Skye Blue, page 4
part #6 of Firsts and Forever Series
Christian put his beer down and sat up a little straighter as he grinned at me. “Is that your way of saying I need to pay more attention to you? I’m sorry. I’m a shitty faux date, even though I really was listening. I agree that it was unkind of River to assume you were going to fail and to move out just to teach you a lesson. Also, you have my full sympathy on the drudgery of job hunting. Let me ease your pain by buying you another super gay drink.”
That made me grin. “I just like strawberry daiquiris. You got a problem with that?”
“Not at all. I just think it’s funny that no matter where we are, you somehow always manage to order the gayest drink on the menu.”
Our waiter overheard that and came up to our table. “Oh no, a daiquiri isn’t even close to the gayest drink on the menu.” He smiled broadly. “Want me to bring you the drink that holds that honor? It’s usually only ordered by tourists, but it’s actually really tasty.”
“If it’s super fruity and tastes nothing like alcohol, he’ll take it. In fact, he’ll take two,” Christian said.
“You don’t need to spend all your money on me, Z,” I said. He was always really vague about how he earned an income, saying simply that he worked ‘odd jobs.’ I assumed he did something really embarrassing for a living, like dressing up as a dancing hot dog in front of a fast food restaurant, so I never pushed for answers.
“It’s fine. Unlike you, I didn’t spend all my money on a mouse-infested busted-ass brother-angering neon sign.” He took another sip of beer as the waiter went off to get my drinks.
“Okay first of all, one mouse does not an infestation make,” I told him.
“How do you know there was only one? Did you open up the sign and look for more?”
“Well, no,” I conceded. “But they don’t travel in herds or anything.”
“How do you know? Maybe that’s exactly what they do. Although, it’s probably not called a herd. Maybe a clutch. Or a pride. Or a murder.” Christian smiled cheerfully.
“A murder?”
“That’s what a group of crows is called. I always thought that was awesome.” He took another drink and said, “And second of all?”
“What?”
“You said first of all a minute ago. What’s second of all?”
“Oh. You distracted me with that murder of mice business. Second of all, it’s mean to make fun of the sign when it’s already a sore subject. I’m not happy about driving River away, you know.”
Christian leaned forward and picked up my hand. “I’m sorry, Skye. I was just trying to lighten the mood.”
“I know.”
After a pause, he asked, “How did you actually pay for that sign? Last I heard, you were totally broke.”
“Don’t ask.”
“I just did.”
I freed my hand from his and pointed a finger at him. “I’ll tell you, but no lectures! It’s bad enough that River was always lecturing me, so don’t even think about picking up where he left off.”
“That good, huh?”
I sighed and admitted, “I pawned my welding equipment,” before tossing back the last of my drink.
Christian looked entirely too distraught. “Skye, no! You need that stuff! School starts next week. What are you going to do without your equipment? How will you sculpt? That’s the last thing you should have pawned!”
“I didn’t have anything else that would bring in much money.”
“Which pawn shop was it? I’m going to go right now and get it back for you.”
“No thanks. I appreciate the fact that you want to help, Z, but River kind of had a point about learning to stand on my own two feet.”
“But he didn’t know you’d have to get your welding gear out of hock, in addition to trying to make rent on your own.”
“It’ll be okay. I’ll figure it out.”
Christian didn’t look convinced. But before he could lecture me and claim it wasn’t a lecture, my drinks arrived. Obviously they really were meant for tourists, judging by the fact that half a dozen waiters came out in a procession, some clapping, the rest waving silver pom poms. One of them stuck a couple plastic leis around my neck and plunked a little princess crown on my head, and then they all sang a kitschy jingle before sending up a cheer and going about their business.
I missed the gist of the song, because I was too busy staring slack-jawed at the drinks. They were in absolutely enormous margarita glasses with flashing pink and purple lights in their stems. The drinks themselves were neon pink and festooned with a ton of umbrellas, little fake palm trees, fruit, plastic monkeys, and the like. But the real eye-catcher was the big, pink, plastic cock sticking out of the glass. After a moment, I realized that was the straw. O.M.G.
Christian howled with laughter as he pulled out his phone and took a picture of me staring at the drinks. “Gives new meaning to the term cocktail,” he snorted, then snapped another photo. “Go ahead, suck up some of that liquid refreshment.”
“Yeah, I’m not using that straw. Also, this is way too much alcohol. I’ll drown in the glass if I try to drink all of this! You want one?”
“Oh hell no, but I know what to do with the spare.” He picked up one of the huge glasses with both hands and carried it over to a group of five college-age guys at an adjacent table. “Howdy, boys. Thought you’d enjoy a Big Fucking Cock,” he said with a wink. He returned to our table amid a chorus of thanks. They then grabbed their phones and started snapping photos of the colossal cocktail.
Christian told me, “That’s the name of the drink, by the way. I don’t think you were paying attention to the song, which is too bad because it was hilariously offensive. That group of guys is visiting from Australia, I heard them talking to our waiter. I thought I’d make their visit to our fair city just a bit more memorable.”
“You should be San Francisco’s goodwill ambassador.”
He grinned at that. “I really should! I’m well-qualified to deliver Big Fucking Cock to hot guys from many lands.”
I plucked a normal straw out of my water glass, stuck it in the pink drink and took a sip before exclaiming, “Oh shit, that’s absolutely delicious! In fact, it’s the best drink I’ve ever had, so it’s really too bad that I can never order it again. Not only is it a complete spectacle, but that thing’s got to be, what, ten, twelve bucks?”
Christian picked up the little bar menu from the table, glanced at it, and set it down again. “Oh, it’s way more than that. Big Fucking Cock is always worth it, though.” He smiled at me.
“How much is it? I’ll pay you back when I get a job,” I said as I reached for the menu.
Christian swatted my hand away and put the menu on the ground beside him. “Never you mind. I told you this cocktail party was my treat.” When he saw me suck down almost half the drink without coming up for air, he exclaimed, “Whoa there, champ! I know you’re excited to get your first taste of Big Fucking Cock, but you might want to pace yourself a smidge.” He laughed at his own joke.
I let go of the straw and sat up a little. “I don’t even taste any alcohol. It’s probably all fruit juice and lemon-lime soda.”
“That and six shots of liquor, according to the menu.”
“Six? No way!”
“You’re going to feel it when you stand up. I fully endorse you getting rip-snorting drunk, by the way, because you’ve had a shitty day. Might as well make it better by sucking on some Big Fucking Cock.” He smiled again.
“This is your favorite drink name ever.”
“It really is. Please drink out of the cock straw! I need a picture so I can blackmail you for the rest of your life.”
I laughed at that and set aside the normal straw I’d been using. Then I exclaimed, “Oh man, I just noticed the condom!” A purple rubber in a clear wrapper stuck out of a pineapple wedge, held in place by a little pitchfork. I grabbed it and tore off the wrapper, then unrolled it as Christian laughed and said, “What are you going to do with that?”
“I was going to put it on the cock straw for a photo op.”
“Wow, sometimes I forget just how completely virginal you are. Remind me to show you how to put on a condom.”
“Because that wouldn’t be embarrassing.”
“I wouldn’t demonstrate on you. We’ll use a banana or something.”
“Sounds like a damn good way to get kicked out of Safeway,” I said.
“Okay, you’re definitely well on your way to drunk. We’d buy the bananas, we wouldn’t just use the ones in the market.”
“Oh. Good idea.” I looked at the unwrapped condom and the penis straw, realized my mistake in unrolling it, then went with plan B and blew it up into a balloon.
Christian burst out laughing as I tied it off. “What compelled you to blow it up?”
“I didn’t know what to do with it once I unwrapped it. Seemed kind of nasty to just lay it on the table, all used-looking and whatnot.”
“Your balloon needs to be in the photo, too.”
As he picked up his phone again I told him, “Let’s get the cafe in the background. I want to remember this place, so I always know where to get a Big Fucking Cock.”
“Good idea.” He got up and jogged around the little chain barrier separating the tables from the sidewalk while I pivoted around in my seat with the drink and the rubber.
As he tapped the screen and fiddled with a few settings, I called, “Hurry up, Z! My wrist is about to snap from holding up this Big Fucking Cock!”
“I just want to make sure I get a good shot.” He took a step back, eyes still on the screen, and collided with an attractive dark-haired guy in a tight, pink, polo shirt. “Sorry, man,” Christian said.
“Fucking tourists,” the guy muttered as he kept walking.
“Hey!” I yelled after him, jumping to my feet. “We’re not tourists! Good thing too, because that’s no way to talk to visitors to our city! You want people to think San Franciscans are a bunch of assholes?”
He turned to stare at me, then the drink and condom balloon, then me again before saying, “You really should take a minute to question your lifestyle choices, starting with that hair color.”
“And you should take a minute to question whether you really want to go through life as a flaming douche nozzle!”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” he exclaimed. “Why would a douche nozzle be flaming?”
“To make it suck even more!”
The guy shot me a look and said, “Oh, I see. You’re completely insane. The blue hair, tiara, and light-up drink with a plastic dick sticking out of it should have tipped me off sooner. Go back to enjoying your field trip from the asylum.” He turned and walked away while Christian flipped him a double bird.
Since I was never one to let a jerk spoil my good time, I encouraged Christian to go back to the photo op, even though he looked like he wanted to chase that guy down and pummel him. Eventually I cajoled him back into a good mood, and he even helped me finish the cocktail.
By the time we hit bottom in that fishbowl of a glass, I was feeling pretty jolly. “You know what?” I told my best friend, “It’s all going to be totally fine. I’m totally going to find a job, and I’m totally going to get a roommate, and I’m totally going to get my welding stuff back. Just watch. It’s all going to totally work out.”
Christian didn’t seem even remotely tipsy, but then he’d been building up a massive tolerance to alcohol for all of his adult life. He smiled at me and said, “I totally think you could have worked the word totally into that sentence like ten more times. Totally.”
“I totally love that word.” Just then, I thought of something and said, “Hey, what time is it?”
He glanced at his phone. “Almost six-thirty. Why?”
I jumped up and told him, “I’m going to try to get a job at Thrust. I was worried before about not being good enough, but screw that. It’s worth a shot, right?”
Christian glanced inside the little black folder on our table, stuck a few bills in it, and followed me out of the cafe, saying, “Absolutely. You have plenty of experience as a waiter, why wouldn’t they hire you?”
“I’m going to try out to be a go-go dancer, not a waiter,” I said. “Somebody told me they’re holding open auditions tonight.” As we hurried down the sidewalk, I took off the crown and leis, which I handed to Christian.
“Is this is a good idea? Your first foray into the world of club dancing didn’t exactly go very well.”
“This’ll be different. The place where I worked before was a scuz pit.” I’d been employed very briefly at a club that featured young twink dancers and catered to older businessmen. When I passed out during one of my shifts, I got fired. My friend Trevor thought I’d been slipped a date rape drug, but honestly, I didn’t have a clue what went down that night.
Thrust was closed aside from the auditions, and we pushed open the door and let ourselves into the dark club. Techno music was blasting, and an athletic guy in skin-tight black bike shorts was spotlighted up on the main stage, shaking what his mama gave him. He was really cute, but I could tell immediately that he lacked natural rhythm.
The panel of people sitting at a long table in front of the stage could tell, too. One of them cut the music and said through a microphone, “Thanks for coming, but no.” The guy left the stage looking dejected, and another buff hopeful took his place, this one dressed in nothing but a little red banana hammock-style bathing suit. I wasn’t nearly as built as either of those guys, and I wondered how many had gone before them over the last half hour. I got in line as Banana Hammock busted some moves that mostly involved vigorously thrusting his package. They cut his music after about thirty seconds and delivered another thanks-but-no-thanks.
Six more people went before it was my turn, but only one utilized the pole that was off-center toward the right side of the stage, executing some really athletic stunts. That guy was about twenty-three with dark brown hair and eyes and a shy smile. He was also the most modest of the bunch, keeping his Berkeley t-shirt and baggy cargo shorts on during his audition.
When I reached the front of the line, a red-haired man with a clipboard asked for my resume. I said I didn’t have one, and he stifled a sigh as he handed me a piece of paper and a pen and told me to write down my contact information. I inscribed ‘Skye Blue’ in bold letters along with Christian’s phone number (since mine wasn’t currently working). It wasn’t my real name – yet – but I thought memorable was the way to go here.
As I started to walk toward the stairs on the left side of the stage, someone exclaimed, “Wait, that guy? No. Absolutely no fucking way!”
I turned back and scanned the faces of the panel in the dim light. There at the far end of the table was Pink Polo, AKA Tourist-Abusing Jerk AKA Flaming Douche Nozzle. I narrowed my eyes at him as an older man with thinning hair and an expensive suit asked, “Do you know that guy, Dare?”
“Yeah, and he’s a complete idiot. No way should he be working here,” Pink Polo replied.
“Gee, thank you for that unbiased assessment, based on arguing with me for thirty seconds out on the sidewalk earlier tonight,” I said.
“Thirty seconds? Really?” the older man asked, and when Pink Polo shrugged, the man said, “Thanks for your two cents. Let’s get back to the auditions.”
I was now absolutely hell-bent to show that jerk what I was capable of. As I gathered up every bit of my confidence, peeling off my shirt and dropping it on the floor, I said, “Start the music, please.”
I had no plan whatsoever, but it didn’t really matter. I jogged to the stage and vaulted up easily as pulsating techno filled the air. I’d never danced with a pole, but just decided to have fun with it. I took a running start, jumped and grabbed it as high up as I could, then spun on the way down, wrapping my legs around it.
I realized I could hold on with just my legs, so I leaned way back, extending my arms up over my head as I spun, until I finally came to rest on my back on the stage. I arched my body and pushed off the pole with my feet, launching myself into a modified backwards handspring, kind of like I’d learned in gymnastics when I was a kid (not that junior gymnastics had included a stripper pole, but still). Then I threw myself into dancing, feeling the music reverberating in my chest. I stopped caring that I was in front of an audience and just let go, moving to the beat. I absolutely loved dancing, always had, and I let myself enjoy it.
When I found myself near the pole again, I grabbed it with one hand and swung around quickly, dropping into a low arc before pulling myself upright. The music ended abruptly, and I came back to myself. It was totally silent for a moment, before Christian yelled, “Fuck yeah!” He started applauding and whistling as I grinned and jumped off the stage. As he handed me my shirt, he told the panel, “That was fucking amazing. I hope you’re smart enough to realize that.”
“Thanks for your time,” I said, pulling my shirt on and picking up my best friend’s hand.
We started to head for the door, but before I’d made it two steps, the older man at the table said, “You’re hired.”
“Wait, what?” I turned toward him quickly, dragging Christian around with me.
“You’re a great dancer. Plus, you’re cute. I think our patrons are gonna love the blue hair and pierced lip. You’ve got this edgy-innocent thing going on, it’s unique.” I often forgot about the thin silver hoop near the left side of my bottom lip, and unconsciously prodded it with the tip of my tongue.
“Oh, come on!” Pink Polo exclaimed. “You’re going to hire this amateur, just like that?”
“Just like that,” the man affirmed.
“Don’t we at least get to vote on it?” Pink Polo persisted.
“I already know what the outcome will be, but if it makes you feel better, fine. Who thinks we should hire Blue Boy?” The man looked down the long table, where everyone (besides the douche nozzle) raised their hand.
“Fuck this shit.” Pink Polo got up and left the club.
“Ignore him,” the man told me, standing up and extending his hand. As I went over to him and shook it, he said, “I’m Gary Sandberg, owner of this club. Welcome to Thrust.” He introduced the rest of the panel, but I was a little too stunned to take in what he said.
