One
Monday, Presidents’ Day
A hangover is like childbirth. When it’s happening, it’s so miserable you think you’ll never forget. But later, inevitably, you do. At least that was what I told myself as I took a long glug out of a bottle of OJ in the snack aisle of the Boise Co-op while my seven-year-old twins stared at me with wide, identical eyes.
“Grocery store snacking is usually not okay, but today it is,” I said hoarsely, opening a bag of Pirate’s Booty, hoping the distraction of food would erase their suspicions about my uncombed hair, the circles under my eyes. I handed the bag to Alice. She cradled it like a baby she was about to lay away in a manger, but Phoebe greedily plunged in a hand and started munching.
“Can we get a puppy?” Phoebe asked, sensing maternal weakness.
“A puppy would tip me over the edge,” I said.
The truth: I had already tipped.
As a single mom, I always ended up paying for the rare night out—thus I hadn’t even darkened the doors of a happy hour in months. But this level of grogginess and suffering seemed excessive. I steered toward checkout, swerving the cart to avoid the lane with the checker I recognized from my seventh-grade gym class. (I couldn’t remember his name but could totally picture his pimply adolescent self in polyester volleyball shorts). For a split second I couldn’t wait to tell my mom how I’d successfully avoided a Stop-and-Chat. And then, for the thousandth time, I had the gut-punch realization I’d never tell her anything again.
Now as I swiped my credit card, I noticed I’d somehow broken a fingernail. My eyes watery, head on the verge of imploding, I wondered: What the hell was in those drinks? They were a black hole that had swallowed hours of my life.
As Alice and Phoebe argued about what they’d name our new imaginary puppy, I silently swore I’d never again surrender to peer pressure from the members of my new pole dancing class. While I’d initially had a better time than expected, I couldn’t go throughthisagain.
The girls trailed behind as I pushed our cart through the parking lot. The sky, the snow, the leafless trees, all the color of concrete. The last nine months in Boise had been a blur of misery and grief. How I missed Los Angeles. The sunshine, my hilarious pals, the sense that I was at the center of the comedy world instead of stuck in some remote outpost of civilization.
With the twins buckled into their booster seats, I headed to the trunk to load groceries. That’s when a familiar voice called out.
“Tilly! Tilly!”
When I turned, Layna had appeared beside me. “So good to see you!” she cried. “Last night was killer! Did you have so much fun?”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “I mean, I feel like death now. But it was fun.”
That’s when I popped my trunk.
Layna and I screamed. She stumbled backward into my grocery cart. But I couldn’t look away from the man crammed inside.
His skin was blueish gray with a waxy sheen. An egg-sized lump bulged from his forehead. Scratch marks raked his face. His belt hung unbuckled, pants undone. A tattooed string of numbers crawled across his neck. A pair of scissors lay beside him, yawning blades bloody.
But it was his frozen, gaping hole of a mouth that made clear—he’d never move again.
Two
The Day Before
Pole Kisses Aerial Arts Studio didn’t look like much from the strip-mall parking lot. But inside, the bright space showcased aerial silks and gleaming hardwoods. The woman behind the front desk wore a faux college sweatshirt that saidKALEinstead ofYALE. For an illogical moment, I felt embarrassed to tell her why I was there.
Maybe it wasn’t too late to bail. I could zip over to the Flying M and experience the impossible luxury of drinking a latte, uninterrupted. Afterward, I’d go home and lie cheerfully to Emmylou, my seventy-four-year-old duplex neighbor, who’d gifted me this Intro to Pole Dancing series along with requisite free twin babysitting on Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday nights. I hadn’t had the heart to tell her I’d rather clean a litter box than try to pole dance. And I was expected to go three times a week!
But I couldn’t even claim to be too busy. Because of a state budget crisis, I’d been furloughed for three weeks from my job as an assistant manager at the Capitol Grill, a windowless underground café attached to the state capitol building where doodoo state legislators went for soggy burgers between their efforts to permanently outlaw drag queens, reproductive rights, or books featuring either of the two.
Besides, Emmylou said, the owner of the pole dancing studio believed frequent classes were necessary to “create a transformation.” But did I reallywantto be transformed by an establishment called Pole Kisses? I didn’t worry the classes would be strip-club unsavory. I worried they’dbe suburban-mom-feeling-her-strip-club-fantasy unsavory. Which was infinitely worse.
But if I went to a coffee shop, I’d end up watching clips of stand-up comedians on Instagram. Comedians who—unlike me—were still following their dreams in New York and LA.
Just thinking about it made me hate myself.
“I’m here for Intro to Pole?” I said.
“Pole Virgins.”
“What?”
