Finding Mr. Brightside (16 page)
Read Finding Mr. Brightside Online
Authors: Jay Clark
“I shouldn’t have signed you up for karaoke,” I say. “I’ll get you out of it.”
He shrugs. “The mood for a serenade might strike me.”
“I’ll throw a fork at it if I see it getting close.”
He laughs before his blue eyes turn serious. “You sure you’re okay being around Linda?”
“I’m sick of hiding from people,” I say, even though we both know I’m not quite there yet.
Abram suggests we create a safe word, just in case one of us wants to leave before the other. I like how he’s pretending the flight risk in that scenario could turn out to be him. And I
love
his idea, more excited about it than the dinner itself. I drop the tweezers onto the bathroom countertop with a clang, and we head outside to wait for Linda and Terry to pick us up, going back and forth rejecting each other’s safe-word choices—his worst being “diarrhea,” mine being “lady-cramps”—until we settle on “Moscow.”
If nothing else, we’ll always have Moscow, sort of.
Juliette
T
HE
M
C
E
VANSES BUZZ UP
to the driveway in their gleaming golf cart. It might be nicer than Heidi’s car, Vulva the Volvo. Ha, Heidi. If girlfriend were here to embarrass me (from a place of love) right now, she’d sneak a glance at Terry’s salt-and-pepper mouth whiskers before asking if I’m excited about my mustache ride. In conclusion, I’m with the right person tonight: Abram.
As he and I hop into the back seat, Terry says something about how we “clean up real nice.” Must be hard to see my all-black, funereal ensemble, but Abram does look rather dashingly laid-back. Terry and Linda are dressed to the nines in a sea of khaki and island-friendly pinks and blues. Linda greets us warmly and apologizes to me for any future hair problems the golf cart’s windscreen doesn’t prevent. I point to one of my stray frizzlets like there’s already a problem in progress, and she does an admirable job of sounding empathetic despite her newscaster coif looking primed and ready for tonight’s top story. Meanwhile, Terry pretends he can’t find the golf-cart path at first, driving along the sidewalk instead—one of his better attempts at humor—and then we ride off into the sunset, toward the restaurant.
“Terry, this golf cart runs so smoothly,” I say, winking at Abram. I bet him ten dollars of our parents’ money I could make Terry say something about his golf cart “purring like a kitten.”
“Why, thank you,” Terry says, “just got ’er tuned up last week.”
So close.
“Does she have a name?” Abram asks, trying to throw him off.
“Barbaraaaaa Aaaaann,” Terry sings in Beach Boy falsetto. I ask what kind of motor Barbara Ann runs on, noting how I can barely hear her. Terry gives us the make and model before adding, “She sure purrs like a kitten, does she not, or does she not?”
I flash Abram a winning smile as Linda tells Terry he sure isn’t allowed to use that phrase anymore. Ugh, I really do like her. I ask where she found the huge purse she’s carrying as the boys discuss how often they get their rackets restrung. Everyone else is smiling, relaxed, and I feel even more like the grandma of the group—pretending to take it all in but biding my time until I can change back into my comfortable clothes.
The restaurant is in line with the low expectations Linda set for it earlier: signage with crab-catching jokes, plastic fish entangled in faux netting, canoe paddles insisting the term “cabrewing” is clever, and so on. I do appreciate the darkness of the ambiance, how I can barely see the faces of our fellow diners.
Terry points out that the karaoke stage is in the back room and pats Abram on the shoulder, winking at me. It’s one of the only winks from an older man I’ve gotten that hasn’t made me want to exfoliate (Abram winking when he’s using his creepy grandpa voice doesn’t count). Linda chats with the maître d’ for a second before he tips his captain’s hat and escorts us to his “best table on the Poop Deck.” I’m assuming it’s a poop joke Terry’s whispering into Abram’s ear on the way.
The Poop Deck is outside on the covered patio, and our table really might be their best. I can hear the tide washing in.
“Hmm, I’m not sure who to give the Best-Looking Couple Award to tonight,” the maître d’ says, handing us each a menu. Terry replies that he’ll take the award along with the check at the end of the meal; Abram and I are completely fine with both claims.
When the maître d’ leaves, Terry inhabits the role of bartender and asks what we’d like to drink, laughing when we both answer water. “I meant alcoholic beverages.” Linda looks concerned but backs off when Terry says, “I think Abram and Juliette deserve a drink if they’d like one, don’t you, dear?” She ends up ordering two vodka cranberries; Terry two Jack & Sevens. The waiter doesn’t blink, just brings the cocktails a minute later. Thankfully, no one gives a toast.
ABRAM
I
THOUGHT ABOUT GIVING A TOAST
but couldn’t think of what to say.
Cheers, to the dynamic not being as awkward as originally anticipated!
In conclusion, weird things tempt me sometimes.
Cheers, to weird temptations!
The food arrives fast, mostly in silver buckets. The second round of drinks arrives even quicker. Terry keeps looking over at the karaoke room to see if they’re starting soon. Eventually, he gets up and brings back a thick song catalog. He suggests a game of karaoke roulette—boys against girls—whereby we each choose a song for our competitors to perform and they have to sing it no matter what. I anticipate this being the first game Juliette refuses to play this vacation, but she’s kept quiet so far, just listening to Linda complain about Terry giving her “Somewhere Over the Rainbow
”
last week.
“The crowd just sat there and died,” Linda says, “while I thought about how I was going to kill Terry.” Then she puts her hand to her diamond starfish necklace and apologizes profusely.
Juliette explains there’s no need to apologize or avoid hypothetically killing people on our account. “I do it all the time,” she assures Linda. “Now let’s watch these boys commit musical suicide, shall we?”
Juliette
L
INDA AND
I are huddled together over the song catalog. She’s searching for a tune that would require the guys to sing almost their entire song in falsetto, keeps picking out hits by the Bee Gees as I shake my head.
“What about this one?” I say, pointing to “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’,” hoping maybe I’ll glean some tips from the lyrics.
“I am
such
a sucker for that song,” Linda whispers intensely. “Plus, Terry will sound terrible singing it.” Then she cackles, and, yes, it didn’t take her long to get wasted. One more drink and maybe she’ll forget we’re slated to perform, too. Scary, why am I putting myself
so far
out there again? I filled out the sign-up sheet with fake names a little while ago, but the DJ was giving me a suspicious look (I’ve never been less offended), so Angela Buckley’s no-show performance of “Love Shack” isn’t likely to delay the inevitable much longer.
A few minutes later, Abram and Terry get called up to the stage. They’re already right there in front of it, hunting through the prop box that sits atop one of the speakers. Terry selects the Steve Martin–inspired cap-with-arrow-sticking-through-it, which doesn’t get any funnier when he slaps it on his head. Abram looks over at me and points to his stuffed-frog hat like,
This okay?
I smile supportively and give him a thumbs-down.
The music starts. As soon as the boys begin dancing, bending their knees to the rhythm, I’m laughing. Abram takes on the first part of the Righteous Brother with the lower register, blowing a kiss toward me when he sings the “kiss your lips” line. And then Terry really goes for the gusto, in a musical styling that’s more spoken-word staccato than singing, reaching out to Linda when he belts “your fingertips.” Abram has that roadkill-in-headlights look on his face where he’s realizing his partner sucks and he wasn’t really prepared to carry the entire performance load on his own shoulders. Linda’s about to feel the same way. They make it through with a lot of help from the forgiving crowd, and when Abram bounds off the stage toward me, I can’t stop myself from kissing him. Just a peck, but it’s enough to draw a few whistles from Terry the One-Man Peanut Gallery that I barely notice.
“Angela Buckley going once, going twice … okay, I need Juliette and Linda up to the stage, please,” the DJ says in a voice that’s trying to be more excited than it really is. “Juliette and Lindaaaaaaa.”
Linda takes my hand in a defiant display of girl power, reminding me to hold my head high and pretend whatever happens is intentional. We go forth into the fog billowing up from the smoke machine, the boys hooting and hollering about what’s in store for the room.
I wrap my hand around the smooth throat of my mic stand like I’m about to strangle it. Linda walks behind hers and starts adjusting it like she’s
The music starts and the prompter reveals what the boys have chosen for us: “Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It).” Um, that isn’t even a duet. Linda was right; we should’ve falsetto’d them over with the Bee Gees.
Linda has an in-tune voice with an abundance of vibrato that makes the line “up in da club” sound like it was borrowed from a religious education song. At least her shoes are cute. Mine? Louboutins, thanks for asking. Got them from the Salvation Army, of all places.
My turn. I’m singing. It’s weird. If I had to describe my voice in two words, I’d go with “mousegirl rasp.” Not “Kelly Clarkson,” which is what Linda compares it to during the instrumental break. I’m having too much fun to make fun of myself.
ABRAM
P
EOPLE MIGHT NOT CHANGE
very often, but they can still surprise you. Almost every rough edge in Juliette’s voice gets filed down when she’s singing. There’s a soul to her tone and nary a note goes flying off where it shouldn’t. She even manages to make Linda’s contributions sound like they’re supposed to be there.
“My wife has a lot of gifts,” Terry says, “but the gift of music ain’t one of ’em.”
The girls rush off the stage, and I’m so proud of Juliette I have to kiss her several times. I tell her how amazing she is, because she is, and that she should consider trying out for a reality show. She laughs it off, saying it’d be way too easy for the producers to give her the crazy-girl edit. I kiss her again, her options still very much open in my book, except when it comes to me. Not fair that anything would ever try to pass itself off as more important than us and this, but that’s life, I guess—a bunch of crap competing for your attention when the best things are right in front of your face.
“Get a timeshare, you two!” Terry calls out from the sidelines, but he says it after we’re finished having our own-little-world moment.
Juliette
B
ACK AT OUR TABLE
, Terry just gave the Best Performance Award to Abram and himself. Linda’s arguing about it, and I’m confused by why she’s chosen this exact moment to start taking him seriously. If it makes her feel any better, she’s a shoo-in for the Drunkest Person Award.
“Gulls’ room?” I ask Linda, and Abram’s impressed by my using the restaurant’s bathroom terminology. She nods, shooting her Buoy, Terry, one last glare. He acts like he’s scared, but not really, and her cheeks turn Scarlett O’Hara with fury again. She starts heading in the direction opposite the bathrooms, almost falls headfirst over the Poop Deck, so I hold her hand and guide her the rest of the way. She should definitely take one of the silver food buckets home and place it next to her bedside.
“Jesus God, I really have to pee,” she tells me with a desperate look on her face. I hold the door for her. Inside, Linda can’t decide if she can stomach the idea of doing her lady biz in a public stall, so she tries to distract herself by fixing her makeup. Seconds later, she’s sprinting for the toilet. Deep down, we’re all four years old. She begins the process of taking forever, during which I enjoy the rest of my karaoke adrenaline rush and look forward to holding Abram’s strangely magnetic hand underneath the table upon our return. I’m staring at myself in the mirror when Linda emerges, feeling dirty about herself. She washes her hands several times before removing a tube of lipstick from her purse.
“Juliette, I owe you an apology,” she says, as I hand her a blotting tissue.
“Not even, you hit some incredible notes out there.”
“You’re sweet, but I mean for the other day. I got to talking about Suzy and your parents and your loss—and the whole thing was so me-me-me—I hope I didn’t make you feel bad.”
I can’t convince Linda there’s no need to be sorry, so it’s easier to just accept her third apology, which is also made straight from the bottom of her heart-shaped face. Every time I think we’re heading back, she starts talking again.
“I just can’t get over that y’all, you and Abram, are … together.”
“Yes, it’s pretty messed-up.”
“No, it’s greaaaat. It’s so great. For crying out loud, you know where Terry and I met? In the bathroom of a Piggly Wiggly. I was debating whether to use their facilities when he barged in saying the ‘men’s shitter is out of service.’ His exact words, of course.”
Of course.
Linda hesitates, muttering something about Terry being mad at her for saying this, then brings it up anyway. “It’s crazy how your mother … she just knew Abram was the right guy.”
I blink once, twice, confused. “You mean
Ian
?”
“No, Abram,” Linda says, smiling. “Sharon told me she thought he’d be perfect for you.”
ABRAM
“J
ULIETTE JUST STEPPED OUT
to get some air,” Linda says, sitting down.
“Honey, it’s raining,” Terry points out.
“Well, yes, but she said she’d stand underneath the awning. I’m afraid I might’ve talked her ear off back there.”
Terry shoots me a look like he knows how painful that is. Linda throws a small piece of cheese-biscuit at his face; he tries to catch it with his mouth, almost does. A minute or two later, I call Juliette’s cell. It rings a million times, which is how I know something’s not right. She usually sends her calls straight to voice mail.