“Hey, girls!” Delia Booth bounced over, and I do mean bounced. She wasn’t wearing a bra as usual, and her thirty-eight double-Ds were very happy to see us. She’s the newest edition to our happy animal family, and she’s still perky after working at this shit-hole for two weeks. She must either be lobotomized or strung out on Valium. Her dark brown hair was perfectly in place as was her makeup, even though she had just finished the same shift as Lydia and me. She smiled a thousand-watt smile while covertly studying herself in the mirror.
“What’s up, Delia?” Lydia asked in a bored tone. I continued to primp, not bothering to greet Miss Homecoming Queen 1996 of Salinas High, thank you very much. It was the first thing she told me when I met her right before informing me that Salinas High was somewhere in the great land of California. I told her that even in Minnesota, we had geography lessons. That had sailed right over her head.
“Just wanted to see if you girls would like to grab a drink?” Delia had her hand on her slim hip and an expectant look on her face. “I know it’s a school night, but I thought it’d be fun to get to know each other.” I detected a hint of loneliness underneath the good cheer, but I decided to ignore it and take her words at face-value.
“Sorry, I got a hot date tonight,” I said, grinning evilly at her. “When I get Rafe for the night, there’s no going out for us.”
“You are bad, girl,” Lydia said admiringly, slapping palms with me. “Though I’m the same when I ride the Brian express. No stopping that ride.” We smirked at each other, ignoring the bewildered look on Delia’s face. Lydia and I were not exactly friends, but we had more in common than most of the regulars. “Not me, Del. I have dinner at Mother’s tonight.” She grimaced, unable to hide her distaste. She told me that one Christmas, her mother stood on the table and did the can-can in honor of the movie Moulin Rouge. Of course, this was after three or four highballs or whatever the hell it was that she drank. Mrs. Wilkerson was a functioning alcoholic by day, a raging alcoholic by night. Lydia has accepted that her mother was going to die fairly soon at the ripe old age of fifty-three. I didn’t see how she could accept the news with such equanimity, but I admired her for it.
“Bea, get your ass out there,” Lydia (formerly Linda before she changed her name) Wilkerson barked at me, poking her head in the tiny dressing room. “You know your shift started at eight.” She’s a friend of sorts who has higher aspirations. I didn’t feel very friendly towards her when she pulled her mother superior act on me, I’ll tell you that much. Fortunately, she usually mellowed after a good dressing down, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to even tolerate her.