The Sayers Club: Dec. 31, 2006
“What the hell? I go to the bathroom for five minutes…”
“It was longer than that, but who’s counting?” Suddenly self-conscious, I rubbed the rims of my nostrils, hoping no flecks of white powder resided from my bathroom post-piss shenanigans.
What I’d originally been referring to was my beloved best friend, up on a makeshift stage atop the bar, strumming air guitar along to the Tom Petty song blaring loudly through the speaker system. Luckily, I had scored us a ticket into the VIP section so we had a slim chance of being kicked out. If we could dish out enough cash this evening, our security deposit was set.
“Another round!” Owen yelled from the bar top, to which I raised my glass before downing its contents. “You heard the man!” I said cheerfully to the waitress and watched her sashay away though my thoughts weren’t on her or her body, but instead, on the woman in front of me.
“You going to make an honest woman out of him?” I grinned through my goggles—of the cocaine and whiskey variety.
“If you don’t marry him, I will,” I teased, watching him swing his hips like some kind of Elvis impersonator.
“You two would make a charming couple,” she returned with a smirk.
It was nice to see Owen enjoying himself, unwound and cut loose. I could see something in Etta’s eyes though, possibly resembling annoyance. Dave Matthews kicked on the jukebox and Owen belted out the words. “I love this song. Be my last dance of 2006? And probably my first…” I led us out to where some couples were corralled to dance. Like a gentleman, I held her at a distance, though I wanted to hold her against me, feeling what her weight was like against my body.
“The ball’s about to drop!” Someone shouted as they began the countdown—starting a full minute out. The bar quieted, but only a bit, the jukebox still kicking out its tune. Owen had quieted, staring at the big screen. I ducked a cheek against Etta’s. “40. If we’re not married by 40…you and me.”
I stumbled slightly over my own footing and chuckled. My mind may have been fuzzy, but my heart was sober. “Deal?” I asked, wide grin just as the bar erupted—“10…9…” Someone tugged at my shoulder. “8..” Owen. He gripped both shoulders and hugged me. “7…6…”
“You dancing with my girl, bro?” The frat boy speak was a joke. Poorly executed through the slurring, but I gripped and patted his cheeks a moment. “5…4…3…” My eyes found Etta’s and I offered a winning grin, happy my best friend as cheery and intoxicated. “2…1…” With a winked, I slipped away into the sea of cascading couples, all of whom were sharing smooches while I made my way to the bar for another round.
