CHAPTER 1
LULA
I’ve been known to take the full 400mg dosage of Advil sometimes. I’m not proud of it, but desperate times and all that.
Right now, I’m ready to take another dose and it hasn’t even been six hours.
Turning to anti-inflammatories is not my usual coping mechanism, but today is special.
So, so special. I’m meeting my mother’s new husband. At his strip club. One of three he owns.
“Stop staring at your phone,” my mother chirps in that raspy, squeaky urgent tone she gets when she’s trying to impress people and she thinks I’m ruining the vibe. “Mingle. I’ll introduce you to Larry as soon as the time feels right. You and your social media. You singing on TikTok again? For what?”
“It’s for work, mother. I’m posting on Facebook Marketplace for the scrapyard.”
That only makes the sour twist of her lips more intense. “I mean, who cares about a scrapyard on Facebook?” She waves at someone across the room and gives me that nervous half smile she gets when she’s trying to cover something up.
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the hundred or more people that have found us because of Facebook. Scrapping’s a big thing on Facebook. Lots of scrappers out there and I want them coming to Z’s Scrap all day long.”
I grew up helping my dad run the business. Z’s Scrap is a third generation venture. It’s ‘Z’s instead of Zdzinski’s since no one seems to be able to spell or pronounce my father’s family name. It’s messy and hard and hot in the summer and freezing in the winter, but it’s his baby. Well, his other baby besides me. And since Mom bailed on him and his blue-collar ambitions, she’s lost her baby status as well. Only problem is, running the yard includes long hours, lots of coffee, stress and junk food and my dad had a heart attack two months ago and I almost lost him.
One quadruple bypass later, he’s on 24/7 oxygen and a crap ton of home health, meds and rehab, but he’s stable, thank God. I’ve had to take the helm at the yard and any ideas of jumping in my beige 1999 Buick and heading to Nashville to be the next Taylor Swift are on permanent hiatus. Instead, I’m working every strategy in my arsenal to try to save what I now know is a business on the downslope of solvency.
Losing the yard would be the death nail for my father. That, and losing me. My singing dreams are secondary to keeping my father alive and that right now includes getting his business back in the black.
Mom makes a raspberry sound. “Well, whatever you’re doing is only encouraging him. He should just sell that place. It was always trashy, barely paid the bills. It’s going to bring you down too. Get out as fast as you can, convince your dad to move on, for goodness’ sake.”
I leave that subject on the sticky floor for now, just grateful my dad is getting stronger and I’m handling things the best I can. My mom can go pound rocks. When she left, I went back and forth for a year or so, but in the end, I think she wanted her space so when I made the decision to be with Dad full time, it went over better than I’d planned. She had one condition, which was she wanted me to change my name to Laurence, which is her maiden name, from my father’s Zdzinski. She always hated his last name and truth was, I sort of wanted the switch.
Not because I didn’t like the name, but if I was going to be a star, well, Lula Zdzinski didn’t really have the same ring to it that Lula Laurence did. So, Dad agreed, wanting my dreams to come true and Mom did the paperwork and as far as the law is concerned, I’m Lula Laurence now.
“Don’t worry, Diedre,” I say. She hates when I use her first name, but right now, I think she’s earned a little rebellion. “I’ll be waiting right here when my new Daddy is ready.” I jab my index finger to the tabletop and release a dramatic exhale, keeping my eyes pinned to my most recent TikTok of me singing Lovestory with my signature slower, sultry style which is already up to 40K views in just a few hours. “There’s no where else I’d rather be than right here.”
“Stop that sarcasm. You know I hate that. It’s trashy.”
I’m not sure my mother’s version of trashy and the world’s version are the same. She taps a crystal-encrusted white fingernail on her matching blazing white teeth. Her white-on-white cheetah print jumpsuit is clinging to her like desperation, but I will say, she’s got the body of Heidi Klum with a high-end boob job.
A boob job she’s still paying off in installments. Zero percent interest though, so, that’s a plus.
“Well, when in Rome…” I say on an eye roll, looking around as the disco ball twirls loosely above us and the black painted drop ceiling tiles threaten to crash down onto the sticky two top I grabbed against the wall when I came in.
“Strip clubs aren’t trashy. Don’t judge, Lula. There but by the grace of God go you, young lady.”
“I agree. Not all strip clubs are trashy.” I huff, rolling my head back and around, listening to the pop pop pop of my vertebrae and watching my mother cringe.
She’s known Larry all of two weeks, and yet here we are at his premier gentleman’s entertainment center, The King’s Palace, to celebrate their nuptials.
Well, it’s no palace, and there’s not a king in sight.
Trash would be offended by the comparison.
“I hate that sound.” Mom reaches for her rum and coke sitting on a drenched square napkin next to her now empty shot of Amaretto.
I turn my attention back to my phone. The post has surged 50K and little hearts and notifications are lighting up my screen, turning this unfortunate evening into less of the total loss I thought it would be.
“Do not ruin this for me, young lady. Larry is everything I ever wanted. Everything…” She pauses as the DJ announces the impending arrival of Crystal Showers taking the stage to the tune of that milkshake song I don’t really understand. “Everything your father was not.”
I clench my teeth and shoot her a hard glare.
“Don’t talk about Dad,” I snap and she’s already giving me her best non-apology wave as I bite into my lip and count to ten.
The scent of cannabis drifting off two sparkly thong clad females with admittedly nice racks passing by makes my eyes tear.
It always smells like skunk spray to me and to each their own, but with all the magical scientific advancements in the world, couldn’t they create some version of pot that doesn’t smell like skunk ass?
They shoot me a side eye and whisper as my anxiety bubbles to the surface and I offer a tight smile.
Neither one of them is perfect. Something tells me this place isn’t top of the stripper list of desirable workplaces. Still, they could each fit their entire lower body into a single leg of my jeans. I tug the neckline of my white peasant-style blouse up and try to disappear against the black wall behind me.
The thump of the bass and the sight of Crystal looking insanely bored while she dry humps the silver pole on stage is making this all feel like someone slipped me some peyote in my Shirley Temple.
What’s making it worse is, although my mother has always had an affinity for the Peg Bundy look, she was never into clubs or drinking and swore me off stripping as a career path from as far back as I can remember.