“From where I stand, you’re making no effort to rush back to the Constitutional Convention.”
She lets out a long sigh, closing her eyes and rubbing her temples. “Yeah.”
“You’re not exactly convincing me you want to be here.”
“At the last bar we went to, all the Hamiltons karaoked their title song.”
This makes me laugh once before I quote, “In New York he can be a new man.”
Her eyes flutter open and the woman across from me pauses, really taking me in for the first time. A hint of appreciation dances in the corners of her mouth. “You know the Broadway musical.”
“I was a history major,” I say.
“Then it should bother you that the production was historically inaccurate.”
I nod. “Totally, but my girlfriend at the time was a big fan, so we went whenever I played in New York.” I purse my lips as her eyes light up. That statement opens the door to more questions, and no matter how much I enjoy feeling like my old self while making small talk with a stranger, I’m not in the mood to play the Twenty Questions of Maxford Hutchings. Quickly I add, “Whose idea was the costume thing?”
With a self-deprecating laugh, she raises her hand. “Guilty.”
“Really? Founding Fathers for a bachelorette party?” I’ve been privy to seeing lots of these themed parties over the years—Last Rodeo, a Taylor Swift-inspired Lover Era, Last Sail Before the Veil where the bridal parties dress as coastal grannies—but this one happening tonight is definitely unique. Where there’s already a twinge of judgment in my voice, I can’t help but go for the kill, “And on a weeknight?”
“You’re a nosy kind of guy, aren’t you?”
“Only when I’m talking to people who died over two hundred years ago.”
“Fair.” I earn a smirk and it makes me wonder how I can earn another. She assesses me for a second before deeming me . . . safe? I don’t know but whatever she decides, she continues.
“We fly out to the destination wedding in the morning, and this was the only time that worked for everybody.”
“They are going to be loads of fun on the plane tomorrow.”
She gives a one-shouldered shrug. “And as for the theme, my sister wanted something fresh and fun. Those are two things I am not and I did the best I could.”
“If you don’t think you’re fun, I’d say you’re selling yourself short,” I say.
A slight blush tints her cheeks, but before she can reply, Tom’s voice booms from across the bar, “Hutchings, hurry up! Bases are full!” right as a timer on Ben Franklin’s phone goes off.
She pulls it from her pocket to silence it. Pushing off the wall, she puts her wig back in place, tucking stray hairs up inside. “That’s my cue.”
“Next bar?” I ask.
“Next bar.”
I watch her hurry back to the group of liquored-up women, dancing with one another to Hamilton’s “My Shot” playing from somebody’s phone. George Washington opens her arms wide with a squeal and grabs Ben Franklin. Ben says something to George and they laugh.
Kitchen forgotten, my attention goes to the TVs while I make my way back to my booth, where I stay standing as I watch. The Texas Armadillos have bases loaded with one out. The pitcher for the Colorado Mountaineers keeps shaking his head at every pitch the catcher calls.
“Do you see this?” I ask, pointing to the television as Tom brings out my burger. “Do. You. See. This. They’re starting off strong. Iknewif they’d just set the line up with Richards batting first, it’d be magic.”
Tom wipes his hands on his apron and glances up at the TV. “Naw. That’s nothing more than home-field advantage.Poor guys from Colorado don’t know how to play baseball in the Austin heat. It’s already snowing back home.”
“You’re a killjoy, Tom. Do you know that?” I pick up the bottle of fry sauce and squeeze a generous blob onto my plate. Without taking my eyes off the screen, I drag a fry through it and pop it into my mouth. “Come on, Matthews. Keep your eye on the ball . . .”
The pitcher finally agrees to a call and winds up, sending a fast one right down the plate. Matthews swings, connecting his bat to the ball in that euphoric crack that can only mean one thing: that ball is leaving the park. It arcs through the air and over the outfield into the water feature at Brewer Stadium.
“Yes! Yes! I knew it!” I cry out with a fist pump as a roaring cheer erupts through the bar. From booths and barstools, everybody’s slapping one another’s backs, beer sloshing all over the place. “Grand slam, baby!”
Even if the other patrons weren’t here for the game, or cheering for the Armadillos, that play is worth celebrating. I make my way through my section of the bar, doling high fives left and right. I make for the corner of the bar where the Founding Fathers had set up camp this evening but they’re gone. They must’ve slipped out during the mayhem, and I don’t know why I’m disappointed; this means the game will be enjoyed as it was intended to be from here on out. Maybe I am feeling bad for being called out earlier by Ben Franklin and I want to show the bride and her friends that I meant nothing by my earlier mood. A bachelorette party is just as welcome as a baseball enthusiast.
