Stories I'd Tell in Bars

by Jen Lancaster

  “Oh, did Waze not tell you where all the Starbucks are?” Joanna asks, her voice the epitome of sweetness and light. She bats her eyes. “Because you should have asked me and Google maps. We could have told you. Sorry, we’ve passed all of them.”

  I smile. Looks like someone wants to mess with me, too. We drive on. I turn up the volume. Oh, good. Backspin threw in a little 2 Live Crew. She’ll enjoy this.

  “So...” Joanna says, frowning at the speaker. “Talking about ‘popping that pussy,’ eh? Nice. Very romantic song. Michael and I should have made that our wedding song instead of Frank Sinatra.”

  I say, “Speaking of? Check this out. I just got another round of edits back on my YA book. You know my character Kent?”

  “Sweet, nerdy one?”

  “That’s him. There’s a line where he tells his friend to ‘stop being a puss,’ when he’s freaking out. The copy editor flagged that expression it for ‘sensitivity,’ telling me there’s a whole faction who’ll go up in arms when referring to female parts when calling someone weak or a coward. Like, I’m not supposed to say that.”

  Joanna cocks her head. “Has the copy editor met a high school boy? That’s how they talk.”

  “They all know. The editorial team is just trying to protect me from the social justice warriors who are super-easily offended and will come after me, pitchforks waving. But, I caved, I changed it.”

  “That does not sound like you.”

  I sigh. “I know. In a lot of ways, I feel like they’re not wrong.”

  Three decades ago, I’d have responded to the email thread with a whole bunch of words I’d never dream of using now. I recall how I was throwing around the r-word in my thirties. I even used it in the book Bitter. My God, that makes me cringe now.

  By any standard, that’s inexcusable.

  I didn’t have friends with differently-abled kids then, I didn’t know. I wish I could go back and scrub it from the text, scrub it from existence. I hate how casually accepted the word was at the time, how it was no big deal. Every time I write a check to the Special Olympics, I think, “Not enough.” And I’m sorry. I guess if I compensate by over-editing myself in the YA manuscript and if as a society we’re hyper-cautious going forward, we’ll eventually come to a happy medium in terms of language.

  I tell Joanna, “Maybe if I look back in thirty years and don’t want to punch myself in the face for my expressions? I’ll have gotten it right.”

  After the festivities at Anna’s sorority house, we’re talking to a group of moms and daughters. The whole time we’ve been here, we’ve tag-teamed conversations, finishing each other’s sentences, recounting shared history and telling tales of all the trips we’ve taken together.

  “This is my mom and this is my Auntie Jen,” Anna says, introducing us to another mother and daughter set, right as we’re mid-story about our disastrous trip to Italy.

  “Nice to meet you both,” the mom says, after introducing herself. “How did you two meet?”

  “We were roommates freshmen year,” Joanna explains.

  “Wow! And you’ve been together since then?” she replies.

  “Pretty much. We lost touch for a little while. Then we found each other again through Facebook and it was like nothing ever changed, we didn’t miss a beat,” Joanna explains, squeezing my arm.

  The other mom says, “Aw, that’s so great.”

  “It was great,” Joanna confirms.

  Anna catches on first, laughing. “They’re not a couple, they’re not my two moms. My mom’s married to my dad.”

  The woman apologizes for her assumption but Joanna and I just look at each other and shrug it off.

  “Please,” I say. “We could do way worse than each other.”

  We then head over to Earhart Hall, what we call the scene of the crime, our freshman home. Anna and her roommate live in the exact same spot in this dorm that we did, right next to the resident advisor, across from the bathroom, only three floors up.

  While the rest of Purdue has changed so much that I barely recognize it, the dorm is practically frozen in time, our own personal Pompeii. Every single part of it’s the same, from the paneling in the lobby to the stained linoleum lining the hallways. It’s eerie. What’s extra-surreal is that there’s this tree outside the window that we must have looked out at a million times thirty years ago and now, it probably appears at the same height here at the seventh floor as it did for us on the forth.

  Sunrise, sunset, amirite?

  We greet Anna’s roommate Nicole, who is still in bed at 2:30 p.m. She’s just waking up from a big night. Per Anna, when Nicole finally staggered home, knowing that this was Moms’ Weekend and that Anna was trying to keep their room neat, she had the courtesy to vomit in her backpack.

  This kid is already my spirit animal.

  [I don’t think we need a BuzzFeed quiz to determine which roommate is the Jen and which is the Joanna.]

  Joanna says we need to get some protein into these girls, so we decide to take them back to our hotel to fill them with cheese and charcuterie and three kinds of crackers. Nicole rolls out of bed in the clothes she went out in and she’s ready to go.

  Goddamn it, I miss being able to rally like that.

  On our way back down to the car, Joanna and I stop outside the elevator to stand by mirror that still hangs there.

  “We have to show them what we used to do, Joanna.”

  “Oh, my God, yes! I almost forgot!”

  I tell the girls, “We did this every time before we’d go out on the weekend. Our ritual was that we’d listen to the Talking Head’s Stop Making Sense album while we got ready. Once we were done, we check ourselves out like this.”

  Joanna and I stand together in a side-hug in front of the old mirror. We both grin big, cheesy smiles and tilt our heads to the side, as though we’re being photographed.

  “We might be fifty on the outside, but we’re still eighteen on the inside,” Joanna says, striking our trademark pose.

  “Girl, you let me do something with those grays and I will vanish ten years off you in twenty minutes,” I tell her. “We don’t even have to go to the salon. Just one box of L’Oréal. Boom. Done.”

  She shakes her formerly honeyed blonde hair, now shot through with strands of silver. “Nah, I’m happy the way I am.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I grumble. I’m never going to stop asking her to be my human Barbie head and she’s never going to consent. Yin and yang. Our eyes meet and we smile at our reflection.

  Anna snorts. “You’d just hug each other in a mirror? Like, that’s it? You’d just hug and look? You’d pretend to take a selfie?”

  “Cool story, bro,” Nicole adds.

  Are these little assholes are mocking us?

  “Listen,” I hiss, breaking the hug. “We didn’t have smartphones back then. We didn’t know how to work angles. There was no delete-until-you-get-it-right-gram. Cameras weren’t designed to take pictures of yourself backwards, because they had fucking apertures and stuff. They were covered in buttons. They were complicated machines. And, number one, film was, like, a buck a print, and number two, the guy at the Photomat saw every single picture you took. Hell, he made duplicates of the ones he liked! Christ, I wish we had cellphones. I would love to see what my ass looked like at eighteen. I wish I’d saved that shit for posterity. You know what happens to your backyard after thirty? Nothing good.”

  “Mrs. S? Your adult lady friend is making me feel uncomfortable,” Nicole says, again, totally making fun of us.

  Oh, I cannot wait for these kids to be on the other side of this conversation in thirty years.

  Later, back at the hotel, we realize we don’t have a wine key. We send the girls down to the lobby with twenty bucks and the goal to do whatever it takes to find one, but they return empty-handed. They don’t even spend my twenty on nonsense. We are sorely disappointed by their lack of industry.

  Joanna and I have the last laugh when we manage to open the Chardonnay with nothi
ng but my motorcycle boot and a coat hanger.

  Our age has given us the skills these kids won’t master for decades.

  We eat dinner with some of Anna’s sorority sisters and their moms. One of the ladies owns a second home in a cool resort town out west. She and her daughter have invited Anna and another friend to live there over the summer. Joanna doesn’t want her to go, even though everything about the situation is safe and above board.

  “Why not?” I ask as we get ready in our hotel room for what Anna calls the “pregame” frat party. We’re playing the Talking Heads for old time’s sake. “Anything she’d want to do, she’s had the opportunity already but probably hasn’t because she’s a good kid who makes smart decisions.

  “I know,” Joanna admits, pursing her lips.

  “You never lived at home during the summer. You always had an internship or something. You turned out great. You know why? Because you were a good kid who made smart decisions, too. Look at me, I was home all the time and I was a freaking disaster.”

  “I know.”

  “Honey, you raised a nice girl with strong values. Yeah, she’s kind of a smart ass, but that’s the best part of her.”

  Joanna fixes her mascara in the mirror next to me. “I know.”

  “Then, what? This summer’s a great opportunity, and you know how bored she was home over spring break.” I meet her gaze in the mirror. “What’s stopping you from allowing her to go?”

  Joanna’s eyes are a little glassy. “I’d just miss her.”

  I pull her in for one of our side-hugs. It’s all I can do.

  Never one to dwell on the unpleasant for long, Joanna clears her throat and claps her hands together. “Okay. Are you almost ready?”

  I slide on one last coat of lipstick and spray some perfume. “I am.”

  She says, “Then we are off to the Pike house! Huh. I really never thought I’d say that again.”

  A couple of the fraternities are hosting Mom parties tonight, which is the cutest thing I’ve ever heard. I’m oddly excited for this. I say, “I haven’t set foot in a frat party since I was legal to go to bars.”

  Joanna stares at her phone. “Then I just, what, do the Uber?” She downloaded the app for tonight, always having been a taxi cab kind of gal prior to now.

  “Yes, and definitely call it ‘doing the Uber,’” I suggest.

  When our car arrives, even though the driver lives in town and Joanna hasn’t been a resident since the first Bush administration, she tells him to ignore the route and directs him via Google maps.

  I don’t say a damn thing.

  We stop to pick up beer because I am not a savage and I can’t show up to a party empty-handed. The place doesn’t sell High Life, so I opt for a case of Bud instead. I suspect the kids won’t mind.

  Walking in the door of the Pi Kappa Alpha house gives me a great sense of comfort as my sneakers suction to the hardwood. In a world that can be, at best, confusing, and, at worst, terrifying, it’s nice to know that on any given day, the sun will rise, the birds will sing, and the floors of a frat house will be sticky.

  When we enter the party proper, I hand the beer to the backwards-ball-cap-boy behind the bar. Judging from his reaction, you’d think I was T.I. rolling up with a wheelbarrow full of Cristal on ice. He takes the red and white case from me with great reverence. His movement is so ginger, so tender, so deliberate, somewhere between handing a newborn and a bundle of dynamite. He stashes his great prize behind the bar.

  “Ohmigod, thank you! Wow! Thank you!” he says.

  “You’re welcome,” I reply with a shrug.

  “You get a clean glass,” he says, presenting me a red Solo cup with the kind of flourish reserved for Oprah handing out vehicle keys to deserving audience members.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “I can drink out of a can.”

  “Whoa.”

  After the pregame party – which looks exactly like a regular party – the three of us do the Uber [sorry, Joanna, it’s still funny] up to the more formal fraternity party.

  A whole cadre of kids sit at a big table at the door, laptops open in front of them. At first, I think they’re studying and this breaks my heart. Then I realize they’re running an elaborate system of alcohol control and management, coordinating security and paring up guests and sober drivers.

  Sometimes I wonder how any of us made it out of Purdue alive back in the dark ages, especially me.

  We head down to the party in the basement where the DJ spins nothing but ‘80s and ‘90s tunes. With each song by Guns N’ Roses or Bon Jovi, the moms in the group shriek and rush the dance floor while their daughters stand to the side, face-palming.

  It’s so awesome.

  Joanna and I are only planning to stay or a drink or two. While Anna seems to be having fun with us now, we don’t want to blow up her spot. Also, I’m losing track of who’s basic and who’s extra and I still can’t discern the difference.

  A lot of girls here are in rompers, which, why, God, why? While admittedly cute, I have to wonder if the designers got together and asked, “What’s the wearable version of the Rubik’s Cube? Really, what would be the hardest item in the world to remove in a public restroom after, say, six Natty Lights? Could we add a feature that makes the wearer perform naked gymnastics while trying to keep said garment off the disgusting floor in the midst of taking said leak?”

  My old neon Forenza sweaters, linebacker shoulder pads, and knickers don’t seem quite so stupid now.

  [No. They still do.]

  Judging from the Pike house and now Delta Upsilon, the party togs du jour for the modern American fraternity boy appear to be a basketball jersey, a khaki short, and a sport coat. While this look is more functional, and somewhat David Letterman in its vibe, I find it equally puzzling. What message does it convey about the wearer? “I’m up for a game of one on one or a meeting with the marketing team, your call.”

  Despite questionable sartorial choices, these boys are smart. They’re all coming up to talk to Joanna and me, knowing this is the way to get to the pretty daughter.

  “These guys are all so cute, aren’t they?” Joanna says.

  “Yes, but they’re babies,” I reply. “Still, just darling. Check out that one in the striped rugby with the dark hair and sunglasses – he looks like someone you would have dated.”

  “He does, doesn’t he? Hey, how about that blonde kid with the ‘I have a sailboat’ vibe? I could have seen that for you,” she replies. “Totally your type back then. Working that Top Siders and golden leg hair thing.”

  “Ha! All he’s missing are the Madras shorts,” I said. “Oh, over there, look at the one giving off all the art school realness. He’s legit brooding! He’s like, ‘I’m intense! I contain multitudes! Look at me but don’t look at me!’”

  “Where?”

  “By the neon beer sign.” I begin to point and then I catch myself. “Aw, shit, Joanna. Do you hear us? We just got creepy. Seriously. Do you realize we just turned into Matthew McConaughey in Dazed and Confused? ‘Alright, alright, alright. I get older, the frat boys stay the same age.’”

  Joanna nods. “Ew, yeah, we should go now. I kind of want to wash my hands. Let me hit the ladies room. I’ll be back here in a minute and then we’re out of there.”

  As she walks off, a kid in a Lakers jersey and herringbone tweed jacket sidles up to me. “Can I interest you in another Straw-Ber-Ita, m’lady?”

  While I occasionally buy Mango-Ritas, they’re meant to be consumed on the rocks, by a body of water, not served in a sweaty basement, at room temp, from a can. My Straw-Ber-Ita is vile. I’ve had more delicious cough syrup.

  “I’m good, thanks,” I reply.

  “Well...” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Do you go to school here?”

  I clap a hand over my mouth because this boy is just too precious for words. Every other kid in the place is casting for minnows with breadcrumbs, awkwardly flirting with sorority girls. Here he is, trolling the deep water with t
he heaviest test line, looking to reel him in a barracuda.

  “Oh, honey,” I tell him. “You are darling. I mean it. ‘Do you go to school here?’ I love that you think that would work. I do. You keep at it, okay? Plug away. Commit to it. No one who isn’t an undergrad is going to buy that you think she’s an undergrad. But if you’re lucky, one of these moms in here, probably someone fresh off an ugly divorce, is gonna want to live out her Younger fantasy. And she’s going to give you the night of your life.”

  His smile could light up Detroit. “You really think so?”

  The DJ plays that Fountains of Wayne song and the over-forty crowd loses their fucking minds. There’s a veritable stampede of higher-waist jeans heading towards the dance floor.

  “Trust me, kid. I’m old enough to be your mom.”

  Joanna and I choke down one beer at our favorite Purdue bar. Neither of us even want that, but when we find our names still carved in the woodwork twenty-five years later, we haven’t much choice but to stand there and drink a toast to it.

  There’s what I think is a hot dog stand next to the bar and I ask for two of their most popular item while Joanna does the Uber. When we get back to the hotel and unwrap them, we discover hot dog buns filled with French fries, mozzarella sticks, a chicken tender, and splashes of ranch and marinara.

  I feel like I need Seth Rogan to explain whatever this is to me.

  We are ready for bed by midnight.

  Party animals.

  Thirty years ago, we’d have just been going out at this point.

  You know what? I wouldn’t go back. I wouldn’t trade my life for Anna’s. I’d hate to be starting out again. I’m truly happy with where I am. The precipice of fifty looks good, even though I might need reading glasses to help me see it.

  Sure, I had fun revisiting my youth this weekend, but there’s so much more to me, more to either of us than just old memories. Joanna and I are constantly creating new ones in our lives, together, with our husbands, and even by ourselves. I believe that’s the key to staying young.

  When we were eighteen, she and I would lay in our respective dorm beds, talking about these elderly aunties that Joanna had. They were best friends, too. Both of their spouses had passed, so these women spent their twilight years traveling the world together, having adventures, coming back with stories to tell. We pledged that someday, we were going to do that kind of thing.