else. Still, it makes me feel better to make the effort.

  Then I head for my bedroom, grab my gray sweats and my favorite pink sweatshirt, and head back to the kitchen to put the shells in to cook. After setting the timer it’s back to my bedroom, where I turn on all the lights and proceed to unmake my bed. I start at the top, taking the pillows out of the pillowcases, then taking off the fitted sheet and lifting up the mattress to look underneath. I do it with all four corners.

  I’m looking for signs of bed bugs. They say you can usually see little drops of blood. I don’t know why I make my bed every morning when I just tear it all apart every night. I’d considered leaving it alone, but I couldn’t just leave my sheets and my comforter in a big pile ... it’d looked too inviting, like the bugs would choose to burrow under it, safe and warm. Waiting for me. So I make my bed everyday, like I have since I was a child, craving some order, and come home and undo it. I take the flashlight off my nightstand and look closely near the foot of the bed, where I’ve read they usually like to hide.

  Nothing tonight. I remake my bed and happily collect my macaroni and cheese and a glass of water. And as I sit eating, alone at my chipped card table in my plastic orange chair that I pulled out of a dumpster, I wonder. I wonder if there are lap dances ahead of me, and whether I’ll make rent this month without them. I wonder if there is a life for me anywhere out of here, and whether luck really has anything to do with it.

  * * *

  Morning has a way of making everything look better in Vegas. At least for me. I can imagine there are many hung-over visitors who don’t feel the same way, but I love to see the sun come up. No more cockroaches. No more rolling around in my sleep, twitching in fear of bed bugs. Just sun, cereal and coffee, my hair in a ponytail and my pajamas. It felt like the opposite of stripping.

  Today I was working the day shift. I had to get to the Chest by ten thirty, to be ready to go out on the floor at eleven. I would be dancing for the hard-core alcoholics and guys who hadn’t gone to bed yet. I never made any money at this shift, but it would give me an opportunity to work on my routine and bug Alex to let me stay and do a double. If I was going to stay just onstage, I needed to work as much as possible. My rent was cheap, but I was still barely making it. Rent, groceries, laundry, gas, car insurance, my business license (which you need in Vegas to strip legally) and anything else that came up, like clothes I needed for work and occasional trips to the hardware store for flashlights and insecticide, had left my bank account flatlining. I had no money left over each month to save. I had no cell phone, no computer, no television. Lucky for me I didn’t have any vices, either, like smoking or drinking, because I wouldn’t have been able to afford them, even for a day. It was no wonder I spent a large amount of my time at the library. Free Internet. Free books. Free magazines. Otherwise I would have gone crazy.

  When I left our apartment in Eugene, Oregon last year after my mother died, I had nothing. I couldn’t even pay her emergency room bill. I stole five hundred dollars from Ray right before I left so I could afford the gas to get to Nevada and hopefully have something left over first month’s rent. My mom had been behind on our rent, our cable and her cell phone had been long shut off, her car repossessed. I had worked all through school and full-time after graduation at a grocery store, and I usually tried to pay our bills directly, but it was never enough. She took money from me all the time. I couldn’t get a second job because I couldn’t leave her alone more than I already did.

  Sasha was long gone by the time Mom died. I didn’t blame her. She had moved up to Portland and she called sometimes before the phones went. I used to get an email from her occasionally, letting us know she was okay. The social worker from the hospital called her at the last number I had and left a message. I had to hope that Sasha had eventually called her back and talked to her. I emailed her, too, but I never heard back. I hoped she knew. She wouldn’t be surprised. It was a message she had been expecting for a long time.

  I told the people at the hospital that we didn’t have the money for a funeral, let alone the medical bills. They said they would call the state and take care of it. It was horrible, but I knew they had done this many times before.

  I left her there.

  I said goodbye before I went. She didn’t even look like my mother anymore. At forty-seven, she was withered and gray. Ray had turned her onto some drugs that had taken her down under, into a totally different world. It took less time than you might think. I had no idea what she saw down there or why she preferred it to our real world, to green leaves, to fresh air, to chips and guacamole, which she used to love.

  These new drugs made her drinking and cocaine habit, the combination of which had always been a horrible roller-coaster ride, look like a spin around a carousel on a sunny afternoon. At least when she drank she still yelled at us and ate occasionally. But in the months before she died she had moved past her need for speech, for food, for sunlight. She only had one need, and as out of it as she was most of the time, she still managed to fulfill it with Ray’s help. In the process she had transformed from Snow White — my sweet, kind, beautiful mother — into the Wicked Queen.

  She had been the fairest of them all, but she didn’t care about that anymore. I still didn’t know if it was her body or her mind that wanted the drugs so bad, but whichever part it was, it was ruthless. I had nightmares about her during that time; she was chasing me, she had turned herself into the old hag with the apple and was trying to get me to eat it. She wanted me gone and she wanted all the money for drugs, drugs, and more drugs, every day. In real life, as I stood by and watched, horrified, the drugs did turn her into the old hag. Even Ray stopped going after her.

  And she never changed back. She stayed like that, shriveled and ugly with her teeth yellowing, until she died. She had given up everything. Her beauty. The light. She had given up me and Sasha, even though I knew she loved us. She was just so sick.

  Looking at her lifeless body, I told myself that she had finally left her prison, her hell on earth. Now she was at peace, and I knew in my heart she would want me to go far, far away.

  I left the next day. The landlord had tolerated my mother for reasons I didn’t want to think about, but the same would not apply to me. So I left and Sasha didn’t know where I went, and I didn’t know if she was still in Portland. I emailed her and googled her at the library practically every day but I hadn’t heard or found a thing. She must have wanted it that way. She was smart about those things. I missed her so much sometimes it made my stomach hurt. One day soon, I kept telling myself, I would be able to afford a bus ticket and I would go up there and find her. One day soon. When I slipped up and let my mind wander, like now, I often found myself wishing that I had gone to Portland instead of Vegas. But I needed to get the hell away from Ray, and from the rain, and from the lush greenery that my mother had loved. I needed to hide. And I would take the desert, the cockroaches, and the stripping ove
r the memories any day.

  I shook my head and came back to myself. I never wanted to think about any of this stuff, but because I was alone most of the time, it had a way of creeping in. I planned to ask Alex if I could work every day for the rest of the month. Maybe he’d let me work 24 hours a day — that way I could avoid thinking dark thoughts and avoid all the bugs in my apartment. And then I would be there in case John stopped by, looking for me.

  John. Just the thought of his name made me smile, which on the heels of those other memories was not easy. It made me glad to be alone, so no one could see me being silly. An older man like that, with that kind of suit, could only want one thing from a girl like me. And even though I liked him, and he was incredibly hot, I was not that kind of girl. Although sometimes I wished I was. At least it would keep my mind off this other shit.

  As I pulled on my clothes, rushing now, I relived our meeting from last night. It was so strange. Looking back on it in the morning light, it was like he had come to the Treasure Chest looking just for me. That didn’t make any sense. No one here even knew who I was. But it was just the way he looked at me, what I swear was the unmistakable relief in his eyes, the kindness — this is what confused me. Maybe I imagined it, I thought. Maybe I would never see him again and forget all about him.

  That’s what I was thinking as I grabbed my bag and opened my door. My neighbor, Vera, was standing right outside. It made me jump.

  “Gah!” I said. And then we both laughed.

  “Liberty! Honey, it’s okay! I was just about to ring your bell — this got delivered for you and I didn’t want it sitting out here, getting stolen,” she said, holding a package. Vera was in her early thirties, and she had a warm, round face. She was a mommy to two little girls and worked in housekeeping at one of the big hotels. She worked a lot. Her boyfriend, Reggie, worked the night shift doing security for one of the other big hotels. I liked having them as neighbors because they were friendly and their girls were cute. I also like the fact that in our sketchy area, Reggie was known not to be messed with. He had a heart of gold and watched SpongeBob with his girls but he was also big and menacing, worked in security and was always armed. I liked knowing he was right next door. I just wished he was home more at night. I’m sure Vera did, too.

  “Don’t be so jumpy! You gotta relax before you go see all your boyfriends!” she laughed and handed over the package, which was small and light.

  “Thanks, Vera,” I said as she headed off down the hall.

  Now what could this be, I wondered. I had never had a package delivered to me in my life. Liberty Davis. We had gotten plenty of certified letters from bill collectors back in Eugene, but those were all addressed to my mother. Curious, I opened it right there, outside my apartment.

  It was a pair of glasses with thick tortoise shell frames. Huh? I thought. Part of me had been expecting some sort of gross sex toy or vial of bodily fluid from someone who had seen me at the club. That would have been gross but at least made some sort of sense. I looked into the package. There was no note. I held the glasses up and inspected them: they looked new, immaculate and expensive. I scrutinized them in the sunlight. I don’t know what I was looking for, exactly, but I didn’t see any booby traps. I put them on. I have perfect vision, and nothing changed. So they were fake glasses. Weird. I put them in my bag and headed to work, mentally scratching my head the whole way there.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Not That Kind of Girl

  The parking lot at work was practically empty. One of the sometimes girls, Amber, was leaving as I punched in my code. “Totally dead,” she said, rummaging through her enormous purse. Amber was young, like me, but she looked older. She had reddish hair (dyed to match her name) and pockmarked skin that she filled in with lots of pantyhose-colored foundation. When she wasn’t smoking she was snapping gum. She was reliable, but Alex only called her when he had to, when someone had called out sick and he couldn’t find any of his preferred replacements.

  “Be prepared to make five dollars,” she said, snapping her gum and shoving a cigarette into her mouth. “See ya.”

  I never liked running into Amber. She was never really friendly, but that’s not what bothered me. It was the dead look in her eyes. It was like she was looking straight through me, like I could jump up and down and wave my arms at her and she wouldn’t notice. Every time I saw her I thought the same thing: She’s already given up. Typically, the girls at the Chest, myself included, liked to at least pretend that we hadn’t.

  Five dollars was better than none, I reasoned. I left the eighty degree warmth and sun of the parking lot and went in. It smelled like beer and pee in the alley outside the door but I would still rather be here with a couple of bouncers, a DJ and a bartender than home alone with the ghosts in my head. Maybe I would see Alex and he could tell me something, anything, about John. I looked for him as I walked in and my eyes adjusted to the darkness. I didn’t see anyone but Chelsea, the bartender, standing behind the bar, texting feverishly. There were also two men sitting separately, nursing what appeared to be their brunch cocktails. Neither one looked like they had been to bed yet. Nina was up on stage, rolling around in the bottom half of a glitter bikini and looking dreamily at the ceiling. She’d probably been doing that for a good long while. I should have brought her a coffee.

  I grabbed a glass from behind the bar and filled it with diet soda — Chelsea nodded to me once without looking up from her phone — and I headed out back quickly to get dressed. No one was in the dressing room. I was up next, so I hurried off my sneakers and jeans, threw them into my locker and put on my plaid mini skirt, a red thong, a red nipple-less bra and white oxford shirt. I put on my makeup carefully, making sure that I didn’t put on too much mascara because I would have to add more as the day went on. I put on my bubble-gum scented clear lipgloss over my red lipstick and smacked my lips together. As I bent down to dig my heels out, I saw the white package in my backpack. I grabbed it and sat back in my chair. Glasses make you look smart. I took them out of the package and tried them on.

  When I looked in the mirror, I sucked my breath in. It didn’t look like me, but in a good way. If I kept my shirt buttoned and you couldn’t smell the bubblegum lipgloss, I looked like I could be a lawyer, albeit a young, slutty lawyer. Still, I looked good. And the glasses were mine, I reasoned. Someone had sent them to me for some weird reason. I stood up and headed towards the stage. It was time to relieve Nina. Her allergies were going to start bothering her if she kept rolling around on that dirty floor.

  The song changed and Nina seemed to wake up. “Cool glasses,” she said, and rubbed my shoulder as she left the stage. Allergies aside, Nina was the healthiest person who worked here. She taught yoga and Pilates, and she worked at one of the health food stores in Vegas, so she was always showing up for her shift with green smoothies, seaweed bars and cashews. Honestly, I didn’t know what half of her snacks were. She wore a sequined bindi and was a strict vegetarian, both of which mystified me, but she was always so calm I liked being around her. She was nice to all of us and dreamy and detached with her clients, which was maybe just her way of distancing herself.

  She was probably off to teach a yoga class this morning to rich women at one of the trendy resorts. She was always working. I couldn’t figure out why she stripped, but the other girls said eating like she did was wicked expensive. I don’t know why anyone would choose an expensive green seaweed bar over cheap macaroni and cheese or French fries, but I had limited exposure in these matters. My mother used to take us to Friendly’s for special occasions. It was still my favorite restaurant.

  My audience of two was still hanging on, but just barely. They were both slumped in their separate seats. I could dance the hokey-pokey and they would probably be okay with it. I decided I needed to work on my pole dancing, so I climbed up and flipped upside down. The song was a heavy, thumping tech number that the DJ probably intended to wake the two stragglers up so they would finally leave. Then housecleaning coul
d come in quick and vacuum before the nooners arrived. Some guys liked to come in and look at boobs while they had a burger. I didn’t know why they found that appealing, but at least I could try out my glasses on them, and see if they liked to watch me twirl upside down.

  It was quiet for the next couple of hours. Housekeeping came, the lunch crowd came, and one other girl, Allegra, showed up after a while. We kept taking turns all day. We got into a groove, changing every four songs. It was actually fun — my glasses made me feel brave, like I was wearing a disguise. I had made about thirty dollars by four o’clock, about as good as I could expect. More girls were scheduled to show up soon but I was still hoping I could stay and work a double. Alex came out back while I was drinking some water, rummaging through my makeup for more of my favorite thick, chunky brown eyeliner.