7. CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SIX
GRETCHEN
A few weeks into June, I feel like I’ve won the lottery.
I settle into a new routine: On Mondays and Tuesdays, I work out with Saffron, Cherry, Indigo and Arrow for most of the morning and then we go to the beach in the afternoon.
(Not Arrow. She claims to not like the beach, but one time I tried to switch it up and do the community pool instead so Arrow could join us and Cherry told me not to bother.
When I asked her why, she shrugged and said that Arrow’s too busy to hang out.) The rest of the week, I have shifts at Cosmo-pole-itan.
I run tow-lot pickups, followed by party hosting, and I make more Jell-O shots in those few weeks than I ever thought I’d see in my lifetime.
I am good at this job. I even learn to walk in the platform shoes Jenna got me.
I pay her back for them, because in three weeks I’ve somehow managed to bank a little over $7,000 cash.
I’ve earned more than that; I spent some of it on bills and two hefty trips to the mall – specifically to Victoria’s Secret – to buy more “work clothes.” (The single skirt and fishnets wasn’t going to cut it for a daily uniform, I quickly learned.) Also, my body feels different.
I’m eating better – having groceries in your house will do that – and the daily workouts appear to be toning up muscles that I haven’t used in ages.
Also, it turns out that pole dancing is fun.
I’m not very good at it, but I’ve learned a few spins and how to use various grip aids, depending on the weather and the moisture content of my body.
It’s crazy how much science is involved.
There are days where I need to douse my palms in rubbing alcohol just to keep them from sliding down the pole, and then others where I can get by with just a touch of a liquid we stock called Dry Hands.
The pole has to be warmed to a specific temperature, and if it’s too hot or too cold, it can become slippery.
Different parts of the body can be used for grip too, Cherry taught me.
“The pits,” she said. “Armpits, knee pits, elbow pits. Anywhere the body bends naturally can create a good, strong hold.”
Pole dancing is not without its downsides, though.
For one thing, holy hell, the bruising. My thighs and shins look a bit like those of a rambunctious first grader, all black-and-blue marks that I cover up with makeup before every party we host. Also, it can leave you really sore.
We do crunches on the pole, shoulder and arm workouts on the pole, even pole lunges and pole squats, and I have a standing date with a bottle of Aleve first thing each morning.
There’s also the issue that my parents still think I’m working at The Diamond Excelsior.
I wanted to tell them about being fired, but not until I secured another job.
Now, anytime my mom and I chat, I have to narrowly avoid the subject of work altogether.
This leaves me with very little to talk about, seeing as how I have no boyfriend.
(Unless you count Zoloft, since we share a bed.
Unfortunately, there’s not much to discuss on that front, other than his new love of stealing shrimp tails out of my garbage can – a gross hobby, sure, but so adorable that I can’t stand to stop him.
Also, let’s not lose sight of the bigger picture, which is the fact that I can afford things like shrimp now. Mic drop.)
There is no doubt in my mind that Mom and Dad would kill me if they knew what I was doing to keep myself afloat financially. You think I’m kidding, but you don’t know them. Allow me to paint you a picture.
My father’s name is Andrew Andrews. He goes by Drew, but that doesn’t make what my grandparents did by calling him that any less horrific.
I love my Nana and G-Pops, don’t get me wrong, but when you have a name like Andrew Andrews, you don’t exactly begin your life with the ancestral real estate of a glambassador of excellence.
No Trendy McFabulous are you, no sir. Instead, you come bursting onto the scene with the equivalent of social jaundice, and you can’t even speak yet.
You peer down the road that lies ahead and you can almost smell the teasing, the mockery, the disdain for your mere existence.
So you learn how to fight. By second grade, you’ve been to the head nun’s office at your Catholic school more times than you’ve been to the dentist in your entire life.
And even she feels bad for you! By the time you get to high school, you’ve changed your name to AJ – short for “Andrew Just-wish-I-had-any-other-first-name,” because your middle name is not John or Jack or Jim, it’s King.
King. Fucking King! As in Dr. Martin Luther?
No, indeed. It’s your grandmother’s maiden name. Which gives you the initials AKA.
Also Known As.
As you get older, you spend far too much time trying to figure out how to score the most badass job in the world so nobody will make fun of you.
At least, that’s what my dad did. He’s the Chief of the Eastport Police Department.
The high honor of Chief was bestowed upon him when I was in the fourth grade, and he’s never looked back.
Every year, we sing “Hail to the Chief” instead of “Happy Birthday” when he blows out his candles, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
I don’t blame him one bit.
My dad grew up in Brooklyn, New York – Bay Ridge, to be exact.
The son of second generation Irish-Scottish immigrants, he went to parochial school all the way through twelfth grade and then, because his grades were nothing to write home about and he couldn’t figure out what else to do with himself, he decided to enlist in the military after a recruiter came to the all-boys school for a presentation.
He joined the Army right out of high school and not too long after boot camp, he was deployed to serve in the Gulf War in the fall of 1990.
Lieutenant something-or-other Andrew Andrews then got himself hurt overseas – a non-battle injury resulting from a training accident that left him with three herniated discs.
The hernia was so bad that my dad had to endure spinal surgery at the ripe old age of 21.
On the upside, the honorable discharge set him up for pretty much any federal job he wanted, not to mention a heavily-supplemented ride to any public college he saw fit, a perk which he took to the bank when he enrolled in the John Jay College of Criminal Justice in Manhattan.
By contrast, my mother Annie (that’s right, you sleuth – she’s Annie Andrews, as if the name situation needed more salt poured into its gaping wound) grew up in the tiny hamlet of Provincetown, in the curled-up baby fist at the end of Cape Cod’s arm in the sea.
Eldest daughter of the Town Manager and his stay-at-home wife, Annie (then Myers) was a headstrong young lady who wanted nothing more than to see the world.
She grew up in the art capital of Cape Cod, and from a very young age was drawn to the P-Town cultural scene.
She excelled in the visual arts and, with her parents’ blessing, went to Sarah Lawrence College in Westchester, New York courtesy of the generous tuition support delivered by three different scholarships.
Annie found her calling in sculpture, particularly ceramics.
She made beautiful pottery – large earthenware pieces, slow roasted in the kiln with low-fire glazes that caught the attention of galleries in the West Village and Soho.
During her final semester, she was taking an art therapy class, and there was a series on Art Rehabilitation for the Imprisoned, hosted at John Jay.
She was seated next to my dad, and as the story goes, he asked her out for a burger after the session.
Within weeks, they were head over heels in love with each other.
Graduation loomed over both of their heads that spring, and Annie Myers planned to move back home to the Cape and work under her father’s purview on projects for the Provincetown Cultural Council, but alas, Andrew Andrews couldn’t stand the thought of losing her to distance.
It was bad enough making his way from the west side of Manhattan up to Westchester via mass transit; there was no way he could tolerate a five hour schlep up to the Cape on a regular basis.
So, in an act of desperation, on what was to be her last night in New York, Andrew Andrews proposed to Annie Myers.
“Make me the happiest man in the world, Annie. Marry me, and I’ll follow you anywhere. ”
She said yes. And he kept his promise.
Two weeks later, once the fanfare of their respective graduations had died down, Andrew Andrews moved in with the Myers family in Provincetown.
Annie’s parents – my Gigi and Papa – wouldn’t allow the lovebirds to live under the same roof, but as luck would have it, they had a guest cottage on their property that they were happy to allow him to stay in, in exchange for help with the grounds.
My dad was eager to assist with landscaping, cleaning the gutters, washing the windows, basically anything that would keep him in good stead with my Papa.
He began applying for jobs and just after Labor Day, he took the written exam for an entry-level position as a police officer in nearby Eastport.
He was selected for a live interview, and then a second round interview with the chief.