Naked Truth (2 page)

“Shut up, you’re gross,” I tell her then slip my pinkie through a rubber band, wrap it around my thumb, and secure it to my pointer finger.  I am totally my father’s daughter.

I aim my rubber band gun at her, daring her to say another thing.

“And why does he always come in with hundreds of singles? Do you think he’s a stripper or something?” she asks, and that breaks the straw.

I pull the trigger, her shoulder my intended target, but oops!

“Ouch! Bitch! You hit my boob!” she yells at me in the middle of the bank.  So much for being professional.

“That’ll teach you not to talk about my future baby daddy like that. Stripper my ass!  There is no way. I’m thinking accountant or lawyer.  Why else would he be so dressed up every time we see him?”

“Baby daddy? You’re crazy, Vi. No offense, but that man never stops at your window to deposit anything into your sorry box,” she reminds me.

“I know.  Maybe he’s just playing hard to get,” I joke, trying to take the sting out of her comment.  We both share a quick chuckle then get back to work.  A line is starting to form, anyway.

By 5:00 pm, I am ready to clock out. As much as I enjoy seeing that delicious man, it is stressful at the same time.  I wish I had my sister’s balls, but sadly, my inexperience with men and shyness continues to trip me up.  One day.

Driving home in rush hour traffic sucks. Driving home in Miami during rush hour could motivate one to commit murder. I think that road rage was invented here – if not, it was certainly perfected with us in mind.  An hour later, I’ve had plenty of time to stew and think about all of the things I could have said to Mr. Taylor. All of the things I want to say to him, and of course, all of the things that I want to do to him. It also gives me plenty of time, every single freaking day, to review life and overthink things. Everything. But that’s just me I guess.  I overthink. And obsess. And worry. Shit, I’m like a neurotic, anal retentive, old lady, and I’m only 26.

My parents have been happily married for almost thirty years.  My parents, two younger sisters, and I live in the first house they bought together right after they got married.  Actually,
I have lived in the same place all of my life. Born, raised, and still live in South Florida. I am a rare breed, often times referred to as a Florida Cracker. It’s not meant to be a derogatory term, rather it
refers to the original pioneer settlers of the state of Florida, and their descendants. So pretty much anyone born in Florida is gifted with this term.  Doesn’t bother me…much. 
I even decided to go to college down here so that I can stay at home. I tell everyone it was to save money, but in reality, I did not want to be too far from my family.

Obviously, we are very close, but sometimes, it would be nice to come home to a quiet place that I can call my own.

As I pull up to my parents’ house, I see my sister, Rose’s, car in the driveway. I groan.  I was praying that she got stuck in traffic or decided to go out for dinner with her fiancé or something.  Wishful thinking. I am not in the mood to deal with her nonsense today. Ever since she got engaged, she has been on my last nerve.  If she isn’t talking about dresses, cakes, or band selections, then she is relentlessly nagging me about her shower and bachelorette party.  Why she asked me to be her Maid of Honor is beyond me. She knows any one of her party girlfriends would have been a better choice. I don’t think bowling and pizza would be on their list of ideas for a fun girls’ night out. Sounds good to me, though!

As I walk through the front door, I notice that everyone is already in the kitchen, sitting around the dinner table, waiting to eat.  They are all in their “usual” seats, except for my mom, who is waiting to serve dinner.  It is an unspoken rule in our house that we eat dinner together every night.

“Hola, mija,” my mother, Mirabel, greets me.

I smile. “Hi, Mommy,” I answer with a sigh, just happy to finally breathe after a full day. I put my purse down on a cabinet in the corner then head to my usual seat.

“It’s about time,” Rose says a little too snarky for my liking.

Rose is the middle Carmichael sister at 23 years old.  But I am really not surprised that she is marrying before me.  She actually went to college to get her MRS degree, and boy did she earn it.  I think she “dated” every eligible guy on campus. And by dated, I mean screwed.  Not that I think she is a hoebag or anything - okay, maybe a little slutty - but that’s just not my style.   I like the one she finally chose, Jeff. He is nice, funny, and handsome.  He doesn’t take any of her shit, and that is exactly what she needs.  She seemed to steamroll over every other man she was with, but not Jeff.  Winner winner chicken dinner. 

“Some of us work for a living,” I counter, sticking my tongue out at her.

She shrugs. “Some of us have a man willing to support her…”

“Enough, you two,” my dad interrupts before my sister has the chance to finish her obnoxious sentence.

“Hi, Daddy.”  I bend down, kissing him on the cheek hello.

My father, Charles “Chuck” Carmichael, is a Captain with the Miami-Dade police department. He has been with the same department for over thirty years, and he is well known and well respected.  We can’t go anywhere without running into someone who wants to shake his hand.  He is hard on crime, but sympathetic with those who deserve a second chance.  Even criminals he arrests want to shake his hand.  I think my dad is amazing. 

“Hello, sweetheart. How was work today?” he asks routinely, yet sincerely.

“Different day, same stuff.” I answer with a sad smile.

“That’s not how the saying goes,” Daisy pipes in.

“I know, Days.” I walk past her and ruffle her hair. “But I got my point across, right?”

“I guess,” she whines, rolling her eyes.

Daisy, my youngest sister, is still in high school.  She is 16 and the brains of the family.  She doesn’t have much of a social life. In fact, I don’t remember ever seeing any of her friends come over, if she even has any. And forget about a boyfriend. It’s a shame really because she is very pretty, like model pretty, but she only has eyes for her school work.  Someday soon, the hormones will kick in and my parents will surely have their hands full.  Meanwhile, she can stay in her place as the smartest Carmichael girl.

“Whatever,” she says then returns to reading a school textbook.

I walk over and give her a kiss hello before I take my seat. The same seat I have sat in for as long as I can remember.

“Put that school work away, Margarita. You know that the dinner table is not the place for that,” my mom orders, and then swipes the book out of Daisy’s hands. Okay, so as to not confuse you, let me explain. My beautiful mother was born and raised in Puerto Rico. She met my father while he was vacationing there and decided to come back to the States with him, where they both went to college in Miami together. His Irish family wasn’t pleased, but they couldn’t help but fall in love with her free spirit and positive aura. Besides, she was Catholic and they were Catholic, so voilà.

Anyway, while my sister’s birth name is actually Margarita, it loosely translates in English to Daisy. And as for Rose, her birth name is Rosita; hence, Rose. Me? Violet is Violet.  What you see is what you get. But more on the name thing later.

My mom is a schoolteacher, but having a job outside of the home is new for her. She married my dad right out of college, and they started making babies soon thereafter. Together, they decided that for our family structure, it would be best for her to stay at home and raise us. So, she put her career aspirations on hold.  She is so selfless.  When my youngest sister started kindergarten, she went back to school to get her teaching degree and started to teach at her elementary school. Over ten years later, and she has already won “Teacher of the Year” awards, as well as having been recognized by the city as an integral part of raising test scores and increasing the number of graduates attending colleges and universities. Impressive.

“Mother!” Daisy squawks. “I didn’t have the page marked,” she grumbles.

“Page 42. Your finger was pointing to the third to last sentence,” I offer.

“Thanks,” she mumbles.

I shrug. “No big whoop.”

As for me, I am the oldest Carmichael sister at 26.  Violet.  It is not your eyes deceiving you; yes, there is a theme here. Violet, Rose, Daisy.  To say my mother was a flower child is the understatement of the year. She actually had it all planned out, but when my father disagreed with her choices, she got creative and gave us Spanish versions. He had her all figured out, but didn’t balk too much because he loves to make her happy.  I won’t complain, either, because when I think about the alternatives, I am grateful for the choices she made. I mean, come on, could you imagine being named Petunia or Tulip. Or, god forbid, Pussywillow?  I might as well be one of the strippers I do my best to avoid.  Not that there is anything wrong with being a stripper, but I think there are just some more admirable ways to make money. I mean, flip a damn burger if you have to. That ugly uniform has to be more comfortable than tassels and a thong. And let’s not discuss all of the smelly drunk perverts grabbing your ass. Where’s your dignity for heaven’s sake?  Come on ladies; get it together. 

Okay, let me step off that high horse I was riding. I think I may have given you the wrong impression.  I really am not all that high and mighty as I just came off.  I don’t think that I am any better than anyone else, even the girls who dance for a living.  I just wish that women wouldn’t put themselves in those kinds of positions, exposing themselves for money.  

Oh, and let’s get one more thing out of the way. No, knowing what page Daisy was on wasn’t a trick or a lucky guess. I wasn’t showing off or being snarky.  I have total recall, no hesitation, no conscious thought.  I’m not autistic. I’m not a savant or a genius. It’s more than a case of photographic memory.  In fact, I don’t memorize anything. What I have is a condition called Hyperthymesia.  Plain and simple: If I live it, hear it, or see it – I remember it. No exceptions.  Feel free to Google it; it’s actually very interesting.

As soon as I get myself situated and my mother takes her seat, I take my first bite of dinner and am assaulted by Rose’s questions.  I’m able to navigate most of them with ease, until we reach an impasse.

“There is no way in hell I am going to that disgusting, degrading, humiliating place. Especially with a name like ‘Ragin’ Richards,’” I shout at my sister, waving my arms around like a lunatic.  I see no other way to get my point across to her. She is totally not listening to a word I say.  “And I know for sure that this is not an appropriate conversation to be having at dinner,” I scold.

“We can talk about it now or later. Doesn’t bother me none,” she says rudely, and then shovels some food in to her mouth.

“Nice grammar,” Daisy interrupts, and I roll my lips in, trying not to laugh.

Rose just rolls her eyes and guffaws. “Whatever.”

“I don’t want to talk about it at all. I am not going to a strip club. Period.” I put my usually very agreeable foot down.

“I’ll go,” Daisy chimes in.

“Daisy!” we all shout.

“Whatever. It’s not like I haven’t seen worse on TV.”

“Daisy!” we all bellow, but she just rolls her eyes at us.

I shake my head in disbelief.  Not only because my baby sister wants to go to a strip club, but also because we are having this conversation at the dinner table. In front of my parents!

“Nobody is going to a strip club,” my father chimes in, saving me.

And that’s the end of the discussion. For now, I’m sure.

-2-

Walking out onto the stage has never been nerve racking or stressful.  In fact, it has started to become monotonous.  I no longer get hard, even with all of the women groping me, which is a good thing because I don’t want them thinking that what they are doing is turning me on. Nor that they have a chance of taking me home.  Yes, most of them understand boundaries, but there is always a rotten apple at each table.  As I make my way to the stage, I am completely distracted, and that’s not like me at all.  I have a job to do, and I can’t let anything take my attention away from it. But I just can’t get my head out of my ass. There is a petite red headed goddess ruling my thoughts and desires and I am getting fed up with myself.

I know she is interested in me, maybe that’s why I don’t do anything. She doesn’t look like the no-strings kind of girl, and that’s all that I can offer her right now. Not that I wouldn’t want to try something with her, but now’s just not the time.  My job has taken me to South Miami and she works North, which means she probably lives up there, too.
Shake ass. Swivel hips.
  Problem is, I can’t shake her. So I drive an hour out of my way just to go to her bank.  Of course, I take the opportunity to see friends, family, and check in with my old boss. He wants updates on how I am fixing things down south.
Slide hands down chest.
But then I do the total dick thing and walk past her window every week.
Rip off pants.
Susie is cute and all, but she’s no Violet.  Shit, even her name is beautiful. 
Thrust thrust swivel.
  Next Wednesday. That’s it, my mind’s made up, I’m going to stop at Violet’s window. Baby steps. 
Grab cock, shake balls, head into crowd.

A few screaming women in the corner catch my attention. Thank god, because I could really use a distraction from my thoughts.  As I make my way over, I groan at what is waiting for me.  A fucking bachelorette party. Shit!  Those ladies are relentless.

“I need to pee,” I whisper in Rose’s ear.

“Whaaa?” she asks in a drunken slur.

I give her knee a squeeze then stand up.  She looks at me with an eyebrow raised.  Presumably asking me why I am standing.

“I’ll be right back,” I respond and smile, letting her know all is okay.

“But the hot stripper guy is on his way over here,” she whines.

I shrug my indifference then point to my vag, telling her once again that I need to find the ladies room. I’m really not interested in being here when the stripper guy arrives.  Plus, I need to pee like a racehorse. She nods in understanding and I retreat just in time to avoid whatever shenanigans she is about to get into.

I weave my way through a maze of drunken hoochies in search of the ladies room. Table after table, women are screaming at the stage, different variations of, “JT, take it off!” I am almost embarrassed for them. But I don’t have time to look at who is gyrating on the stage as I am on a mission to find the bathroom. There are strobe lights impairing my vision and I stumble a few times when they make me a little dizzy. Thankfully, I catch myself and don’t face plant in front of everyone.

Even though we came in a limo, I still decided not to drink tonight. Just a few virgin
piña
 
coladas for me; hence, my bladder’s insistence on peeing right now.  Plus, I don’t like purposefully making myself look foolish. And I certainly don’t need alcohol to help make me the center of anyone’s attention.  My uncanny ability for total recall is a showstopper all on its own. I absolutely hate all eyes on me. Despise it.

I finally see a light at the end of the tunnel.  No, literally.  There is a little light coming from a hallway about fifty yards in front of me, so I head that way. As I get closer, I finally see a sign for the bathrooms and sigh in relief.  Well, that is until I see how long the line is. God dammit!

I make myself comfortable at the end of the line. As boredom hits, I start looking around. Checking out all of the other girls waiting, just as I am. There are about seven girls in front of me, and each and every one is on their phone - texting, talking, scrolling.  I’m amazed how we’ve become a society so dependent on technology.  I have a cell phone, but I barely use it.  I mostly only use it if I need to make a call and there isn’t a landline available. It’s not like I need to take pictures of anything.  Everything gets branded onto my brain, whether I want it to or not.

I really take a closer look at the girls in front of me, fascinated by their obliviousness, but I come to the self-realization that they really are just like me.  I mean, as far as the fact that they are probably just out with their friends for a good time.  They probably aren’t the slutbags I’ve equated them to in my head, and I start to feel a little guilty about how I’ve judged them.  Heck, some may be looking at me and are thinking I am just here to catch a hot man to have sex with. Boy would they be wrong.

As I let my newfound epiphany roll around in my head, my attention is brought back to where I am when I hear some hollering from across the hall.  There is a dingy door in front me, slightly ajar.  There is a plastic name tag/plaque on it - like the one that has my name on it at my window at the bank - that says, “staff only,” and then there is a piece of computer paper dangling precariously from a torn piece of scotch tape that says, “manager” on it.  It looks like it has fallen and been re-taped up there a dozen times already.  I scooch myself a few inches to the left so my nosey butt can peek in.  There are two men in there yelling about something.  I can’t really hear what they are saying clearly, but I can tell it is getting heated. All of a sudden, the man facing me, who I am only presuming is the manager since he is behind the desk, slams his hand with a plastic bag in it, onto said desk.  My body involuntarily jumps back at the noise. Just as I am about to skedaddle back to Rose, the other man, whose back is to me, bends down to pick up the bag that slid off of the desk, which had spilled its contents. Now, I will never profess to be street savvy, but I know illegal drugs when I see them.  Especially when they are in bulk.  I’m talking tens of thousands. And as the scary, prison-tattooed-looking guy bends down, I get a good look at his disgusting plumber’s crack, and the shiny pistol shoved into his waistband.  That’s it. I saw enough. I knew we should’ve never come here. I’d rather pee in my pants than be here another minute. I’m going to get Rose and we are freaking out of here.