When I turn back, I swear a phantom blond wig swirls down from his head. He polishes the glass in his hand with a dirty rag, lips puckered, this time in disdain, not in search of a kiss.
Alice gets up to inspect the image closer. “You make a beautiful woman,” she calls over her shoulder. He thanks her. “Do you know that RuPaul character? I’m always seeing ads for her on my Hulu.”
“Honey, do you think I’d be here if I did?” he asks. “Are you gonna order something or just stare at me?”
“I’ll have a whiskey sour. How about you?” I ask Alice.
“A vodka neat! No, wait. A martini, extra olive! No, no, hold on. A sex on the beach!” I spew laughter. It’s the first time I’ve belly-laughed in twenty-four hours. “Oh, stop being so immature.” She slaps me on the arm.
As he makes our drinks, I feel compelled to say, “Sorry I spoiled the fun back in May. I had never been kissed and I wanted my first to be special, and then it was special, but now it’s not. I didn’t mean to make you look bad in front of the crowd.”
“Save it, sweetie. I don’t need theSixty Minutessob story. It got a laugh. It’s all good.” He sets the cocktails down. “What are we drinking to?”
“She can’t sell her house. My job is disappearing, and my ex is the ass who helped make it happen.” How have I gone from never having a boyfriend, never being kissed to having an ex in a matter of two weeks? “Oh, and it’s pouring out in case you didn’t notice.” The rain continues to pound away on the roof.
“That’ll do it,” he says, sliding our glasses onto the counter. The last time I was in a bar, I was with Derick, both physically and in the Facebook-status way. Now, I’m here with Alice, drinking the drink he drank in the city and slipping into a comatose state of inaction. What’s left for me to do other than sip this shit away?
“What is this about a job and an ex?” Alice asks. Her tone is concerned, but her face is flush thanks to the fruity, sweet drink she seems to be relishing.
“Derick’s dad is the rightful owner of the land Wiley’s is on. The Any Weather Transportation Group plans to tear it down and turn it into commuter parking. Derick knew the whole time. I feel like an idiot.”
“Sounds like that Joni Mitchell song—‘paved paradise, put up a parking lot.’” Alice sings a little. Her voice isn’t half-bad.
“The soundtrack for depressed gays everywhere,” Goldie says with a showgirl laugh, false and echoing. “That sucks major ass. What are you going to do about it?”
I shrug, sliding my glass back and forth between my hands. “I don’t know. What is there to do? My boss is resigned to our fate. There’s apparently some meeting with some historic board to discuss the demolition next week, but they’re on track for approval. At least I think they are. We’ll do your event, Alice, but then, I think that’s it.”
Goldie points at me, still wearing his show nails—huge, clanking, fire-engine-red claws. “Words are cheap. Actions are priceless. If you don’t like what’s happening, set something else into motion.”
Alice looks at me. “I like her.”
Goldie winks. “The feeling is mutual, doll.”
“That’s all good and fine, but I can’t stop something already in motion. The drive-in will close. Roll credits.”
I don’t have the energy or patience for more. What’s done is done.
“Roll credits?” Alice slams her empty glass on the counter. I hope she doesn’t keel over from the swift alcohol intake. “You got a cigarette?” she asks Goldie. Goldie produces one and lights it up for her. She’s probably not supposed to be doing that either with her, I don’t know, frail health and all, but we’re too far gone at this point.
A satisfying puff floats into the air. “‘Roll credits’ is basically what I said when you shoved your way into my home asking about my darned movie, wasn’t it? You didn’t take that from me then, so I’m not taking it from you now either.”
“You’re spunky, doll,” Goldie says.
“You don’t know the half of it,” I groan.
“Another round, please, and keep them coming. We’re going to drink our way into a solution. I’m sure of it.” She pulls a pen from her purse and slaps a fresh, square bar napkin down in front of me.
It’s the worst plan ever, but it’s better than no plan, so I accept the second whiskey sour, crack my knuckles, and begin jotting down whatever comes to mind.
Here’s hoping free association will be my superpower.
Chapter 25
3B has always had a no-knock policy.
When I get back from the bar, I burst into Avery’s room. I didn’t expect her to be topless, lying facedown, while Stacia draws a lion head with a deer’s body and a unicorn horn in red BIC BodyMark pen on her back. A notebook is open in front of Avery’s face, a poem forming in eye-catching stanzas in familiar sloppy script. She hugs her pillow to her chest and smiles up at me.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
