Hold on.
Mom doesn’t date.
Ever. And dad left twenty-two years ago.
So, who did she—?
Not my business. Not my business. Not my business.
Tonight, I am determined not to drink. At all. I’ve had too much over the past few months. I’m normally a two-to-three drink a month person. Shannon and Marie have overindulged, too, and while a bachelorette party is the place to let loose and go wild, for some reason I’m living life backwards, anyway, so I might as well stay sober tonight.
Someone has to keep an eye on everyone anyhow.
And I’m the fixer.
Over the course of the next few hours we sing Garth Brooks, Billy Joel, Snow Lion, a hair-raising version of “Macarena”, and we learn that both Marie and my mother know all the words to “Paradise by the Dashboard Light”.
Even the baseball announcer’s part.
After that last song ends, there’s a short break. The room is so quiet my ears ring. Shannon is laughing it up with Grace and some other women from Anterdec. My mom and Marie are giggling in a booth over something they’re watching on Marie’s phone. Carol is flirting with a stripper who has more tattoos than he has skin. Amy is dancing to nothing. Just by herself, glass held high above her auburn hair, dancing to silence.
“HEY!” booms a loud, man’s voice. It is, to my surprise, Josh.
Josh, who is shirtless and stretched across a long bar table on his back, with his navel filled with liquor.
And Spritzy is on his abs, happily licking from the little pool.
Henry the stripper walks by, taps me on the head, and says, “I’ve seen some kinky shit before, but...”
“Get your dog off me!” Josh screeches as my mom grabs Spritzy off his belly and stuffs her in her purse.
“DoggieDate indeed,” mumbles Carol as Henry tosses Josh a bar towel and he cleans himself, muttering about wasted tequila.
I briefly wonder if tequila is okay for Spritzy but figure if it’s a problem, Mom would panic, and given her current state of chill, I’m guessing the crisis has been averted.
The bar sound system starts up with—yep.
The song “The Dog Days Are Over” by Florence + The Machine. Henry looks at me from the stereo and winks.
Amy’s dancing takes on a distinct beat and soon, the crowd is lost in the relentless pounding of the tune, clapping and stomping in time.
Staying dry while everyone around you drinks is its own little world. I am an island.
And then I am on my knees doing a blow job.
Hold on—it’s a drink.
Fine, fine. One won’t hurt anybody.
Every woman is being asked by the strippers to do a blow job as a way of honoring the bride, and who am I to dishonor my bestie?
You might even say I’m required to do this blow job.
Might.
The splash of liquor and mocha against the back of my throat reminds me of “breakfast in bed” with Andrew, of antics under the sheets and the morning breve that followed. Funny how viscerally we embed memories via physical events. A scent. A sound. A texture. An image. Our senses store memories in our physical bodies as much as our minds are computer banks filled with the recall.
And as I swallow, on my knees and bent down to the floor to bite the shot glass between my teeth and tip its contents back, mind and body work together to make me recall what I’ve lost.
Who I’ve lost.
When Henry offers me a second blow job, I don’t say no.
And this time, his navel is the shot glass.
“A-MAN-DA! A-MAN-DA!” the crowd chants. They start banging shot glasses against the scarred wood tables, the sound like that popular Queen song, the one people sang at football games back when I was a cheerleader.
That’s what this reminds me of. The spotlight. The fun. Being the center of attention for highly-structured entertainment that delivers exactly according to audience expectations.
I deliver.
Six blow jobs later and boy, does my jaw ache. Marie and my mom are sitting next to one of the piano players, stuffing bills into a pint glass and begging them to play “Freebird”.
Other women are stuffing even more money in the tip jar to stop the “Freebird” madness.
“C’mon,” my mom pleads. “If you won’t do ‘Freebird’, then how about ‘Dog and Butterfly’?”
“Pammy! I love that song!” Marie squeals, stuffing what looks like a free coupon for a Starbucks latte into the tip jar.
“I hate being called Pammy,” my mom mutters.
“You’re my new best friend, Pammy!”
Meanwhile, the piano player just watches with a languid amusement.
I get the distinct impression he’s been through this more than once.
“I am the bride, so I pick the last song!” Shannon slurs. I look at the big clock behind the bar, shocked it’s nearly one a.m. already. I lost track of time slurping off the navel of a man.
Sue me.
“‘Imagine’!” Shannon cries out.
The entire room groans in unison.
“We’ll all start crying if you play that!” I argue. “How about something happier?”
“’The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald’!” my mom suggests.
“Not happier, Mom.”
Mom gives me a petulant look.
“I know!” I whisper it in Shannon’s ear and she nods vigorously. She goes to the pianos players, and within seconds the opening lines of Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl” start playing.
And we dance, Shannon’s brown eyes wild and full of unfettered joy as she spends her second-to-last night as a single woman surrounded by women who love her.