The Jewel Box (3 page)

Traveling to El Paso included a stop in Houston. Wesley had a business meeting. Nikki was begging to spend time with Cousin Jimmy. And yours truly had to see my gynecologist about an overwhelming pain that parked in my grassy knoll and refused to leave. I also squeezed in a visit with my best friend from high school. Katie entered my life during sophomore year when her family transferred to Texas from Michigan. Her tales of life outside southern boundaries captivated me, but her uninhibited persona drew me to her. She mimicked my odd habit of walking on my tip toes. I mocked
her excessive eyelash fluttering. By the summer of ‘63 we were inseparable. Although we kept in touch by phone after high school, I hadn’t seen Kat since Nikki’s birth. She insisted I bring my bikini to sunbathe at her pool and catch up on lost time.

The girl hadn’t changed a bit. Thin, leggy Katie, whose thick, curly, auburn hair almost overshadowed her oval face and ski shaped nose, possessed huge hazel eyes and a fetching way of looking at people that made her seem prettier than she was. Incredibly stylish (she could pin a dead cockroach in her hair and start a trend), Kat possessed such effervescence I worried she might internally combust. Flattery was her forte. She was rattling on about my recent short hair cut enhancing my green eyes when I noticed rumpled twenty dollar bills scattered around her living room. Kat took two pink cans of Tab from the fridge, placed them on folded twenties to use as coasters, sat beside me, and insisted I brief her on my sex life seeing as how we both left high school as virgins. “Start talking,” she commanded with gusto.

I leaned against the luxurious cushions of her sofa and elaborated on my two vastly different sexual experiences. Then she told me about her sex-capades. Gulp. During her demonstration of Kama Sutra positions, I noticed a giant bowl filled with about a zillion quarters sitting beside a Tiffany lamp on top of her expensive TV. “For the laundromat,” she said, following my gaze.

“Pleeease.” I stood for a closer look at her coin mountain. “There’s at least two hundred bucks in this bowl. And more twenty dollar bills in this room than I’ve ever seen. What’s up?”

Kat motioned me to her bedroom, pranced over to the closet, pulled out a small duffel bag, threw it across her bed, and opened it. Small sequined underwear and other glittery items tumbled out, along with greenbacks of all denominations. “I’m making the money, cutie.” She winked. “I’m working as a waitress and part-time dancer in a darling little club near downtown called the Jewel Box.”

“God, Katie!”

“It’s not so bad, Jill. I mainly wait tables and only dance a couple times a night when the club’s short on dancers.” She shook her bountiful booty. “It’s really kinda groovy. My family thinks I work in a restaurant, and I go by the name Laura, so they’ll never find out.”

“You always had a wild streak, but God.” I slipped into my blue crochet bikini wondering how my friend got involved in such a job, and trying to stop reiterating “God.”

“So, Jill. What did doc say about those spasms in your tulip garden?”

“Some kind of cyst. It’s shrinking, but he prescribed Phenaphen for my pain. He also said my twisted uterus makes my chances of getting pregnant about one in a million.”

“Weird diagnosis.” Kat pulled her bouncy red curls into a loose ponytail.

“Makes me relieved I have Nikki, but you gotta love those pregnancy odds, eh?”

When we got to the pool she spilled more details about her job. “On rare times that I dance, I play
Fever
by Peggy Lee and move as slow and enticingly as the law allows.”

I’d always admired the way Kat exuded naughtiness in our private conversations, but this public declaration was worlds apart from two teenagers talking trash behind closed doors.

“Or I play
Shake a Tail Feather
, and turn my fanny to the crowd and shimmy wildly.” She offered a provocative sample.

I felt slightly embarrassed, and happy we were alone at the pool.

Kat’s laid back attitude about her bizarre job baffled me. I left her apartment feeling my world had gone topsy turvy, and tried to embrace Mother’s quote: “To each his own” as I got in my car. After all, Kat seemed happy. And she was making a buttload of money.

When I walked into Ellen’s house Nikki rushed to me. I grabbed her right arm and leg, giving her an extra long jet twirl. She squealed in delight and all was right in my world again.

“Wesley called. He’s running a little late,” Ellen shouted from the kitchen.

“No surprise,” I responded. “More airplane,” Nikki requested. We negotiated a flight tower position instead and she climbed on my shoulders to ride into the kitchen to help Ellen.

Wesley arrived late for dinner, so I took advantage of his social blunder. “Kat wants to meet us at Brennan’s tomorrow before we leave town, and I said we would.” He agreed—with zero enthusiasm. Charles shot him a look
that had “rude jackass” written all over it. Wesley made a hasty exit for the hotel room he’d rented for the night.

Wesley’s chances of winning a Mr. Congeniality award dwindled drastically as he sipped whiskey and made no effort to hide his bored shitless look while Kat and I reminisced over wine. Ignoring him, Kat pinched off an end slice of French bread, popped it into her mouth, rolled her eyes as if to emphasize how tasty it was, and then knocked back her third glass of Rothschild like it was iced tea. By the time she finished her fourth glass she began discussing her job. I’d never seen a man switch from uninspired to fascinated so quickly.

”You working with Kat is a perfect opportunity for
us
to earn quick money and start our own marketing firm,” said Wesley.

I checked his whiskey level.

“Right on.” Kat squeezed my arm. “The owner’s been saying we should hire another waitress to keep up with booming business. And you’ll rake in the tips with your body, cutie.”

I took a pain med and chased it with wine.

Maybe it was the combination of Phenaphen and Rothschild, Kat’s assurance the job wasn’t as horrible as it sounded, or my emotional instability and Wesley’s cunning, but before the bill arrived, I had acquiesced. Apparently, virtue is not matrilineal. As Kat patted my trembling hand, Wesley volunteered to delay leaving for El Paso so he could oversee my first few nights. By the time we left the restaurant, my sweet friend had convinced me working together would be a total blast and I would get hip to the topless club scene. I didn’t want to seem “square.” Wesley checked out of La Quinta and into the swanky Carousel Motel off the Gulf Freeway, closer to Kat’s apartment.

Kat called the following morning to say the job was mine. She also said Texas law prohibited dancing topless without complete coverage of the nipple and suggested we meet downtown at Southern Importers to buy pasties to cover said nipples. What the hell were pasties?

We walked into the shop on San Jacinto where Kat guided me through the phenomenal supply of novelty fabric, party props, theatrical makeup, costumes and accessories. When we got to a corner near the back of the store, she opened drawers of a nondescript cabinet and removed various small, cone shaped objects, some plain, some sequined, and some sporting tassels. Bubbling with enthusiasm and making light of the whole situation, Kat placed two tasseled pasties over her blouse (tit-level), then tried a few circular swings before placing an unadorned one over her eye, monocle fashion. “Jill, my little chickadee.” Kat raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows mischievously, à la W.C. Fields. “I insist you stay at my villa on the south side instead of driving across town at three in the morning.”

“Okay, I’ll stay with you awhile,” I agreed just to get her way-too-happy ass out of there. I kept my eyes lowered as we stood at the register, and my cheeks felt flush long after we reached our prospective cars and left Southern Importers.

I returned to my sister’s house and held Nikki against me like we were still connected at the umbilical cord. “You’re suffocating me,” she said while escaping my grip.

“I’ve decided to take that new restaurant job I mentioned,” I lied to Ellen. “Could you possibly keep Nikki, since you’re working at home now?”

“Sure, I can handle her and the business bookkeeping. What’s your schedule?”

“Hectic, long hours. I thought I’d stay with Kat during the week and spend every Sunday and Monday here.”

Ellen agreed. Jimmy cheered. Nikki squealed. My brother-in-law stared at the girls of
Petticoat Junction
. Wesley remained at his hotel, where I’d gone earlier in the day and interrupted his watching bootleg films of women impaling themselves on cucumbers and whatnot. No doubt his evening wasn’t nearly as innocent as Charles checking out Hooterville hotties.

3

My first day at the Jewel Box didn’t exactly turn into the total blast Kat had predicted. Having been inside a bar only twice before, I was terrified about going to a topless club and anticipatory anxiety caused me to vomit during the ride from Kat’s apartment. So much for Wesley’s custom eggshell leather interior—I’ll spare you further details. Located on the east side of Holcombe Boulevard between the prestigious Medical Center and the predominately Jewish, upscale McGregor area, the white stucco building was barely discernible except for its red door. Hanging above the door from a black wrought iron fixture was a small white octagonal sign with “Jewel Box” embossed in exquisite red lettering. Just below the club’s name “Topless Go-Go” was written in subtle black calligraphy so small I almost didn’t see it. But I did. And my nausea intensified.

Wesley and Katie practically dragged me to the front door, with him firmly reminding me this job was vital to our future, thus the sooner I settled my queasy stomach and started making cash, the sooner we’d leave Houston. I wanted to throw up on him. My IQ was nowhere near Mensa requirements, and like a cow being herded to slaughter, I let Wesley steer me inside.

In the entryway stood an antique treasure chest lined in red satin and filled with replicas of glass jewels illuminated by incoming sunlight when the door opened and by soft recessed lights when it closed. I stepped onto plush red carpet, looking at the lower level packed with small round tables and skirted Parson chairs. Then I glanced along the left wall and saw a tiny, round dance stage with red velvet drapes cascading from a mirror behind
it. Only a stone’s throw away stood a colorful jukebox against the club’s back wall. “You’ve gotta meet Beau. He burns cool.” Kat grabbed my hand and dragged me to the upper level. Wesley stood by the chest, eyeballing jewels.

A scattering of tables shared the area with a long, crescent shaped mahogany bar, polished to an incredible shine and softly reflecting overhead twinkling of dimly lit chandeliers. Maybe two months of this wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

“This is Beauregard Phillipe Duvalé,” Kat introduced. “We call him Beau.”

Towering behind the bar, looking like Clark Gable’s twin with smaller ears, the impeccably dressed owner smiled broadly, his stunning steel-grey eyes sparkling. “Welcome to the Jewel Box.” Beau graciously extended his hand.

“Pardon my wet glove,” I mumbled.

“What?” A puzzled look replaced his broad smile as he straightened his black tie.

“It’s just something she says when she’s nervous.” Kat rubbed my back.

“Dorothy Parkerisms.” I scraped fingernail polish, relaxing slightly.

“Dorothy Parker had legendary wit,” Beau said, his demeanor comforting.

“She’s like heroin.” I massaged my upper arm.

“You mean she’s your heroine?”

“No, I meant heroin.”

“You do narcotics?” Beau asked in stern tone.

“No, but thanks for asking.” I nodded as though he had offered candy.

Kat thumped my arm. “She’s messin’ with your melon, Beau.”

“So we got us a pretty girl with kooky wit, do we?” He snapped a bar towel near me.

I flinched, but quickly regrouped and grabbed my nose. “Lysol your linens, man.”

I wasn’t sure what Kat meant by “burns cool,” but Beau seemed nicer than I’d presumed anyone running such a club would be. His eyes reflected warmth and kindness and the timbre of his voice was bass, yet gentle. Beau suggested Kat seat Wesley while he and I got acquainted. To put me at ease, Beau told me about his French heritage. I admitted my
longing to visit Paris, especially Sylvia Beach’s bookshop once frequented by literary greats such as Joyce, Fitzgerald, Thurber, and Hemingway. As I momentarily envisioned the ‘20’s era in Paris, Beau suggested I go by “Cherie” a name of French origin. It sounded enchanting flowing from his lips. I repeated the name, attempting to enunciate it as well as Beau.
Cherie
was perfect!

Walking through the door and assuming an alias was the easy part. Kat (aka Laura) whisked me away to the dressing room, found me a locker, and taught me the art of gluing on pasties while reminding me that complete coverage of areola was strictly enforced in our great Lone Star State. I nervously slipped my sheer lingerie top over my pasties and panties, before sitting on a red leather vanity bench to await Kat’s Maybelline makeover on me.

While slapping enough makeup on my face to cover anything from warts to war wounds, Kat went over her personal conduct rules for waitressing in the Jewel Box. “You’ll get great tips if you bat your eyelashes and smile.” She offered an example by tilting her head slightly, smiling brightly, and batting her Bambi-like eyelashes excessively. Kat rambled on about thanking men for tips, seemingly oblivious to my onset of panic.