“Lately, I’ve been attending a lot of surprise parties.” I hesitate for the three seconds, as per Bette’s precise instructions.
Two…
One.
“Since my memory’s also not what it used to be, I forget where I am and who I’m visiting, so we’re all pretty shocked when I jump out from behind the couch.”
While my age doesn’t quite line up with the material, the crowd erupts.
My face is on fire and the rapid beats of my heart echo through my limbs, but I relax into the role and become surer in my words and myself. “It’s why I’ve started making friends with chiropractors and doctors—that way they can fix whatever hip I throw out.”
More laughter, and this is the exact high I was hoping for in order for my side scheme to work.
Doubt flickers, but if the shoe were on any of my grandmothers’ feet, they’d do it to me in a heartbeat. “With that, I’d like to introduce everyone to the real comedienne behind these jokes. Please join me in welcoming Bette Friedman to the stage!”
There’s movement, and the spotlight swings from me to the Cronies.
Bette stands, grousing and waving her bejeweled cane at me. As she shuffles toward the stage, she high-fives members of the audience who extend their palms.
I’m about to descend the five steps to fetch her, but a bouncer with more shoulders than neck extends a hand and escorts her to the base of the squat staircase.
“Don’t you dare,” she huffs at my outstretched arm, grinning ear-to-ear as she wraps her fingers around the bouncer’s biceps and bats her eyelashes. “I’d rather have… What’s your name, young man?”
“You can call me whatever you’d like.” He adds a wink, relishing the moment as much as Bette.
Leave it to her to have the audience eating from her palm before she even reaches the microphone.
“Well then,Fabio.” Bette pats his chest, leaning heavily against his side, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she insists he recreate a cover from the romance novels I discovered in her library and devoured the summer before college. “Do me a favor and carry me onstage. I just want to know what it feels like.”
I open my mouth to apologize on her behalf and explain there are certain questions we don’t ask of strangers, regardless of beefcake status.
Fabio, however, has already lifted her into his arms with ease, and Bette’s thrown back her head as if shaking out pale blond curls that remain perfectly in place.
The crowd eats it up and cheers, fueling that mischievous gleam of hers that lives within.
I loosen my grip on the microphone, eager to hand it over, but the intensity of Bette’s glare doesn’t fade when Fabio lowers her to her feet next to me.
“You’ve got this,” I whisper.
Placing a trembling hand atop the microphone, Bette lowers it to her belly and says, “What if I don’t? I’m not used to”—she swallows—“all these people, and last time, they booed me off the stage, Mia.”
“I’ll remain here beside you for as long as you need me, I promise.” I grip both of her hands in mine, minding the microphone and her cane, and let my confidence pour over the woman who taught me the joy of reading. Anne with anE, broody, unapologetically murderous vampires who gave interviews instead of going to therapy, and pirates who plundered and swashbuckled gave me an escape during my sleepless nights and loneliest stretches.
I could never thank her enough for that, so instead I’m throwing her into the deep end of a comedy stage to swim.
I sweep a hand in her direction and say, “Here she is! Bette Friedman—the woman, the myth, the comedy legend!”
…
“Dating in your platinum years is a lot like a slow cooker,” Bette delivers the line with a chuckle, and I take a large step backward and stage right, about an inch outside the puddle of golden spotlight. She might’ve needed me and her friends’ support to conquer her stage fright, but there’s value in realizing you can stand on your own, too.
And for the past three minutes, she’s been rocking it.
She pauses in front of a table with several heads of salt-and-pepper hair, extra saucy when she delivers the punchline. “Everything takes longer, but you’re just happy it’s still working.”
The lady directly in front of her spits her drink, and Bette doesn’t just walk back to center stage, shesashays. “It’s true, dating can feel like such a waste of time when you’re as far over the hill as I am. Much like a busy mall parking lot at Christmas, all the good ones are taken, and you’re not sure if the rest are worth the walk.”
There’s a twinkle in her eye that says she owns this crowd and she knows it, and it’s glorious. I feel as high as I did in the parking lot earlier, without the muffling haze and struggling for words.
