Maelstrom

Chapter 19: Malibu Barbie

Thursday

In honor of the Malibu Barbie's debut at Asylum tonight, I decided to dress the part. I didn't really own anything in bright pink, precisely because I usually didn't want to look like a Barbie, but a rose-gold sequined bustier and a full, creamy chiffon skirt that swirled a couple of inches above my knees would do. The tattoos were a problem, though.

Staring into my bathroom mirrors at the tribal ink, I considered my alternatives. I couldn't take them off – they were supposed to be real, and it was way too early to start looking like a fraud in front of my coworkers, some of whom were genuinely inked, pierced, and exultantly freaky-looking. Besides, taking them off – and putting them back on again – was a pain in the ass, a procedure that I preferred to perform once a week at most.

I could try makeup, but I doubted the coverage would be adequate, and I could just imagine how my arms would look once I started sweating and it began rubbing off, and if it somehow compromised the temporary ink, I was fucked. I scowled at my arms again. Maybe I should just let them be and embrace the incongruity? No, I hated doing things halfway.

Struck by inspiration, I bounded over to my closet and located a cream cashmere shrug. It would cover my arms, shoulders, and upper back, and nothing else. I slipped it on quickly and went back to the mirror to evaluate the effect.

Perfect. With my long hair tumbling down my back in champagne waves, a touch of pinkish nude lipstick toning down my mouth's natural redness, and just a hint of glimmer on my cheekbones and collarbone, I looked like I'd just stepped out of a Mattel box circa 1977. It would certainly elicit some funny looks and a few comments in a bar like Asylum, all of which could be met with a delicious pink drink at a premium price.

I completed the look with nude thigh-high silk stockings topped with lace – I definitely needed to buy some more utilitarian pantyhose for this job – and shimmery silver high heels I'd bought on sale when I started working Vice but had never worn and couldn't bring myself to give away.

I considered how much thought I was putting into perfecting this look and inwardly sighed. Why was I even doing this? I was treating this bartender gig like it was my real job, like I wasn't a multimillionaire heiress and an undercover cop, but actually a struggling mixologist who needed to develop a presence and clientele at Asylum.

The truth was, I didn't know how to do it any other way. I knew this about myself: I was an all-or-nothing kind of person – in for a penny, in for a pound – and trying to play things down the middle made me uncomfortable and ultimately unhappy. Better to just go with it and maintain my sanity and twisted brand of integrity than question my over-the-top commitment to my character.

Crap, I thought, catching sight of the giant wall clock that ticked me to sleep every morning. I was going to need some incredible luck with the buses, plus an additional sprint, to get to Asylum before my shift started. I hesitated a moment, considering donning more practical footwear for the double-bus, three-block-walk commute, but in the spirit of complete immersion in the Barbie world, decided to just take a taxi instead. I threw some Chuck Connors into my backpack just in case I regretted my footwear decision later and slipped a blond-toned elastic band onto my wrist; I was sure that Barbie wore ponytails when she got hot, too.

A little giddy despite knowing better, I blew a flirtatious kiss at my reflection and set out to find a cab.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Thursday nights at Asylum only seemed quiet compared to its weekends. The pace was busy, but not ridiculous, and I was secretly quite proud of the number of Malibu Barbies I had managed to push with my one-woman marketing campaign.