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“I’m afraid I have some bad news.” The doctor’s solid brown eyes leveled with each of the four women in the exam room. All gorgeous, all blonde, all thin, but for the seated woman with a swollen abdomen. “I don’t exactly know how to tell you this, but according to your test results, you’re not pregnant.”
Four perfect gasps.
Mrs Kasha Davis--the name was odd considering it didn’t line up with her daughters’ last names, but that was hardly the weirdest thing this doctor had seen today-- shook her head. “But doctor, how can this be?”
He raked his fingernail over his eyebrow. “Well, I don’t know how you--” he cut himself off. “Is that a wine bottle?”
“I'm sorry,” said Mrs Kasha Davis, having pulled a full wine bottle seemingly out of thin air. She went on. “It's past noon and you just told me I'm not pregnant. I'm coping. I'm celebrating.” Mrs Kasha Davis popped the cork with practiced ease. “I'm copebrating. I'm celebroting. Call it what you will.”
The doctor’s eyebrows knit together. “Did you specifically bring in a wine bottle just so you could--”
“It's how I deal with stressful situations, doctor!” She took a swig like some kind of wine pirate.
The doctor struggled to keep his composure. He’d thought there were only a few kinds of alcoholics--this was some next level shit if he’d ever seen it.
The doctor noticed each of the woman’s daughters bore a unique expression. The eldest with the worryingly tight waist was glued to her phone and seemed not to have heard the prognosis. The middle girl looked up from her long acrylic nails, with which she’d previously been occupying herself, scraping and picking at the undersides. The littlest, about grade school age, her head swiveled in shock between the doctor and her mother.
The middle daughter--the doctor thought her name was a state, like Georgia or Nebraska or Montana--remarked with sass. “Really Mom, is "stressful situation" your new term for seeing a fully clothed man?”
“Alaska!” chided Mrs Kasha Davis. “Mommy just lost a child! A child , Lask. Be nice .”
The eldest daughter stood to move behind Mrs Kasha Davis, resting her hands on her mother’s shoulders, half-paying attention to her phone, still in her hand. “Yeah, ‘Lask. Mom’s going through a lot right now. Losing a baby’s a traumatic event.”
“Well, good thing she has the abortion queen of Rainbow County by her side,” retorted Alaska.
The doctor had to stop himself from choking on his own breath.
Her sister’s tone has a smug edge for her reply. “I know you're trying to insult me, but they're actually naming a wing of the clinic after me. So let's see who's laughing when I'm cutting the ribbon on the Violet Thunderfuck Center for Vacuum Research & Tissue Disposal.”
The third and smallest daughter shook her head. She spoke up seriously. “Vi, I really don’t think this is something anybody should be laughing about.”
“Cool it, Ongina,” spat Violet. “You’re a prime example of why this city should okay abortions into the 30th trimester.”
The doctor squeezed the skin of his wrist to make sure he wasn’t having a truly bizarre nightmare.
“Girls, girls,” said Mrs Kasha Davis. “You are all treasures! Lovely, accidental treasures! Mistakes--but treasures.” For the first time in a few minutes, a member of the family looked to the doctor, now significantly more uncomfortable than when he came in. “Now, doctor if this isn't a baby inside me, what exactly is it?”
The doctor took in a deep breath. He was still here to help these people, no matter how friggin weird they were. He leveled his emotions-- be objective . “Well, how long have you been under the assumption that you were pregnant?”
“I don’t know, two, maybe three years.”
“Hu--What?” The doctor found himself one in a chorus of confusion.
“I admit I thought it was a little long,” confessed Mrs Kasha Davis. “But I was pregnant with Ongina for sixteen months.”
“Jesus,” said Violet. “That explains why she’d the size of Polly Pocket.”
“I know.” Dismayed, Ongina looked at the floor.
“Allright,” the doctor said. “First of all, unless you gave birth to a hammerhead shark, you did not have a sixteen month pregnancy. And second, ma’am, how much exactly do you drink?”
On her paperwork, the patient had written ‘depends’ for number of alcoholic drinks consumed in a given week. To give her care, he needed to know just how bad her alcoholism was, without moral judgement.
The doctor had no idea what can of worms he just opened.
“Well, not much,” she began. “I mean, I'll have a glass and a half of wine at lunch. Then, nothing like an ice cold Zima when the sun's setting. Zinfandel spritzers while I'm cooking dinner for the girls. Red, not white. Several gin and tonics with my evening meal, which take me straight into dessert and some delicious cherry wine. Then I'll curl up with the latest issue of O Magazine and half a bottle of scotch. Then a quick shot of whiskey before bed so my dreams are peculiar and nice. Come morning, I can hardly get out of bed without a spicy bloody mary- Can you blame me, I like the bite, cha cha! Then a couple of wine coolers, two, three, in the mid-morning for energy, zappo! and what do you know we're back at lunch and it means wine time in my book!”
The doctor felt the need to cut in before she went through the whole list again. Every time he thought she’d surely be finished she kept going. “ Good God, ” he remarked. “In my professional opinion, I would have to say that the growth which you believed to be a two-year old child growing in your belly--who by the way would be able to talk by now--is likely nothing more than a tremendous collection of fat.”
Four gasps.
“Gross,” breathed Violet. She took two steps back.
The doctor rubbed his forehead. “You might want to put yourself on a liver transplant list, ‘cause you're going to need a head start.”
“In my defense doctor, I did think I was drinking for two.”
The doctor face-palmed so hard it stung.
“God damit Mom,” complained Alaska. “did you really drag me out of school just to find out you're a fatass?!”
“Yeah Mom,” Violet joined in. “I was supposed to get an anal bleaching and a Brazilian today. Also I was on jury duty, I just didn’t go.”
“Girls Night!” proclaimed Mrs Kasha Davis, raising her wine bottle in the air.
“No, Mom!” squealed Ongina. The poor girl was so obviously frustrated and hurt and disappointed. “It's not girls night at all! It's the middle of the goddamn day. How about you step up to the plate and be a mommy for once?!”
Woah. The doctor had never seen a fully grown woman get her ass read by a seven-year-old.
Of course Mrs Kasha Davis’ reaction to this realness was a two words and a sly smile: “Pizza Street?”
The ensuing pleased chorus was obviously what the woman was looking for. She dug out her wallet and handed it to Alaska. “That's right girls, great, here's forty dollars. I'll see you when you get home.” She lay down on the exam bed. “This news has made Mommy very ti-ti.”
“Ma’am, you can’t go to sleep here--” the doctor tried.
But she was already snoring.
________
A very bored red-haired woman stood at the register as Ongina popped up. “Hello! Do you serve happy meals?”
“The only true happiness comes in death,” said the woman whose nametag said ‘Hello my name is: Brooke Lynn’.
“Oh.” Ongina didn’t really know how to react to that. “So… is that a ‘yes’ or--?”
“No,” said Brooke, her voice flat and short. “We only have Pizza.”
“Oh, well then do you have a kids menu?”
“We have smaller pizzas.” The service worker wasn’t overly concerned with… service.
“Ooh!” remarked Ongina excitedly. “Do they come with a toy?”
“It comes with a small, white table,” Brooke answered.
“Cool! I guess I’ll have pepperoni then.”
Brooke, instead of punching the order into the computer like she was supposed to, simply called out the order. She always loved to piss off the kitchen staff. “One children’s pepperoni!”
“Wait, wait,” said Ongina. “Are the pepperoni normal sized or kid sized?”
“They’re regular size.” Brooke sighed. “I know, it’s a travesty.”
“That it is,” Ongina said, deflated. “Just cheese then.”
“One kid’s cheese pizza!” she called, not even bothering to cancel the previous order.
“Can I have my toy now?” asked Ongina.
“Yes,” Brooke reached beneath the counter and pulled out the whole box and plopped it down in front of the kid. “In fact, here, have 273 of them.”
“Ooh, tables!” The kid grabbed the box and skipped away with glee. “Biieeeee!”
“Diiieeee,” said Brooke in her signature monotone.
“Hiiieee!” greeted Alaska Thunderfuck.
Brooke stared straight forward, gaze vacant. “Welcome to Pizza Street.”
“Heyy, Brooke!” the assistant manager greeted. “I was just--” he broke off when he caught sight of Alaska. “Oooh! I didn’t know you’d invited a friend here.”
Brooke shot Alaska a look that said I’m sorry for what you are about to witness . She shook her head, the action so small Terry wouldn’t have noticed it, but she hoped Alaska would.
The assistant manager extended a hand to Alaska. “Terry Doleman! Assistant manager here at Pizza Street. And you are?”
Alaska did not shake his hand. “Seventeen,” she said. A lie, but a useful one.
Terry Doleman, assistant manager at Pizza Street, walked away without another word.
“I’m sorry you had to endure that,” said Brooke once he’d left. It was the most genuine apology she’d offered anyone all day-- possibly all week.
Alaska shrugged. “Not that uncommon for me, actually.”
“Know what’s uncommon for me?” said Brooke. “I work in a restaurant and yet I haven’t washed my hands since Sunday.”
“Gross,” Alaska said the same way a person would say ‘cool’. “How are your salads?”
“Good as our pizza,” said Brooke. “Which is not.”
“ Brooke ,” came the chastising voice of Terry Doleman, assistant manager at Pizza Street. “Remember that talk we had yesterday evening?”
“You mean the one where you asked me if I liked your sausage pizza, and then pointed at your junk, then said ‘Get it? Get it? I’m talking about my penis--’” said Brooke, her eyes never leaving Alaska's face in a silent dare. To do what, Alaska didn’t know.
“No! No!” interrupted Terry, customer service smile wide and eyes darting to Alaska. “The one about having a positive attitude in the workplace! Happy face makes a happy place!” He then said something about a vision board and left again.
“Vision board?” asked Alaska, one eyebrow raised.
Brooke leaned across the counter. “Here’s a vision for you: a 27 year old woman spending every waking moment working in the bowels of hell.” She paused. She smelled like marijuana and tobacco. “Oh wait, that’s a nightmare. A nightmare I call my life.”
“Wow,” said Alaska stiltedly. “Why don’t you just quit?”
“Because that bastard lets me get away with anything and I have too many issues to count.” Brooke confessed to the essential stranger. “None the least of which is paying for the therapy my girlfriend made me get.”
On the outside, Alaska smiled. On the inside, she was thinking Who the fuck would wanna date this hot mess ?
Quick to shift the subject, Brooke looked down at her cash register. “Just the salad? Or would you like to hear about our wonderful selection of croutons ?”
“Oh, I wasn’t aware you had a selection of croutons.”
“We don’t.” Brooke nods. “I was being facetious.”
“Oh… then yeah just the salad.” Alaska’s eyes lit up. “Ooh, unless you have, like, tiny chopped up hot dogs.”
A single brow arched judgmentally at Alaska. “No, this is Pizza Street, not a toddler's kitchen.” Brooke’s tone was cutting.
Alaska looked down, pouting. “Well then, yeah, just the salad.”
“Next,” said Brooke.
Violet walked up.
“ Next ,” said Brooke again, as always in monotone.
“Uh, what the fuck? I haven’t even ordered,” whined Violet.
Brooke shrugged. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”
“What-EVER,” Violet waved. “Whatever, give me a slice of pizza. No cheese. No sauce. Gluten free crust. Do you have protein boosts?”
Brooke didn’t punch anything into the register. Pissing off people like Violet Thunderfuck and eating Bianca Del Rio’s pussy were the only two things that gave her life meaning. “Are you sure you don’t want a glass of diet air with that?”
“Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?” spat Violet.
“You got me.” Brooke raised her palms. “We only have full calorie air.”
Violet scoffed multiple times, mock-laughing. “Oh my God, I had no idea that Kathy Fucking Griffin was working at Pizza Street today! Hilarious! Listen, I'm sorry that you're, well, you but I didn't come here to get harassed by some ginger nightmare who's jealous that I'm busy jet-setting across three counties with my 31 year old boyfriend in his 2011 Chevy Avalanche.”
“Hey hey hey what's going on here?” Terry Doleman, assistant manager at Pizza Street strolled over.
“Are you the manager?” Violet asked.
“Well yes! I mean, no. I mean... well what's the issue?”
“Well,” Violet sneered at Brooke, who was still unfazed by the conversation. “This fucking twat-faced-twat thinks she’s fucking hilarious!”
For Terry’s enjoyment, Brooke pulled her face into an uncomfortable smile. “I think many things about myself. I assure you that is not one of them.”
Violet brought on the fake tears that got her whatever she wanted from her boyfriends. “She's over here working out her fucking stand up routine while I'm trying to order a goddamn slice of gluten, sauce, and cheese free pizza!”
Brooke leaned forward. “I am so sorry . I did not mean to interrupt you from ordering your wafer .”
Terry slapped a hand down on Brooke’s back. She bristled at the touch. “Hey hey hey now, Brooke. Come on, customer's always right.”
She silently shrugged his hand off of her. “Yeah, right about to pass out from malnourishment.”
“Hey!” Violet whined.
“Oh sorry, didn't mean to use a multi-syllabic word in front of you.”
“Oh yeah, okay, how about I come back there and kick your ass?”
Terry stepped in front of her, physically separating the women. The act made no difference, as there was still a whole counter between them plus, Violet and Brooke were both taller than him, so he couldn’t even break their line of sight.
“How about I give you an IQ test?” Brooke raised her voice. She was living for this.
Violet tried to reach over the counter but Terry caught both her hands. This was bad for business. “Now ladies, ladies, may I remind you this is a family establishment?”
Brooke stared down the back of her manager’s head, deepening her voice. “Is that why you tried to make a family with me in the walk-in freezer last night?”
Terry plastered an innocent smile across his face in case anybody overheard that. “Oh, ho, ho, come on now Brooke, nobody here was trying to make a family last night.”
“Yeah, not with your one ball and my ovarian cysts.”
“Ewwwww!” squealed Violet, jumping back as if the condition was contagious. “One ball! Only tetherball and T-ball should have a single ball.”
Brooke stepped away from the register and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
Terry took up a hero stance, making his voice commanding. “Well I've got a single ball, and I'm not ashamed of it!”
“Ewww!”
“I am a proud survivor of testicular cancer! Right here! Live strong, that's what I say! Wear the bracelet every day!” He showed a purple wristband under the cuff of his sleeve.
“Ew, isn't that for that guy who took a bunch of steroids and then lost his nut?”
“HE WAS FRAMED!”
Brooke flinched at her assistant manager’s volume. She’d been right in the middle of lighting her cigarette. She growled. Fuckin’ Terry making her have to re-light.
“That man is a treasure! He raised millions of dollars, saved thousands of lives, but you cheat at one little bike race and all of a sudden you're Mussolini!”
Violet’s face scrunched up. “Who?”
Brooke blew dual streams of smoke out of her nose. “Shocker.”
Terry looked back at Brooke. He was about to yell at her for smoking inside the restaurant -- and so close to the kitchen -- but then he remembered what she’d reminded him of. All the blackmail material she had against him. The technical knowledge. If he fired her, she’d take him to court. And she’d win. So he simply settled for tucking her open cigarette box closed, telling her to stash it and blow her smoke away from the paying customers. Brooke winked at him.
“I’m gonna go take some tater tots to the buffet table. Brooke, do you think you can handle this yourself? I’m a little worked up.”
Brooke fake-smiled again. “Don’t worry boss, I won’t let you down…” As he walked away she muttered, “On me ever again.”
“You guys have a buffet?” questioned Violet.
“You couldn't possibly be interested in the buffet.” Brooke let her smoke waft toward the woman with the tinker bell waist.
Violet fanned away the toxic stuff with her hand. She couldn’t afford to prematurely age. “No, I just didn’t know you had one.”
“$4.25 all you can eat. Quite the deal.” Brooke shook her head and took another drag.
“Ew,” commented Violet in much the same way her sister had. “4.25 for a buffet. Who the fuck would want to eat that?”
As if one cue, Adore stormed the counter. “Keep the change!” She slapped a five dollar bill down in front of Brooke and took off.
With that, Brooke put the bill in the register, claimed the tip for herself and announced that she was done for the day. Violet tried to pay for her sister’s meals, but Brooke stopped her. “Our CEO makes more in a year than our entire city is worth. Contribute to the economy in a better way, like selling your body for money.”
On her way out, Brooke passed by Adore at the buffet table. “You know those hot dogs are a day old,” she said.
Adore seemed unbothered, continuing to pile more and more garbage onto her make-it-yourself flatbread.
Brooke shook her head as she walked away, muttering. “Your funeral.”
+++++
Brooke dropped her key in the bowl by the door on the inside of Bianca’s apartment. Which, she realized for the dozenth time, was now their apartment. “Honey, I’m home!” she called.
Bianca was smoking a joint in her bathrobe on the couch. “Welcome back, Chastity Brooke-no.”
Brooke rolled her eyes. The plays on her name had gotten out of hand. Un-Brooke-en. Brooke-fest at Tiffany’s. Brooke-back Mountain. By now, she had heard them all.
She plopped down on the couch next to her girlfriend. “It’s Chaz Bono, now, you transphobic cunt,” she said playfully.
Bianca passed her the joint.
Brooke took a drag.
“Well excuse the fuck outta me, Wendy Williams.”
Brooke coughed--her chuckle had lodged phlegm in her throat.
“You’ll never guess who came into the restaurant today,” said Brooke after a while.
Bianca hummed, a sign that she didn’t want to bother guessing.
“Your girl crush,” said Brooke, aloof.
Bianca arched an eyebrow. “Not funny, queen, you know every woman is my girl crush.”
Brooke took a deep drag and blew a long, calming breath out. “The Thunderfuck girls. Violet included.”
Bianca looked at Brooke like she’d told her Jenny McCarthy had stepped foot into a McDonald's.
“I shit you not,” assured Brooke.
“What the hell were those skinny bitches doing getting processed fake Italian food?”
“Fucked if I know,” she said. “But Violet was super funny to work with.” At Bianca’s inquisitive gaze, she continued. “She’s so dumb, she has to think real hard when you insult her.”
“Oooh,” Bianca had the kind of energetic air of a Kindergartener ready for storytime. “Do tell, what creative insults did you come up with for our Dita Von Teese wannabe?”
And that’s how it went. Domestic, normal, boring. But it was everything Brooke actually wanted. Someone who genuinely cared about her who she could care about in return. The sex was in there too, but these little talks at the end of the day? Spending time in the other’s company? That was the best part of it for her, really.
After a while, Bianca started kissing Brooke’s jaw, winding down to her neck. Brooke closed her eyes and hummed in simple pleasure. As the woman’s hand traveled down Brooke’s front, over her underwear, Brooke admitted to herself, Okay, maybe boring domesticity isn’t actually my favorite part .