Wyatt lifts my chin for a kiss. “Grand finale. We’ll be right back once we’ve directed traffic.”
“I’m genuinely terrified.”
“Nah,” he says. “This one’s pure fun. But Howard’s gonna hate it. We’ll be right back.”
I’m only alone at the table for a minute, and then Max and the gang fire up what I can only hope will be this party’s last round of “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” The band’s still holding the final notes when every door to the ballroom bursts open, and a goddamn marching band comes pouring into the room to a crisp, percussive beat.
At least three dozen uniformed musicians quickly spread throughout the room, the trumpets and other brass joining the drums, chimes, and cymbals on an energetic version of “Carol of the Bells.”
Wyatt’s the first back to the table, and I squeal with glee. “Are you kidding me?” I have to shout to be heard above the happy racket.
“I am absolutely not kidding you,” he shouts back. “Keep watching!”
As if I could look away from the high school musicians from the Second City Drum and Bugle Corps, according to the lettering on their uniforms. Their rotations around the room are precise, exuberant, and showy as hell, and they’re grooving through what’s shaping up to be the musical highlight of the night. Then the service door flies open and the men of the Crimson Lounge—led by Jonesy, who’s changed into his second G-string of the night—dance their way in. They’re closely followed by the divas of tap, who’ve also undergone complete costume changes and are now in a variety of military-style bodysuits with epaulets as big as their hip pads.
The performers dart in and out of the lines of drums and brass players, stopping to dance for—and on, when given permission—individual guests seated at the tables. When the band transitions to the appropriately meta “Little Drummer Boy,” Darby and Birdy poke their heads through the main entrance and usher out two nursing mothers and three swan ballerinas, securing a spot for them near the bar so the moms can sway with their babies and the swans can spin in circles without fear of getting trampled or being lit on fire by the jugglers, who’ve also joined the fun with their flaming golden rings. Even the cult of pipers files back in and forms another semicircle in front of the room. Despite the swirling chaos around them, they’re as intensely silent as before, engaging in a long staring contest with the audience before dramatically lifting their pipes to their lips and adding their reedy melody to the mix.
“Not the vibe, my guys,” Sebastian mutters as he and Birdy slide back into their seats.
The dancers and corps members clearly agree; they all keep a wide berth around the bowl cuts and tunics, like there’s an invisible force field of weird that’s too strong to break through.
“Where’d the rest of the swans and babies go?” I ask Wyatt.
“Bedtime,” he says with a shrug.
“Why can’t it be the pipers’ bedtime?” Seb moans, and knowing his brother-in-law, Gabe’s already making plans to book the Little Beau Peeps for his next birthday.
“If you notice,” Wyatt shouts to the group at large, “there are exactly twelve drummers!”
“It’s perfect!” I assure him, looking around the room to confirm that our table’s not the only one losing their minds at this festive explosion of sound, colors, and dance. The partygoers who’ve stuck it out thus far are clearly up for anything because they’re losing their minds over the excess. Several of them still have cash from Howard’s party budget and are spreading the love to the dancers they didn’t get to tip the first time. Even the geese get in on the action, honking and snapping their beaks at the gold braids on the corps uniforms as they pass by.
Other than the old sourpuss couple, the VIPs seem overwhelmed in the best way by the happy commotion around them, having apparently resigned themselves to existing in a section of the ballroom that reeks of durian-fruit despair. The girl with the ever-filming phone floats past, looking like she can’t believe her luck that she’s getting to capture such an unprecedented scene. When she reaches the bar area, she takes a step back to avoid an aggressive juggling pass and bumps the cockatoo cage, setting off the birds, whose avian screams add an extra layer to the cacophony.
There is, however, one person who’s unhappy with the culmination of Wyatt’s specially curated “Twelve Days” entertainment. Howard comes bursting out of the men’s room looking like a man who’s been run through a giant cheese grater. His gaze takes in the room, and his confusion quickly morphs into horror. He takes one step toward the AV booth, presumably to try to pull the plug on this extravaganza, but he’s immediately caught up in the ocean of performers. He jumps and waves his arms, although it’s anyone’s guess who he’s trying to signal before he’s swept away in the tide of youth musicians, drag queens, and Diesel.
Twenty-Two
Now
Wyatt
* * *
I sensed we might be in for some trouble when Howard kicked the bathroom door open and stepped into the room like he was entering the O.K. Corral.
Now that he’s struggled free of the surge of performers, he’s taken refuge in the back of the room near the kitchens, regrouping before making his final stand. His hair stands on end, his jacket and bow tie are missing, and shirt is stained, wet, and unbuttoned down to his sternum, presumably from vigorous face scrubbing in the sink. He’s a man poised to self-destruct, and I’d like to be there when it happens.
“Shall we go put an end to this?” I asks CJ.
“Yes,” she says with a supervillain hair flip. “I think we shall.”
As Howard again starts to make his way to the AV booth, we’re making our way to Howard. Halfway through the tangle of musicians, queens, birds, and strippers, CJ pulls us to a stop to talk to a familiar freckle-faced girl.
“Hey there.“ CJ points to the girls’s phone. “Are you recording only, or are you live right now?”
“Live, and I’ve got more viewers than I’ve ever had.” She looks around gleefully. “What a train wreck.”
“Absolutely brutal,” CJ agrees. “First, tell me where so I can send it to everybody I know. Second, do you want some really good stuff?”
