Habit To Heels Chapter 18

Sister Tara sits in the dead Sky Chicken, in a part of Grand Rapids she normally avoided, even in daylight. The foreign neighborhood has an orange-yellow hue as dusk falls. The Grand River drones a constant sound, telling Sister Tara a new opinion.

The car is cramped and smells like burn oil, Tara collects herself. She reaches over the clutter of packed boxes and pulls out her wimple, which is jammed between a stack of hymnals and a duffel bag. The starched white fabric is wrinkled, creased, and basically in disarray.

Tara smooths out the head covering, watching the darkening sky outside. She ponders the scene from Young Frankenstein, and almost on cue, thunder grumbles low in the distance.

"It could be worse," she says to herself with a short laugh.

"How?" she answers her own question.

A cold raindrop plops the windshield. Then another.

"It could be raining." And now, it is.

As she gets out of the car, rain immediately spots her grey sweats. Her black Converse All-Stars splash in an oily puddle. She pulls the hood of her sweatshirt up and adjusts the wimple underneath, best she can. She look more like a wet postulant than a fully professed sister.

A dark figure approaches, with one pant leg tucked into his boot, the other dragging behind. To the nun, he appears like something twisted out of a junkyard.

"You need help, sister?" he says, his voice rough from smoking.

"I'm alright, thank you," Tara replies, voice steady. "Just waiting on a tow."

"Car trouble's bad 'round here," he says, glancing up and down the block. "Dark and rainy night."

As Tara opens her mouth to respond, an old Plymouth pulls up, splashing a puddle right at her feet. Dirty water soaks the ankles of her sweatpants.

"Good Lord, Sister Tara?" comes a familiar voice. The window rolls down. "Is that you?"

It's Mrs. Sharon Phelps (The former chair of the Ladies' Auxiliary at St. Rose) of all people. She is wearing a plastic yellow rain bonnet, a small Calico cat sits on her lap.

"Mrs. Phelps?" Tara says, relieved. "What are you doing here?"

"I might ask the same of you!" Sharon speaks through the half open window. "You look like a drowned rat! Are you alright?"

"I ran into some car trouble," Tara says, pulling her soaked hood tighter. "I'm fine. Really."

"Nonsense. You're coming with me." Sharon says in response.

"I don't want to leave my car," she says. Tara glances at her stalled car, then back at the strange man who has now begun to shuffle away. "OK, take me to the closest pay phone, I'll call for a tow."

Getting into the car, Tara gives Sharon a brief explanation involving her 'non existent aunt' on Prairie Street.

Mrs. Phelps smiles as she buys Tara's story. "Exciting times at St. Rose. I hear the Abbot is coming soon to promote Sister Tabby to permanent Mother Superior."

Tara decides not to correct the misinformation. The nun simply says, "Yes exciting times at St. Rose." As the rain gets heavier.

They pull into a large parking lot, and Tara finds a pay phone outside a liquor store.

Wet and getting cold, Tara plunks two dimes into the payphone and dials for a tow truck.

"Hello? Yes, I need a tow truck. Oh--where am I?" She looks up squinting, trying to see with the rain is hitting her eyes. She can make out the intersection. "28th Street and Inverness Avenue." A long pause. "Yes, I know it's raining. Is there a place to tow my car somewhere in the area possibly around Prairie street?" Another long pause as she stands soaked leaning into the pay phone to stay as dry as possible. "OK thank you very much."

She hangs up, then scampers around puddles, plopping back into Mrs. Phelps's car. The Calico makes a screeching sound, as Tara gets in.

"The Tow's coming in twenty minutes," the nun states.

Sharon nods. They drive back and wait in the warm, dry Plymouth.

Fifteen minutes later, the headlights of a large tow vehicle appears in the rearview mirror.

Tara gets out of the car and turns to her savior. She leans into the half-rolled-down window. "Thanks for the lift back and forth from the pay phone. I've got it from here."

Sharon Phelps replies. "OK, Sister. If your sure?"

Tara, with a phony smile. "Yep. I'm good. Thanks again."

With that, the window rolls up and the big Plymouth drives away.

The tow truck driver hops out, looks up at the rain and says, "I'm Reg. A pretty nun like you in this neighborhood, out in the rain?"

Tara, not in the mood for small talk. "Reg, can you find a garage and a safe place to park for the night around Prairie?"

"You know," Reg says, strapping the Sky Chicken onto the hitch, "You could do better than this piece of shit." He smirks. "I got a safe lot, and a good mechanic in that area."

Tara, sees some hope. "Let's go there then." With that, she reaches back into the passenger seat of her broken down car, and pulls a small tan cotton bag with a long pull string. The contents of the bag include her purple undies, a robe, and her six-inch stripper heels.

She climbs into the passenger seat of the tow truck which has a bobblehead Jesus on the dashboard. The hood ornament is raising his holy arms over an air freshener that long ago lost the battle against the smell of stale cigarettes.

While Sister Tara wrestles with tow trucks, rain, and an existential crisis, Jerry, St. Rose's gardener, is bluffing his way through a hand of Texas Hold 'Em in the back room of Gus's Tool & Tackle.
The place smells like old oil cans mixed with smoked meat. Jerry and his three buddies are crowded around a small folding card table.
Jerry, slightly buzzed from old, bitter beer, throws his chips into the pot with a smirk.

"Alright, boys," Jerry says, tapping his cards against the flimsy table. "Let's make it interesting. Winner of this hand gets to choose where we go next. Drinks, food, trouble. I don't care. We follow the chips."

To the left is Moose, sporting a handlebar mustache. He leans back in his folding chair.
"What kinda trouble you thinkin'?" he asks.

Next, Dave chimes in. Sitting directly across from Jerry, he sips his beer and lays his cards face down on the table.
"I'm out. This hand is too rich."

Vito, the last of the group, says everything twice.
"I'm in," he says. "I'm in."

Moose deals the final card, declaring, "A queen on the river," then curses in Polish.

Vito just mutters, "Damn. Damn."

Jerry lays down his cards.
"A full house. Queens full of eights."

"Well, I'll be," says Moose, shaking his head. "Look who's got the hot hand tonight."

Jerry grins wide. "You know the deal. I pick our next move."

"I swear," says Dave, "I'll kill you if you say we're going back to that bowling alley again."

"Nope. We're going to Bonita's," Jerry says with a smile.

Vito asks, "Bonita's Spice Sweet Spice? Bonita's Triple S?"

Jerry laughs and stands. "That's right. I'm buying. The lap dances are on me tonight."

As they pile into Moose's van, Vito pipes up, "Hey, I hear the girls are hotter at The Silver Mirage. Hotter at The Silver Mirage."

"Way, way hotter," Moose confirms.

Jerry changes his mind. "Alright, boys. Bonita's can wait. For tonight, The Silver Mirage it is."

After her failed attempt to confront Tara at her apartment, Jenna heads to Gold Ave. Exercise for a quick class. She spots Deb stretching and makes a beeline for her.

"I was wondering if you've seen my friend Tara recently?" Jenna asks, clearly not just curious. The air quotes around 'friend' are practically audible.

Deb straightens up, hands on her hips. "No. I need to confront her."

"Confront her?" Jenna blinks. "So you know?"

"That she's a nun and she's been stripping at Bonita's Spice Sweet Spice?" Deb's voice dripping with disbelief. "Yeah. I know."

Jenna crosses her arms. "I know too. It's just not right. What the hell is she thinking?"

They both pause, basking in their own righteous concern. Jenna, who once had a ménage à trois and has been caught snooping through Taylor's contact sheets, tries to look pious. Deb--who started teaching a pole fitness class and can't go ten minutes without dropping a sexual innuendo, shakes her head with exaggerated disappointment.

Deb says, "Dollya confirmed Tara's not working at Bonita's anymore."

Jenna's eyebrows shoot up. "So where is she? Maybe another club. A better one?"

Deb narrows her eyes, thinking. "What makes you think she is dancing at a club tonight?"

Jenna states, "I just went her apartment and she wasn't there, then her Mother Superior cam looking for her. I covered for her, but I want to confront her now more than ever."

Deb looks up trying to think, "Maybe she is dancing at Jiggles."

"Jiggles?" Jenna is confused. "That sounds fake."

"It's not. It's way out of town, almost to Kalamazoo. But what about The Silver Mirage?" Deb's tone shifts, like a lightbulb going off.

Jenna hesitates. "I know where that club is. Do you think?"

"Well, that's gotta be it," Deb says, already grabbing her bag.

Jenna glances out the window. "Rain or not, I'm coming with ya."

Reg pulls his tow into a large, well-lit lot. As he undoes his hitch, he says, "The mechanic will be here in the morning. His name is Hal, tell him I sent ya."

Tara climbs out of the truck. "Thanks, Reg. My aunt lives just a couple of blocks away--I'll walk from here."

Reg asks, "Are you sure, Sister? I can drop ya' off anywhere."

Tara responds, "No, really, I'm good."

With that, she throws her wimple back into the Sky Chicken and locks the door. With the small bag over her shoulder, Tara proceeds to walk the two blocks to The Silver Mirage.

Tara pushes open the heavy black door of the club. Her wet Converse squeak as she makes her way along the linoleum floor.

The hard-driving, distorted music mixes with flashing spotlights. The Silver Mirage smells exactly the same as it did the last time Tara was there: cigarettes, stale beer, and a faint trace of fresh-cut plywood.

Tara holds in a sneeze.

Behind the counter is the same old balding man. He may possibly be holding the exact same cigarette. Speaking through an exhale of smoke without looking up, he says, "No cover for females."

"Oh, I'm meeting someone," Tara says. "Pubah?"

That gets his attention. He nods vaguely toward the back. "He has a long black jacket on. You can't miss 'im."

Tara walks by the familiar velvet painting of a nude girl eating a banana.

A red-haired dancer is spinning nude on the pole. The distorted bass of the loud music shakes the air. Dollar bills flutter down around the stripper like falling leaves. She stops dancing and hugs an elderly man as he limps past the stage. The redhead crawls away on all fours and disappears behind the thick, heavy curtain.

Tara crosses her arms tightly as she makes her way across the crowded club. Her clothes are still damp, and they cling in awkward ways. She's like a ghost in a hoodie.

Pubah is hard to miss, with the long jacket, as large as a refrigerator, and hair slicked back, is talking to Emily.

Wearing a loose-fitting satin robe that hangs off her shoulders, exposing her topless form, Emily's Dorothy Hamill style haircut bounces as she laughs at something he says. She's already in stage makeup, barefoot, with her pointe shoes dangling from one hand.

Spotting Tara, Emily waves her over to the dressing room door.

Tara, nerves frayed, says, "Sorry I'm so late. I had a bit of car trouble," trying to downplay the entire mess.

Emily flips her hair and scoffs. "Forget it. Take off those wet clothes. Get changed--you're on in twenty. Sit, sit. Jesus, your hair."
Then, remembering who she's talking to: "Oh, sorry, Sister. I didn't mean."

Tara, now in better spirits, replies, "Under the circumstances, I take no offense." She snorts when she laughs.

In the back corner of the noisy, smelly, dimly lit, crowded dressing room, Tara plops into an old barber chair with ripped red vinyl. A disgusting cigarette butt with lipstick stains has been extinguished in the armrest's built-in ashtray.

Emily gets to work with rollers, hairspray, and bobby pins. "You look like a drowned raccoon. What even is this?" she says, toying with Tara's hair.

"Believe it or not, I've been called worse tonight," Tara replies, deadpan.

Emily shakes her head. "Oh, I believe it."

They both turn as Pubah suddenly appears.

"You're my new girl tonight?" he asks.

Tara stands, unsteady in her heels, trying to act casual. "Hi. I'm Tara. My stage name will be Miss T."

"OK, Miss T," Pubah says with a note of mockery. "Here's how it works. You dance twice an hour. You get twenty-five bucks for each three-song set. House takes forty percent of tips. At least two of the three songs nude--no panties. Private dances are extra but optional. Don't worry, we don't expect much the first night. No touch, no lap, no champagne nonsense unless it's approved."

He adds, "The bouncer is Eddie, in the red satin jacket by the door. Any trouble, get to him fast."

Tara asks, "Who do I give my song list to?"

Pubah and Emily both laugh.

"The DJ picks the songs," Pubah says. "Don't worry your pretty little head about that."

He turns to Emily. "You dance in ten. Tell her the rest." Then he disappears as abruptly as he appeared.

Emily nods. "Don't worry about private dances. My friend Kyle's in the crowd--blue baseball cap. He'll come grab you. Just talk to him for five, ten minutes so you're not stuck with some creep your first night."

Tara exhales slowly and nods.

Emily grabs a bottle of hairspray and gives Tara's hair a brutal blast. "Use my makeup kit. You're on your own from here." She leans in. "Smile. Even if it's fake."

Emily strides barefoot toward the side stage door, pointed shoes in hand. She stops, spins quickly, and calls back:

"And of course... welcome to The Silver Mirage."