Roll with the Punches (30 page)

"What?" The car swerved again, nearly missing a pedestrian.

I squealed. Wrong time to confess. "Kisshew! Kisshew! God, I'm sneezing a lot. Just be careful, Harley. Guy's got no visible means of support."

"I make plenty of money to support a nutmeg."
Nutmeg
being a spice, a variant of
spouse
. She shimmied in her seat. "He could be a trapeze artist for all I care. In fact, that would be fun. Just think of all those cute little dark-headed wild Indians I'd have, swinging from the drapes.”

I clenched my teeth the rest of the way to the rink parking lot, which tonight was full of giant, gnarly motorcycles. Harley raved on and on about Dal changing her life in twenty-four hours and how a veil had lifted and she hadn't even needed her drugs today. I figured I'd need to start taking some soon.

*
      
*
      
*

In the rink, a lot of chairs had been placed on the floor in front of the bleachers, both behind and in front of the rails. Loud leather-clad folks in costume milled around as we searched for seats.

Cathy rolled up to me all dressed in virulent daffodil yellow with yellow Las Vegas showgirl feathers flapping on her head and her ample rear end. "You like my big-ass feathers?" she hissed.

I sneezed at the pun.

"Come to the dressing room!" she said.

Inside the locker room, the graffitied locker doors had mirrors hung on them. Half-dressed women in outrageous costumes were running and skating to and fro, slathering on makeup and hair dye. Perfumes warred with hair spray and cigarette smoke in a visible fog. E. Lizard Butt and Cleo, with Raggedy Ann faces and smock aprons, sat on benches, smoking. Hippo, in a trench coat and a black fedora, wrestled with huge fishnet stockings.

Down the next aisle, two square-jawed blond women pouted at mirrors and wrestled with false eyelashes. And wore nothing on their generous curves but sinuous tattoos, scarlet tasseled pasties, sequined red G-strings, and fuck-me spike heels.

"Are we still in Kansas?" I whispered to Harley when my eyes focused again.

"Nope. It's the Halloween Land of Roller Burlesque."

Cathy said, "Boy, is it lucky you showed up! Kween Viktorious and Storm Goddess got caught in traffic in Los Angeles. We need you to fill in."

"Oh, no," I said. "I'm sick, and—"

Hippo was suddenly in front of us, black trench coat looming. Her grin was evil incarnate. "We need somebody to perform their dance, and you're it, girls. Unless you want an immediate, permanent escort out of this rink."

Harley and I exchanged a look.

Largot said, "But they need costumes."

"They can dance in their underwear." Hippo turned back to her mirror.

This wasn't happening.

Just then, a nervous Hispanic woman raced in to Hippo with a big plastic bag. She said, "I sorry Missus. Kween Viki boyfriend he tell me bring these costume. But first, I must finish clean them house."

Hippo yelled, "You waited to finish cleaning before you brought them? Jesus, Maria Elena. I'm calling Shiny Zone to get your ass fired." She threw the bag at us and pulled out a cell phone.

Maria Elena scuttled out, head down.

Cathy caught the bag and pull out two red velvet bras with matching skirts and hip belts, dripping with gold beads and coins. On a normal size-ten woman, they'd have been revealing. On us big buxom girls, they'd be downright lewd.

Unfortunately, Happy Harley was game for anything. She went to the car for her two sets of skates while I sulked by Largot Fonteyn, who was hiking up the sagging front of her striped cat costume, her fuzzy tail tucked into her waistband. Harley returned and started undressing.

"Hey, are you two stripping?" Largot said, shoving little silver-tasseled items at me. "The Dana Point Decadence passed out extra pasties."

I felt woozy and stuck my head between my knees. My sinuses filled up immediately.

Largot went on, "Well, suit yourself. Double D Cupcake and Oh Fudge from the Decadence probably have enough nasty moves to make up for the rest of us. They're professional strippers. Just joined the league."

"Pasties! Orgas-maravillosa!" Cathy bounced up, yellow feathers bobbing. "And Dee-Lickerous, the pole dancer, is coming as soon as she's done meeting her parole officer." Her tough-girl tattoos clashed with her sunny yellow outfit, as did her lamp-post legs.

"Rhonda, get dressed. I need a partner." Harley shimmied into her belly dancer costume, which looked pretty decent on her hourglass shape.

I, on the other hand, was built, depending on which parent you asked, like a milkmaid or a brick shithouse. "I can't belly dance. And on skates? Get real." Pause. "Or are we mud wrestling?"

"No, the Dana Point sluts are doing that at the end," Cathy said. "You just improvise. You know, weave around and shimmy a little. Pretend to seduce the men in the front row, then fall in their laps. Get a laugh. They'll love it.”

I sat, head in hands, aware of Hippo's glare.

Suddenly, a gaggle of yellow-feathered bird-girls attacked me, grabbed my leg and pulled my right shoe off. My reflexes were slowed by the cold. Largot got the left shoe off before I could react. I held my ground when they went for my pullover sweater, until Cathy reached in and tickled me and a flock of smaller Asian girls in matching yellow Big Bird outfits descended on me, pinning me to the floor.

As little hands attacked and tugged my sweater off, I yelled, hoarsely, "No. No. No. I'm not going out there and belly dance on skates in front of a hundred people.”

Cathy said, "Oh, more like five hundred. Trick-or-treat was last night, so we have twice as many people this year. Oragsmalating! More money for the league.”

I clutched at my pants, but my captors were faster. "Whose side are you girls on?" I bleated.

"The league's," Largot said. "Guys paid a lot for those seats. The money'll go for a new home for our banked track, which is so much cooler and faster for roller bouts. Come on Rhonda. The league needs everybody tonight.”

Cathy was strapping a bra on me as a yellow-clad Veggie Girl chirped from each of my limbs.

"Rhonda, meet Lettuce Play, Beet 'Em Up, Garlicka Yo Ass and Spy-C Chilly Peppahs," Cathy said, straining to pull up my red harem skirt. When she’d almost got it to my hips, they all stood back, hooting.

"I'm not—" I sat up and sneezed on my burgundy velvet bra, a jingly cross between Mrs. Santa's lingerie and a dangly pirate treasure.

Wiggling black cat ears, Largot shoved Kleenex at me. "Nice bra."

Cathy fastened it in back. "Yeah. Orgasmatastic. Can you make the bangles on the boobs go in different directions?"

I said, "With kneepads and helmets? We'll look awful.”

Largot said, "No helmets or kneepads tonight, Sweet Pea. So stay upright."

I stood up. "Where's my sweater? I'm calling a taxi."

Hippo's fedora turned our way.

I rasped out, "I've got a cold, maybe mono. I'm bloated and as sexy as a sour sponge.”

Applying lipstick, Harley said, "Remember why we came."

"I AM NOT BELLY-DANCING!" I kicked a locker door, making everyone start. In the swaying mirror, my bra was tight enough to read a mammogram through and my slightly poochy stomach now billowed out over the waistband of my "skirt", which barely covered my Bermuda triangle. My Pillsbury Doughboy gut would not suck in.

Cathy grinned. "Your belly's dancing already."

Harley shoved a cup of cold medicine at me from her emergency stash. "Rhonda, on Pluto, you only weigh sixteen pounds. The guys will love you.”

The stuff tasted like gasoline. "Forget men. The last ones I got turned moldy.”

"God, there's no mold on that Indian." Harley nudged me, lipstick in hand. "He really smokes my peace pipe, if you know what I mean.”

Problem was, I did.

Largot chimed in, "Pulls your travois? Erects your tepee?"

Cathy's crossed eye gleamed. "Whittles her wood."

I started fuming. Why was she so happy about Dal? He was … he was …
Grrrr.
As Cathy fixed my veil with hairpins, I realized he was damned sexy and I wanted him pretty bad. But did I want him just because Harley had dibsed him? Was this just a game between her and me? How had I felt before the dibs? What about James? My head hurt.

Harley finished her own makeup and attacked my eyes with mascara, leaving me looking like Elvira. Then she snatched E. Lizard Butt's can and sprayed it all over my hair. "Hair dye. Candy-apple red. An experiment for Booty-Ka."

"How does it look?" I asked.

She tipped her head and considered. "Terrible."

Hippo was still in the dressing room, glaring at everyone, so Harley wandered out to the rink to find out what was going on and I went upstairs to the weight room overlooking the rink to join the other prisoners, waiting for our turns at the stake. E. Lizard Butt was talking on the phone nearby.

The show started in the darkened rink full of masked spectators. Sweeping spotlights followed Cathy and the Veggie Girls as their feathers fluttered to Bob Seeger's
Hollywood Nights
.

After mixed applause and booing, Oh Fudge gyrated onstage to a punk song about skin
.
This was much more popular. Her airline stewardess's uniform came off in sections as she pranced around the rink, delivering tiny bottled cocktails to whistling clowns and devils in the front row and deftly avoiding grabby Tweety Bird hands. In the end, even the pasties and G-string flew high over the audience's heads as she barely escaped to the dressing room.

"Tough crowd," somebody said behind me.

A sultry voice said, "Yeah, get a load of Captain Jack, there. He's mine." She blew a kiss to someone in the crowd.

Time for my undercover sting. I put my veil on to disguise myself and turned to these two girls, who had on sexy top hats and tails. "Hi, I'm—uh—Booty-Ka. New to the Amazons. Are you Iridescence?"

"Yeah.”

Yay. "Do you know Yv-er-Gold Diggeressa?"

"Sure."

"I'm writing bios for all the girls in the league for the website. How long has she been in the Amazons? Is she new?"

One shrugged. "I guess so."

"Do you know where she skated before?"

They wrinkled their noses. One said, "Is she from the Pittsburgh League? Those skanks.”

The other said, "Why don't you ask her? She’s here."

"I haven’t seen—" I had a sudden sneezing fit and soaked the veil. I took the snotty mess off as they backed away.

E. Lizard Butt held out pearls of cold medicine to me. "Don't want you spreading this cold around.”

"I had some already," I said.

She produced a flask. "Take them with this. Go on. My kids take this before a test. Stops the drip.”

I took it. With spiked Gatorade.

The boisterous crowd got tougher. Largot, artistically interpreting
Memories
from
Cats,
got booed off stage in minutes. E. Lizard Butt and Cleo, singing,
I Wanna Be Loved by You
in Catholic schoolgirl attire, met hooting and roaring laughter.

Apparently, the ghoulies and ghosties wanted all live, all naked girls, girls, girls, like in the strip clubs.

Head woozy, I went downstairs in search of more Yvette informants. Maybe I could bribe them for info with coins from my clinking bra. But the locker room was empty. Blowing my nose on the veil as I passed the benches, a familiar nametag on a duffel bag stopped me. Yvette Winkler. Hmm. Maybe this evening was not such a waste after all.

I found my skates, sat on the bench, and put one on, humming, taking my time. Most girls were upstairs watching the show or out in the queue, ready to go on. I reached toward the duffel and Cleo appeared. I sat up quick. She went by, oblivious, as my heart raced. Once she was gone, I casually reached down again, opened Yvette's bag's zipper, rifled through her purple clothes and found her sequined purse--lime green this time. I grabbed it. A troop of very risqué Girl Scouts in sequined green burst out of the bathroom, so instead of zipping the bag up, I just skated off one-footed to the bathroom, jingling all the way.

There, in a stall, I quickly found Jackson's business card, which I stuffed in the Kleenex-free side of my bra. I wanted Yvette's address, but there were no ID cards at all this time. I swear I did not touch her lipstick. Except for putting a smidgeon on my lips. Germ warfare.

Suddenly, I was beat. Hearing laughing from outside in the locker room, I collapsed on a lounge chair in the restroom corner, my eyeballs burning.

The door opened. Coins tinkled close by. Harley said, "I struck out. How about you?"

"I got it," I said.

"I know you have a cold, Rhonda.”

"No, Reynard Jackson's card—from Yvette's purse!" I took the purse out from under me and waved it high.
Cough, cough
.

"Shit. Come on. We're on next. Put on your other skate." She shoveled another dose of cold medicine into me and peered out into the dressing room, biting her lip. "We're on next, but Yvette's group's all out there. How do we return the bag?"

Loopy on drugs, I slurred, "If only this costume had pockets."

Someone was calling our names. Harley shoved me into the handicapped stall and joined me. The restroom door opened, and Harley made a lot of awful retching sounds. The door closed, and she laughed. Then there was an eruption of complaints outside. The swearing hurt my ears when the Irvine girls got told to go on stage in our place.

Finally, the dressing room emptied again and Harley dragged me outside, smiling. "Those Irvine bitches are so pissed off.”

I felt quite light-headed. "Let’s go home now."

"No way! This is fun!"

"But we didn't practice, and I feel bad.”

"Sure we practiced, remember? Well, I did." She looked both ways and deposited the little green purse in Yvette's bag, zipping it just as Hippo rounded the corner.

Time stopped. Had she heard us zip the bag? Her blue eyes searched our faces and her black coat sagged open, showing a giant creamy bosom. Her red hair stood out in chunks. Each large fist held a giant shopping bag from which a rotten smell emanated, making my stomach churn. Belly-dance music floated by.