Flashback
The party sucks and you wanna leave but what can you do when Lola’s here and she was your second best friend from high school? You suck it up and stay. Behave like the adult you are. Then you see Bart drinking his fourth Bud Light and you know he doesn’t want you to have good manners and act all grown up. A fight or an argument would make people notice. Brad, Mark, and Tony would join in the free-for-all and there’d be bedlam; former football players who were on the field while you were feeling up Monica Lasky under the bleachers while the crowd cheered, and so did she. You wanna give them a hug.
Mark would call you a fag for touching him even though he’s got two grown kids and never grew out of his eighties glory days. You at least want to hear his story but cliques are eternal and sealed off from sober citizens. An inquiry would just get you laughed at — Mark’s not above this. Brad and Tony had also played tennis and were very good; they earned the right to carry high-end branded racket bags in class like pro players as lesser, non-athletic students oohed and aahed over an accessory they had no use for. As a slacker in every way, you didn’t want to be them, just have a little of their golden luster sprinkled on your forehead during gym class baptism.
Standing by a mirror in the corner, you catch a glimpse of your shiny skin. Is it perspiration, oil? Lola will want to blot your face with a Stridex when she sees you. All the fucking familiar feelings return. Sixteen years old again. You’re here for Jennifer’s thirty-fifth reunion party, you remind yourself. She saved your life numerous times back then and you’re here to cover her ass, to deter talk about the failed marriage, and maybe start a rumor that it was because of you. God, she’s still gorgeous, carrying a platter of prosciutto, cheese & crackers from the tiny cramped kitchen.
Her sundress is almost see-through; it’s low-cut, short, a color somewhere between sunset and sunrise. Lola follows her with two bottles of Beaujolais Villages and you thank the stars because you’re certainly not washing down prosciutto with fucking Bud Light. Lola is no slob either. Her skin-tight sleeveless shirt hugs a post-mom workout body and fades in perfectly with 80s-style khaki shorts and sexy strappy sandals. She’s less voluptuous than Jennifer but her short blonde boy-cut gives her a sophisticated edge at odds with everyone here.
When your only friends in high school were female, you felt less than masculine for not being one of the guys and not being involved with their sacred sports. But here, a lifetime later, you want no part of their male douchery as Jennifer’s perfect lips part, rise, and speak your name. “Mac, thank you for saving my reputation.” She and Lola came up with ‘Mac,’ short for John McKinnon. It was a major step up from the lesser minds who latched onto ‘Kinny.’ ‘Skinny Kinny’ they called out in hallways, and you just wanted to shoot a bazooka through every one of their dumb motherfucking eyeballs.
Your gaze moves from Jennifer’s mouth to her heaving cleavage, proudly on display. You’re lucky that she’s flattered to have her fifty-plus-year-old body ogled by you, who’s on the downside of another short-term affair that fizzled before it got started. You’re fortunate to have these women in your life, saving you from yourself when the darkness gets too deep. “Does that mean you like my dress?” she says, catching you in the act and your not too embarrassed eyes. “Yes, very much. You blow away everybody in the room. Except for you, Lola.” Lola’s more snarky than Jennifer and returns your fake smile with a smirk.
“Thanks, Mac,” Lola says while surveying the room and not making a hell of a lot of eye contact. She’s probably stressed to the limit and hates most of the goofballs here. She hands over a waiter’s corkscrew. “Here, open these.” The French wine labels seem out of place on the round table next to the blue beer bottles and a 1.75 of Jagermeister. Lola continues. “I’m not drinking this other shit either.” She’s holding a clear plastic cup waiting for some red while a dozen people help themselves to beer, Red Bull & Jager. At the end of the line is Dede Lane, a local librarian, who surveys the table and waits for the wine also.
You politely pour some for Jennifer, Lola, and Dede, then fill a cup for yourself. Finally. God, that’s good. Your nerves were going into overdrive but the comfort level is rising. You’re surrounded by friends, food, and wine. It’ll all be fine. They’ll protect you as they’ve always done before. Dede asks Jennifer about her husband, Drake, and what happened. Jen glances at Lola and yours truly before going into her monologue…
“I’m glad you asked, D. After a decade, I think Drake just got tired of me. He’d been traveling for work and we kept growing further apart. It didn’t help that he had a thirty-year-old Facebook friend in Kansas City…” Jennifer takes a drink, looks around the room, and resumes. “So yeah, I began to rely on Mac for conversation, dinners, movies, and people started talking. They said I was the cheater, the whore, the devil. Ask any churchgoer in town about Drake and they’ll sing his praises. Meanwhile, this beautiful man, and myself, are branded as bad seeds.”
You may think she’s lying, dear reader, but that rendering is fairly accurate. Dede doesn’t need to know about the afternoon liaisons and late-night sex talk that followed. And, because this is a story, Nick Cave’s “Red Right Hand” begins to play right after the previous paragraph. Before Dede can respond with a gasp or an amen, drunk Bart grabs his sixth or seventh beer. You don’t want to point out to him that he bumps into you on purpose before going back to his man group, but you do. “Hey, what was that for?”
Bart turns around with a chip on his shoulder. “Because you’re a family breaker.” You look at your female friends before addressing the idiot. “What are you talking about, Bart?” He takes a long drink from the bottle. “You set a bad example for my kids and every family in this town. You should know better and be sorry. Drake is one of my best friends and he didn’t deserve to be treated that way.”
Before any words can form in your brain, Lola gets in his face. “Hey, fuckwad, your saintly friend was a serial slut fucker. He never passed up an opportunity. Are you defending him because you are too?” You can tell that Bart wants to punch Lola, but there are way too many witnesses, and as an eerie silence lingers in the air, Bart’s red face returns to its normal blotchiness and he just walks away. You’re proud of Lola, and grateful, because he would have taken a swing at your head just to have a story for the golf course tomorrow.
“Thanks, darling,” you say, and finish your wine, pour more, and fill up a small plate with prosciutto. “All that testosterone in the air made him hungry,” Jen says. Lola is staying close to you protectively while you wolf down the fantastic Italian meat. You wouldn’t expect that asshole Bart to come back over with his friends at a crowded party, but you’d be wrong.
“Hey, bitch,” Mark shouts. You see him barreling over; his big brawny body brazen and combative. “You don’t know anything about Bart or Drake. They’re stand-up guys who have the respect of their community, churches, and businesses. They’re family men with faithful wives and children. When you want to slander somebody again, make sure you have your facts straight.” You’re watching him hover over Lola who’s at least a foot shorter than he is. You see him give a subtle nod to his lawyer and devil in disguise, Tony.
The crowd of about twenty is frozen while the Spotify playlist continues with Yello’s “Oh Yeah” underlining the situation. You look around the room at everyone’s mouths agape, aghast at what they just witnessed and you want this to be a deleted scene from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off where the main characters blow off all the fools and win in the end. Jennifer looks pissed off, so it may happen.
“Hey, man. This isn’t high school anymore. You can’t talk to a woman like that while I’m around. My lawyer will crush you and Tony without blinking an eye. It will be fun for him. Besides, I’m sure Drake hasn’t given you the big picture, and if he has, you’re dumber than I thought.” She’s shaking her head pityingly, as if Mark’s only hope for survival is to leave as quickly as possible. And he knows it, as his frozen body softens and moves toward the front door with all eyes on him.
You’re not sure what Tony’s next move will be, but are pleasantly surprised when he comes over, grabs a plastic cup, pours some wine, and says to Jennifer, “Somebody had to set that asshole straight. Cheers.” He smiles and goes back to the dudes. “King of Wishful Thinking” plays on the stereo and the tension in the air is gone. You wonder if Jennifer has redeemed her reputation with that short outburst. You feel that the crowd is on her side now, but it doesn’t fucking matter.
The world is high school. It’s politics, backstabbing, popularity contests, and false rumors. You can certainly rise above it, but everyone will probably have the wrong idea about your true self. Why correct them? Let them believe what they wanna believe. Lola latches onto your arm, looks up at you with a big grin. “We’re lucky to have a friend like Jen.” You mumble an affirmative, look lovingly at both women, knowing that whenever you are wronged, they will always have your back.
