They say milk does a body good. I would, however, argue that martinis do any-body more good. Or, to be more specific, martinis do a Caucasian body good. Lest you, my readers, think that I am turning into a lush, or that I am once again touting the benefits of imbibing alcohol, let your fears be confirmed.
My sister and I drove to “Bubbles” last night in Nassau County. She felt that she had been “in prison” for far too long and needed a release; some fun. Being that my father will allow no one to take his cars, my thrill-seeking sister thought it’d be a good idea if we waited til he went to sleep, then quietly sneak out for our “discotheque adventure.”
So…Like two thieves in the night, we apply the last of our lip-gloss and flat-iron spray, whisper instructions to Vito to tell no one what we’re up to, and surreptitiously climb into the black sedan in the driveway hoping for a quick and easy escape from the crazy palace. We finally arrive at the pearly gates of Bubbles, and to my utter content, find out there is an open bar for another twenty minutes. Doing what I can for the good of the community, I slam down a couple in the nick of the time. My sister says to me. “We never went out like this when we were growing up.”
“I know,” I say. It’s true. We were never close until we became adults and started facing the disappointments of life that roll out like waves. The set-ups and letdowns that make you realize you need other people – especially ones who have known you your whole life.
“You look great,” I say to her.
“I’m so glad to be out, I can’t even tell you.”
“Me too,” I say, and start bouncing up and down to the music.
“Oh no,” my sister says, “Are you gonna do that move you always do? I can’t be seen with you. I’m getting another drink.”
I notice that the dance floor is very white. By that, I mean Japanese. Nothing wrong with that, I’m just making an anthropological observation. Being the lightweight that I am, I’m starting to sway in drunken merriment after only two drinks to music I’ve never heard before, and am becoming mesmerized by the laser lights ricocheting off the walls. I’m feeling good. My shyness dissipates and before you know it, I’m moving my body around in jazzy spins like an homage to the disco ball above me. It doesn’t matter that I suck. I’m drunk, and therefore, I rule.
I look up at the DJ in the booth who has so much winged-back brown hair, I feel like I’m watching a Breck commercial from the ‘70s. I decide I will mention that to him later.
Suddenly a Japanese guy in a baseball hat comes up to me on the dance floor, like he flew in on a carrier pigeon to tell me he liked my moves. I’m very gracious and tell him I’m so glad he appreciates my ‘artistic’ rendition of the music. I ask him if he’s on Facebook. He gives me his card. I can’t really hear what he says, but he points to his friends behind him, when I really begin to notice how many Japanese people there are on the dance floor. I say, “I guess the earthquake bus dropped you all off here.” He just smiles and nods.
Wanting to find my sister, I snake through the crowd surrounding the central dance floor. She’s nowhere. While I’m standing still, staring at the DJ’s coiff and wondering if he used hairspray, a not-too-bad looking British guy who appears oddly shy for someone so built approaches me…to say hello. I’m wondering what I did to deserve this kind of night, other than get drunk. The Brit’s friend says, “Come on, let’s go, enough,” which I don’t understand. Then the Brit says, “Sorry, I have to go, but can I give you my number?” “Sure,” I say delighted. He hands me a pre-written-on napkin, which I quickly put in my pocket to savor later. I can’t believe a cute guy like that wanted to talk to me, knew he was leaving, and so wrote his number down to give to me. I like that kind of effort. So rare these days.
But, it’s getting late, and I don’t know where my sister is. The vodka’s starting to give me a headache, and if my father wakes up and finds the car is missing…heads will roll.
I walk to the back of the club – heading to the bathrooms, when I see an odd shape by the coat rack. It’s my sister making out with the 6’4” Puerto Rican bouncer. I gasp. They stop. “Oh, that’s my sister,” she says. I suddenly shout, “We have to go now! It’s important.” I grab her hand and take her out to the car. “What are you doing? I was having fun. We can’t go home yet,” the always-irresponsible younger sister says.
I shout,” We’re going to sit in the car and sober up.”
“Dude! You’re married!!”I say.
“I know, but, come on, we’re getting divorced, you can’t judge me for this!” I don’t let up and we get in the car. She continues, “You know, he never lets me know I’m pretty. He never makes me feel like a sexy woman, like I’m good at anything. He just criticizes me. I can never do anything right. That’s why I’m getting a divorce.”
“I thought it was because you cheated on him with the guy from Singapore,” I say.
“Yeah, but…I couldn’t help myself,” she responds.
“Okay,” I say, “but for now, you’re still married. You have to have some integrity and think about things. You have kids. Look, I know I’ve never been married, but…this time should be about you. You don’t have to go running to another guy to make you feel better. You’ve got to get your confidence back. Figure out what makes you you.”
“You’re very wise for a single person, Myra. By the way, did I show you the Stuart Weitzman boots I want to get? They’re at the mall. Do you think we can go tomorrow?”
And so our conversation goes.
We get home and miraculously reenter the house without incident. We put on our pajamas, and my sister is about to get into her bed on the other side of mine. I say, “Wait, I’ve been waiting for this moment all night. This really cute guy gave me his number, and I’m thinking this could be my next boyfriend, but I didn’t want to look at it in the club, because I always like having something to look forward to…you know to keep me happy.”
“Just open it,” my sister says.
So I unfold the white bar napkin. My face drops. “What?!” my sister exclaims.
It reads: “I LIKE STRIPPERS.”