“Sweetest Pie” had already ended, clearly trimmed to a thumbnail of its full glory. Now two women rapped about it being time for the Twerkulator.
I started in on Cheyenne’s other foot. “I do have to warn you,” I said. “A couple white supremacists might try to come after me during the performance.”
“Half the time I carry a knife at work.” Cheyenne moaned as I hit a sore spot. “I’m not scared of a couple Proud Boys.”
“So you’ll do it?” I asked, so astonished I stopped rubbing.
She opened one eye and I started up again. “Oooh! That’s better. Sure thing. I’ll come tomorrow. I’ll bring a friend too. No problem. Just don’t stop.”
“Are you serious?” Her generosity blew me away. Maybe I’d imagined the divide between newbie pole hobbyists like myself and professional stripper pole dancers.
“—For a major discount,” Cheyenne said. “Fifteen hundred, each.”
“Three thousand dollars!”
Cheyenne shrugged. “When my friend and I danced as twin bitches at a Travis Scott concert, we charged 6K for both of us.”
My third and last song had begun. I was going to fail at convincing Cheyenne to help me with my dinky comeback, just as I’d failed at most everything in my professional life. I kept rubbing Cheyenne’s tootsie absentmindedly as the salty sting of defeat soaked all my wounds.
Lil Nas X was singing about how ignorant people thought his career was over. Once he was back on top, they’d remember he didn’t run from anything.I don’t want to run anymore either, Lil Nas X.If Mickey Larynx could use the media as a tool to make his comeback possible, why couldn’t I?
Get your soldiers, tell’emthat the break is over, Lil Nas X sang.
I massaged the arch of Cheyenne’s second foot. “What if I could get you great press for Cheyenne’s Sentient Strippers?”
Both of Cheyenne’s eyes snapped open. “What kind of press?”
Forty-Four
When I opened the bathroom door, Little Sister barreled out at me and the twins, clearly delighted we’d arrived back home. “We’re keeping the dog,” I announced. After the twins had finished screaming with joy and hugging me and Little Sister, I ducked into the pantry, but instead of crying while stuffing my face with Hint of Lime Tostitos, I took out my phone. I couldn’t do everything alone. Not anymore. I needed to let other people in.
Tilly:Hey Nate! I want to apologize for being so standoffish and weird. Would you be up for coming over after my kids go to bed tonight so I can explain some things?
Too nervous to stare at the phone and wait, I cued up George Michael’sFaithalbum.
“Grandma Lulu used to say it’s impossible to listen to this album and not be cheered up,” I told the twins. “So we’re going to play it while we pack up the rest of her fake food. You can take it out anytime you miss her.”
Sure enough, George Michael’s voice released some much-needed chemicals in my brain. With a trash bag in hand and the twins looking on, I started going through the duplex, tossing in fake quiche and ice cream while shaking my ass and singing, “I got to have faith, faith, faith!” I didn’t have time for this, but it felt necessary. The twins couldn’t resist George Michael either. They started dancing along with me. Even Little Sister wagged his rump.
With the twins’ counsel, I left a few favorites out to honor my mom—atray of nachos in the twins’ room, a cluster of grapes on a high shelf in my bathroom. The rest I dumped in a toy tub in the hall closet. Next I pulled off the tie-dyed couch cover and put it in the twins’ costume box. With a couple holes cut in it for eyes, it would make a great hippie ghost costume. The actual couch sported a couple of stains, but I could cover them up with thrift-store throw pillows. Otherwise, I liked the sunny yellow fabric. Inspired, I stood on a chair to take down the disco ball. “We can hang this back up for dance parties,” I said.
“It is a little much for every day,” Phoebe agreed.
“But that was Grandma Lulu,” Alice said, fondly.
Everything felt better, brighter, less cluttered. The duplex looked less like a museum showcasing my beloved mother’s quirky tastes. The duplex looked more like me.
While the twins settled in to color theirGroundbreaking Female Comedianscoloring books, I called Miley O’Riley.
“Me again!” I said. “Things are shaping up for my set tomorrow, but I’ve got a question for you.” I explained about Cheyenne and her new line of pole shoes and asked if any of Miley’s pals in the local press might want to write a feature about her.
“Do you remember Evelyn Pellegrino?” Miley said. “She was a grade ahead of us?”
“Glasses? Obsessed with Sheryl Crow—like weirdly obsessed?”
“That’s her. She writes for theIdahoStatesmanand she’s been doing a series about women entrepreneurs. I’ll call her now.”
“That would be incredible, Miley. I really appreciate it.” I hung up, wondering why I hadn’t ever asked Miley O’Riley to hang out before.
