Behind the Curtain/ Tara's Ugly Morning
1978, Grand Rapids, Michigan
The dark lighting backstage of Spice Sweet Spice casts a long eerie muted glow on the exposed nun. Tara Mathers is totally nude behind a large, dusty frayed curtain, clutching the fabric with a white-knuckled grip. Her hazel eyes sneak a peek out through the vertical gap. The smokey haze of the club mingles with the stench of stale beer, old carpeting, and the lingering cigars, wrapping around her like a cloak.
The percussion and bass from Donna Summer's Bad Girls reverberates through the floorboards, each thump matching Tara's pulse. She tries to tap her foot in time with the beat, but the six-inch open-toed, strappy, heels feel alien, awkward, uncomfortable, and far too high. One misstep, and she might fall flat on her face.
Through a crackling speaker, the DJ's voice breaks the overpowering music, "Alright, folks, let's hear some noise! A big Spice, Sweet, Spice welcome! It's Misty, making her nude debut! And don't forget to tip your waitstaff and bar staff!"
Tara's mind registers the unshakable identity. Miss T, she'd said when asked, but with all the background noise the DJ had misheard. It didn't matter now.
Her long, brown hair cascades around her shoulders in soft waves, but it's not enough to shield her breasts. She peers out at the patrons knowing they're wondering when the show will start, when the next girl will appear.
She looks down at her exposed perky breasts. Her nipples erect, they have never been so straight and upward. Her gaze goes down to her visible pubic hair, her hips, and to her long shiny shaved legs. Her skin feels flushed. This moment, this woman standing behind of the curtain, nude for the world. Uncertain, will she cross a line she's never dared get even close to before.
She inhales the thick air deep in her lungs. Her fingers tighten on the curtain making her knuckles even whiter, then slowly, deliberately, loosen.
Months Earlier:
The shrill buzz of Tara's alarm clock shatters the quiet of her small apartment, dragging her from a dreamless sleep. Squinting at the clock -- 5:42 a.m., behind schedule. Time to get up and presentable for morning prayers at St. Rose. Tara Mathers, a nun, is an Apostolic Sister that lives and works outside the confines of the convent. She must be at morning prayers by 6:15. She works as a social worker at the Maple Tree (Yes that is the real tacky name) Rest Home.
"Ugh, damn it," Tara pulls herself out of bed with a grunt. Her body yearning for the comfort of the sheets, but there is no time. Barefoot tip toe on the cold linoleum floor. She turns on the water for coffee. The calendar on the wall by the stove is open to November 1978.
By the window she listens to the rush of the Grand River just two blocks away. "Not as loud as usual today," she talks out-loud as if she was speaking directly to the river.
With a flurry of motion, she tugs on a pair of slacks, one hand pulling them up over her hips with the other, she wrestles on a shirt. She pours boiling water into a mug filled with Sanka and Coffee Mate. As she is stirring the concoction, a creak from the hallway halts her dead in her tracks. Someones coming. She turns and blinks at the silhouette in the kitchen doorway.
Bert, a friend of her roommate Alexa.
Bert (Egbert--his full name, though nobody ever used it) stands there, holding a coffee mug in one hand, his bathrobe tied but hanging loosely around him. It is very apparent to Tara the nun, that Bert had nothing on underneath his Gingham terry cloth robe. Tara couldn't help but glance down. It is more awkward for her than him. "Bert?" She says trying not to stare at the obvious, "Good morning?"
"Oh, uh," He has a sheepish grin, oblivious to her discomfort. "Good morning. I was just getting some coffee before I head out. Alexa's still sleeping, so I thought I'd," he stops mid sentence.
"Don't," Tara waving her hand. She doesn't even want to know. "So I guess Alexa is not going to make it for morning prayers at St. Rose today?" As she tugs the waistband of her slacks.
"Not sure," the grin still there. "Just making my coffee," Bert seemed to notice her discomfort, but only smiles wider. "You know, I didn't think nuns wore slacks," as his eyes scan Tara.
Tara's eyes narrow. "Usually, they don't," she tugs a sweater over her shoulders, her mind on the clock. "But when you're late for morning prayers and your wimple is stuck in the back of your car, you make do," as she grabs her keys, patience thinning. "Let Alexa know she is running out of days that she can miss during novitiate," Tara states. (Alexa is a student, or Novice. The time period is called Novitiate.)
"Sure thing, Tara," his gaze lingers on her as though nothing about this morning was out of the ordinary.
Heading for the door, a voice from the hallway. "Is he still here?" of course, it is Alexa. Tara's roommate, sometimes friend and sometimes the bane of her existence.
"Yeah, Alexa, he's still here," Tara responds, sarcasm in her voice.
