Costumewas an overstatement because I’m shirtless, in a pair of gold lamé short-shorts, my hand closed around angel wings.
We’re in a small office in the back of the restaurant that has a bathroom and stacks of papers all over a desk.
Benny walks out, the toilet flushing behind him.
“We were never singing, were we?” I say to myself again.
It’s rhetorical, because I already know the truth, but my ex–best friend answers anyway.
“I mean . . . definesinging.”
My head does a slow drift as I turn my face toward his.
He smirks. “Don’t look at me like that. I told you, he’s a sweet old guy whose business isn’t doing the best. Plus, his daughter is smoking hot. The idea was there for the taking. Have you forgotten we need rent? Two birds, my friend.”
I ball my hand into a fist as he finishes.
“And technically we are making music. It’s just with our bodies, not so much our mouths.”
I lunge, but he jumps back.
“Benny,” I roar. “This is Spirit Halloween meetsMagic Mike.”
But before he can say anything, Sal walks into the office holding, in one hand, a tiny little harp, and in the other, a bow and arrow.
How is it possible that it’s getting worse?
Although, too bad the arrow only has a suction cup at the end and not an actual tip, or I could shoot my best friend.
Sal smiles wide, one gold canine tooth sparkling. “Who wants what? Huh ... huh?”
I wipe both hands down my face, because truth is, Benny’s right, we don’t have a choice. If we don’t do this, we’re not making rent. And skirting homelessness is squeaking out a win over being seen in these shorts.
Benny hands me the bow and arrow with a sheepish grin as Sal leaves, saying, “Ten minutes till showtime. Let’s shake some ass for love. For love, baby.”
The minute the door closes, I scowl at my ex–best friend, grinding my jaw.
“I hate you. I actually hate you.”
But he doesn’t believe me, I know, because he’s laughing too hard while he stuffs his crotch with a sock.
“Want one?” he offers.
“No,” I hurl back.
Jesus, what has my life turned into? I’m a classically trained Shakesperean actor. I was on Broadway ... even if it only lasted a week. And now I have to dance for the eleven a.m. Galentine’s brunch show next to a guy with tube socks stuffed down his pants.
My father used to tell me that there would be a moment in my life that would define me as a man. Never once did I think that would entail gold lamé shorts, angel wings, and Sal Antonio’s Fine Italian Chinese Cuisine.
But the gut punch in all of this is that I can’t dance. I close my eyes, steeling my spine for the indignity of cosplaying a god who has no rhythm.
Sal peeks his head back inside the office. “Five minutes, fellas.”
“Psst,” Benny calls, drawing my eyes, but I wish I wasn’t looking because he points to his crotch. “Too much?”
This is the worst day of my life.
Rory
