Futures and Frosting (6 page)

I can’t do
this.  I’m not ready for this.  He’s too young to know about long distance
phone calls and roaming charges!

“M-o-o-o-o-m! 
Did you hear me?  I said I know what you guys are doin’ when you make phone
calls,” Gavin repeats.

Sure, go
ahead and repeat it.  Obviously you need to make sure we are sufficiently
freaked out.  CHILDREN ARE THE DEVIL.

Maybe if I just
completely ignore the situation, he’ll forget about it.  I turned on the radio,
frantically searching for a song he knows that he can butcher the lyrics to.

Why is there
so much fucking talk radio at five o’clock in the evening?

“Ooooh, this is
a good song, Gavin!  Do you know this song?” I ask overenthusiastically.

Carter looks at
me like I'm insane as Kenny G notes filled the car.

Fucking Kenny
G.  Couldn’t you record ONE song with some lyrics?  Michael Bolton taught you
nothing.  Epic fail, Kenny.  Epic fail.

“You guys always
lock your door when you make phone calls,” Gavin says.

Son of a
bitch, Kenny G!  You put everyone to sleep but my son.  The ONE thing you had
going for you and now it’s gone to shit.

“You guys kiss
in there, don’t you?” Gavin asks.

I stop swaying
to beat of Kenny G and shut off the BIC Lighter App on my phone, noticing that
Carter is still looking at me funny.  It’s like he’s never met me.  I'm trying
to get Gavin’s mind off of fertilization and bees fucking pigeons!

“YES!” Carter
shouts.  “That’s
exactly
what we do.  We kiss.  That’s all we do.  Just
kiss.  Sometimes Mommy and Daddy need to lock the door so we can kiss. 
And…just kiss. What else would we do in there besides kiss?  Ha ha!  Mommy and
Daddy sittin’ in a tree, K-I-S-S-”

I reach over and
squeeze his arm to get him to stop talking as we pull into my dad’s driveway. 
Gavin unbuckles his seatbelt and scrambles out of the car to race to my dad,
his attention already diverted.  My dad scoops him up into his arms and meets
us at the car as Carter gets Gavin’s overnight bag out of the backseat, and I
stand by my open door, breathing a sigh of relief that Sex Ed with our
four-year-old is finally over.

“Hey, Papa! 
Mommy and Daddy lock their door so they can kiss!” Gavin tells him excitedly.

My dad looks a
little grossed out and quickly changes the subject.

“I got that
movie
'Gnomeo and Juliet'
for us to watch tonight,” he tells Gavin.

Sadly, Gavin
isn’t going to be deterred even for garden gnomes that come to life and ass
rape a small community while they sleep.  I’m sure that’s not what really
happens in a children’s movie, but in my mind it is.  Garden gnomes are
creepy.  I firmly believe they come to life after you go to bed at night and
violate you.

“Mommy and Daddy
make a lot of noise when they kiss.  Mommy talks to God a lot.  I talk to God
sometimes too.  I asked him for a puppy and a new monster truck but I was nice
and didn’t yell at him like Mommy does.  He still hasn’t gotten me the puppy
though.”

And on that
note, we kiss Gavin good-bye, jump into the car, and take off.  My dad can deal
with the birds and the bees and cows and the chickens and the kissing horses
while visions of his daughter screaming for Jesus dance in his head.

We pull up to
Liz and Jim’s house fifteen minutes later and park in the street behind the
biggest limo bus I’ve ever seen.  Liz had told me she rented something small
and modest to drive us around so we wouldn’t have to worry about ruining
someone’s night and forcing them to be our designated driver.  Obviously her
version of small and modest differ greatly from mine.  This thing could house
an entire football team with room to spare.

“It’s about time
you two fuckers got here!” Drew yells as he meets us at the end of the driveway,
tossing a beer through the air towards Carter.

In honor of the
wine tours that evening, Drew dons a shirt with a picture of a corkscrew on the
front that reads, “I pull out.”

We walk up the
bus steps to join everyone else, noticing they are all well on their way toward
getting drunk, everyone except Liz.  She is all alone at the very back of the
bus with her arms folded and a scowl on her face.

I take one look
at her and know I had made it there just in time.

How could
this have happened?  Why wasn’t anyone helping my poor friend?

Leaving Carter
at the front of the bus with Drew, Jim, and Jenny, I hurry down the aisle and
sit down next to Liz.

“Who did this to
you?” I ask angrily as I wrap my arm around her shoulder.

She looks at me
and I swear I see her lip quiver.

“It’s okay. You
can tell me.  We’ll fix it,” I reassure her as I rub soothing circles on her
back.

I see hope flare
in her eyes, and I know she's going to be fine. I will make this better for her
if it’s the last thing I do.

“My mother!  It
was her.  It was all her!” she wails in anguish.

I quickly glance
to the front of the bus, fearing that just
thinking
about Mrs. Gates
will suddenly make her appear.  Forget bridezilla! Mrs. Gates is
mother-of-the-bridezilla.  She is the biggest wedding Nazi in the world.  Every
single wedding tradition, old wives tale, ritual, and custom, Mary Gates
believes in it, practices it, and forces everyone around her to participate in
it.

Right now, my
poor best friend is wearing a rhinestone tiara with a veil attached, a sash
across the front of her that reads, “Bride to Be”, and underneath that sash, a
tee-shirt with individually wrapped suckers strategically attached directly on
top of her boobs.  In bright pink glitter puff paint are the words, “Suck for a
Buck”.

“I’m in
bachelorette party hell!” Liz screeches.

I reach over and
started plucking suckers off of her boobs.

“It’s okay; I’m
going to get you out of this,” I tell her.

“Claire Donna
Morgan, I hope you’re giving my daughter a dollar for every one of those suckers
you are removing from her shirt!”

It's like
something out of a movie.  The music that pumps out of the limo’s speakers
screeches to a halt and all of the laughter from our friends immediately dies.

“Run!  Save
yourself!” Liz whispers loudly as she tries to shove me away from her.

I slowly stand
up and put on a brave face, letting my friend know that I will take one for the
team.  I will stand in between her and sudden bachelorette party death.  I turn
around just in time to be bum rushed in the aisle.

“Can you believe
my baby is getting married?!” Mrs. Gates squeals as she throws a sash over my
head that reads, “Maid-of-Honor” before I can blink.

She pulls me
into a tight hug, bouncing me up and down like we're long lost sorority
sisters, the cloying scent of White Diamonds perfume surrounding me and
threatening to make my eyes water.

Where my family
is more along the lines of the Connor family from the show Roseanne, Alice’s
family leans more toward The Brady Bunch.

On crack.

Or maybe acid.

Which is the one
that makes you see fuzzy bunnies singing about lollypops and kittens and
puppies frolicking on a rainbow?

“Claire, I am
entrusting you to make sure my baby has a great time tonight,” Mrs. Gates says
sternly as she pulls away from me and thrusts a piece of paper in my hand. 
“This is a treasure hunt for Liz.  You have to make sure she does every single
thing on the list before the night is out.  I’ve been told this is all the rage
with you young people.”

Don’t look
down at the list; don’t look down at the list.

“Well, don’t
just stand there, Claire.  Look at the list!” Mrs. Gates demands excitedly.

“Get a stranger
to give you his underwear,” I mutter, reading the first line.

Mrs. Gates
squeals like little girl.  “Oh my gosh this is going to be a hoot!  Keep
reading!”

I take a deep
breath, forcing the vomit that had lodged itself in my throat to remain where
it is and not splatter all over the piece of paper in my hand.

On second
thought…no list equals no scavenger hunt.

“And don’t
worry, I made enough copies for everyone!” Liz’s mom says enthusiastically as
she pulls a handful of papers out of her purse and starts passing them out.

I cover my hand
over my mouth as I scan the list.  No point in puking now.  I’ll never be able
to projectile vomit far enough to reach all the copies.

Find a guy
with an accent.

Meet a guy
with the same name as the groom and take a picture with him.

Make out with
one of the bridesmaids.

I really don’t
think I should be sober for this right now.

“Mrs. Gates, you
are looking positively radiant this evening.  Have I mentioned that yet?” Jim
states sweetly as he comes up behind his future mother-in-law and puts his arm
around her shoulder.

“Now, don’t try
and distract me, James.  I’ve got something for you too,” she says as she unfolds
a baseball hat that said “Groom” on it and places it on his head.

“Folks, if this
is everyone, I need you all to take your seats so we can leave,” the limo
driver informs us as he pokes his head in the door of the bus.

“Well, I guess
that’s my cue to leave,” Mrs. Gates says as she stands there, not making
any
attempt at moving.

She glances
around at everyone expectantly, waiting for someone to beg her to stay and join
us.

No one speaks.

Or moves.  There
might have even been an uncomfortable cough that I think came from the driver.

“Okay….well…you
kids have fun now!” she finally says as she walks to the door of the bus.  “Oh
my goodness, I almost forgot the most important thing!”

She turns back
around and rushes down the aisle towards Liz.  Everyone groans quietly.

Mrs. Gates stops
in front of her daughter and reaches into the giant suitcase she calls a purse
and pulls out a penis.  Or should I say, “
penis products
.”  Lots and lots
of penis products, things I didn’t even know they made in the shape of a penis,
and now I will have to bleach my eyes at the thought of Liz’s mom walking into
a store and purchasing these items:

A candy necklace
full of sugary penises, a penis-shaped water bottle, a penis-shaped pacifier
that she decides needed to be tied around my neck.

Yes, I am
absolutely going to stay classy this evening.

But she isn’t
done yet, oh no.  Next out of her bag of tricks: penis-shaped pasta. 
Seriously?  What the fuck do we need with a bag of penis-shaped pasta on a limo
bus?  We’re not going to fill a pan with some water from the tiny bathroom at
the back of the bus and stick it on the engine to boil it so we can make maca
weenie
and cheese.

She hands Jenny
a box of penis gummies that Drew tells her to open up immediately because he
wants to hear her say, “This penis tastes so good.”  Last but not least, she
hands everyone different colored rubber penis pen caps.  Because you know, at
some point during the night there might be an emergency that calls for someone
to write a note using only a pen with a penis pen cap.

I should
check the scavenger hunt.  It could be on the list.

Mrs. Gates looks
like a perverted Mary Poppins pulling penises out of her carpet bag.  I'm
waiting for her to pull out a penis-shaped lamp or a penis-shaped coat stand. 
When she finally emptied her bag of all things phallic, she steps off of the
bus and we all let out sighs of relief—and then we rip every single sash, hat,
veil, and suck for a buck item off of us.

Drew pours
everyone a shot of Tequila Rose (in penis shot glasses, of course) and passes
them out.

“What is this
pussy shit?”  Jim asks as he sniffs the thick, pink liquid in his shot glass.

“It smells like
strawberry milk,” I say with a cringe.  I don’t know about anyone else, but
milk and liquor just does not sound like it should go together.

“It tastes like
strawberry milk too.  And it’s good shit.  I thought I’d start us off with
something girly tonight so know one hurls in the first hour,” Drew explains.

We all nod in
understanding.  No one wants to be the first one to puke.

The six of us
sit at the back of the bus around the semi-circle leather couch.  We raise our
shot glasses in the air until they all clink together in the middle.

“I’d like to
propose a toast,” Drew says.  “Here’s to you, here’s to me – fuck you, here’s
to me!”

We all down the
shots as the bus starts up and pulls away from the curb.

Oh.  My. 
God.  What is that noise?  WHAT IS THAT NOISE??

It feels like
someone is screaming in my ear with a bullhorn.  I let out a groan, roll over,
and pull the covers up over my head in an effort to stop it from exploding.

Sweet Jesus
what did I do last night?

“CLAIRE!  For
fuck’s sake shut your alarm clock off!”

The yelling from
Liz on the other side of my door makes me cringe.  I pull the covers down just
far enough so I can squint at my alarm clock.

Sure enough, the
sound that's threatening to make my ears bleed is coming from that little
bastard on our dresser across the room.

The
repetitive flash of the time, its bright red numbers, and the staccato beeping
on that thing makes me think its judging me. I can hear it— tequila, shots,
vodka, karaoke, you’re an idiot.

“Carter,” I
mumble.

Jesus, my voice
sounds like I swallowed a bucket full of gravel.  It feels that way too.

“Carter,” I
groan again.  “Shut off the alarm clock.”

With my squinty
eye, I turn my head as slowly as possible and see the spot next to me in bed is
empty.