by Beth Labonte
I turn to Summer. “Why did your mother just ‘oy please’ me?”
She shrugs. “She probably thinks you’re peer pressuring her to drink. She hates that. And she has a point. What’s wrong with you today?”
“Nothing. I’m just excited to get my bachelor party started.”
“Clearly.” She eyes me suspiciously over the rim of her drink as she takes another sip. I look down at my watch, and with my other hand, gently tip up the bottom of her glass. She shoots some margarita out of her mouth as she laughs.
“Ole!” says Eric, plunking a huge sombrero onto my head. He walks off again, plunking two more onto Dad and Richard.
“He must have spent over a hundred bucks on sombreros,” says Summer.
“Can’t say that’s the worst way he’s ever spent his money.”
“At least the outfit is complete now,” she says, looking me critically up and down. “That’s for sure.”
“Believe it or not, the shirts are a bit much, even for my taste.”
“You can’t mean the colors?”
“No, the colors are amazing. It’s the saying that’s borderline juvenile.”
“Borderline?” Summer snorts out some more of her margarita. “Will you look at my father? He looks like a complete lunatic.”
“Blame your brother.”
“Oh, I do,” she says. “That’s why I need you to please watch out for my father today. I know it didn’t go so well the last time I asked, with the golf cart ending up in the lake and everything. But please, don’t let him do any shots. Eric is useless. Everything’s a joke to him. He’ll think it’s funny seeing Dad drunk. But I don’t want him to end up in the ER again. I need you to fling Dad’s shots over your shoulder when nobody’s looking, if that’s what it comes to.”
“You want me to babysit your father?” I ask. “This is my bachelor party, Sum.”
“Actually, this is your second bachelor party,” she says. “The one you decided to have so that our parents could be included. So, yeah. You need to babysit my father. You know how he gets when he’s had a few drinks or is, you know, high on medical marijuana.”
“Oh, I know,” I say. “I’ve seen his tattoo.”
“Exactly,” says Summer. “And I think that experience back in Bermuda gave him a taste for the wild side. It wasn’t two months after the cruise that he got pulled over for his first speeding ticket. And you saw him yesterday after Space Mountain.”
“He’s a wild man, Sum.” I smile. “Okay, fine. I’ll do my best. I planned this party at Epcot for a reason, though. What’s the worst that could happen?”
She doesn’t respond, but I can almost hear the whoosh of a hundred different disasters running through her mind.
“Never mind,” I say. “He’ll be in good hands. Trust me.”
“Thank you,” she says. “And you’re right. A least we’re away from Sunset Havens and all those crazy old people.”
“Gang’s here!” announces Dad, holding up his phone. Half his margarita is already gone and his sombrero is on crooked. I look over at Richard and Joan. They still haven’t had a sip, and Joan has pushed Richard’s sombrero way too far back on his head, yarmulke style.
Okay, then. It’s happening. They’re coming.
I’m reminded of a scene from The Lord of the Rings. The fellowship is deep inside the Mines of Moria, when they hear the distant sound of drumbeats. They are coming, says Gandalf. He is, of course, speaking of orcs coming to kill everybody—not a bus full of frail elderly people hopped up on erectile dysfunction medication—but the similarities are there.
“Gang?” asks Summer, looking at me questioningly. “What’s this about a gang?”
“Dad’s golf buddies,” I say. “And, you know, Francine and Janice.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call that a gang,” she says, crinkling her nose.
Oh, Sum. If you only knew. Which you will, very soon.
I see them now, over Summer’s shoulder. They’re coming through the crowd, and the crowd is parting like the Red Sea. But instead of Moses leading the way, it’s Roger in khaki shorts and New Balance sneakers, and a pair of sunglasses that look like two plastic pineapples. He’s also wearing one of those helmets with the cans of beer on either side of his head. Only, he’s made his own labels for the cans, so that they both say Fart Juice.
In one last attempt to delay the inevitable, I pull Summer in for a kiss.
Too late.
“Where’s that bride?” barks Francine.
Summer pulls away from me, eyebrows raised. She turns around, prepared to find only two, relatively manageable old ladies. Instead, she’s met with a mob of at least forty men, women, and fart juice. Without another word, she turns back to me. She opens her mouth to speak, but is interrupted by Roger. He’s grabbed a pair of maracas off of a display rack and jumped into the center of the group. He throws his arms out and shakes his shoulders from side to side.
“Which of you assholes is ready to party?”
“I am!” shouts Richard.
Joan’s margarita crashes to the ground. Summer’s face has frozen into an expression of surprise and horror. Surprised horror is how I will refer to it later, when we’re all having a good laugh about this. Tanya clamps a hand over her mouth.
“You heard the man!” shouts Eric. “It’s party time!”
Roger and Dad start up the fraternity grunts again, sloshing Dad’s margarita all over the ground and knocking into the display of sombreros. Then Eric grabs Richard and they start doing something similar—bobbing their heads back and forth over each other’s shoulders, until Richard loses the rhythm and cracks his forehead square into Eric’s.
I flash Summer what I hope is an innocent, what are you gonna do? kind of a smile. She flashes me a Joan Hartwell look of death. I’m also getting one from the original Joan Hartwell, so it’s pretty safe to say that my time in this world may be coming to an end.
27
Fortunately, Summer and I don’t have much time to argue before Mom whisks all of the women off toward Canada, and Eric starts leading the guys in the opposite direction toward Norway. Summer’s still giving me the look of death as Nadine drapes her in rainbow colored boas and they’re swallowed up by the crowd.
Once she’s out of sight, though, I start to breathe easier. The fact that my future father-in-law seems excited for the day takes a load off my mind. Summer was right. Under his timid exterior, and with a couple of sips of frozen margarita under his belt, Richard’s a wild man. As long as he takes it slowly, this could end up being a bonding experience for us.
I walk up beside him and throw my arm around his shoulders.
“So, Rich,” I say, “what do you want to do first?”
“Shots!” he shouts.
“Excuse me?”
“You asked what I wanted to do first. I want to do shots.”
Shots. Great. It’s not like Summer asked me to do one thing.
“Why would you want to do shots?” I ask.
“Because Roger said that I haven’t lived until I’ve tried a flaming Dr. Pepper.”
I roll my eyes. “Roger is an idiot. You don’t want to be like him.”
“But he’s so tanned.”
I shake my head and press the palm of my hand into my forehead. “Look, Rich. I don’t think shots are such a good idea. Especially flaming ones. Why don’t you stick with mixed drinks? I’ll buy you a Canto Loopy in China.”
“A canto what?”
“A Canto Loopy. Cantaloupe juice and vodka. You’ll love it.”
“Lame!” shouts Roger, wedging himself between me and Richard. “What kind of a man drinks cantaloupe? More like canta-nope! Am I right?”
“I think he’s right,” says Richard, nodding in agreement.
“Damn straight I’m right! Now, let’s get us men some shots!”
“Shots! Shots! Shots!” We’re suddenly surrounded by a pack of chanting blue shirts.
“Roger, it’s still early. It’s like—” I check
my watch, “It’s twelve o’clock. The park doesn’t close for nine more hours. We’ve got to pace ourselves. We’ve got to pace ourselves!” I shout that last part to the pack of blue shirts, but they can’t hear me over the chanting.
“Pace ourselves?” says Roger. “Pacing is for puss—”
“Thank you, Roger,” I cut in. “It’s just that not everybody here has the same tolerance as you.”
He looks at me blankly.
“You know about tolerance, right?” I ask. “Low tolerance, high tolerance—”
“Low tolerance is for puss—”
“Okay! Never mind. Look, my point is that not everybody here is going to last the day if they don’t pace themselves.”
Roger rolls his eyes and points to his helmet. “Tell it to the fart juice!”
I shake my head. “Why would I tell it to the fart juice? What does that even mean?”
He looks at me as if the answer were obvious. His eyes, at least what I can see of them through his plastic pineapple sunglasses, are bloodshot. Then he turns, lifts one leg in the air, and lets one rip. “Any questions?” He throws his head back and laughs. “A round of Aquavit for everybody!” The pack of blue shirts cheers.
This is going well.
“Hey, Graham! Take our picture!”
I take my eyes off Roger and Richard and turn around. It’s Eric, standing with his arm around a tall, blonde woman in Norwegian costume.
“Not a good idea, man,” I say. Eric’s no cheater, but cameras and bachelor parties are never a good mix. I learned this in Vegas after a photo of myself, backstage at the Britney Spears show at Planet Hollywood, made its way onto Summer’s Facebook feed.
By the time I turn back, Richard’s holding a shot glass up in the air and Roger’s chanting Chug, Chug, Chug!
Shit.
I leave Eric, jog over, and grab the shot glass out of Richard’s hand. Then I down it. Then I take the shot glass that Roger was holding out to me, and I down that one too. Well, Sum, I might end up flat on my face tonight, but at least your father will be feeling good in the morning.
“You like?” asks Eric’s Norwegian friend, coming up beside me.
“Nydelig!” I say.
She smiles approvingly and heads back into the crowd.
“I can’t believe you still speak Norwegian,” says Eric, looking wistfully after the girl. “How long ago were we in Oslo? Six years?”
“Seven,” I say, fond memories washing over me as the two shots of Aquavit start working their potato-y magic. I briefly wonder how I’m supposed to watch out for Richard if I’m drunk off my ass.
“Remember that night at Kokkos?” asks Eric.
“How could I forget?”
“Hvor er toalettet?” he says in a falsetto, and we both laugh. I check one last time that Richard is shot-free, before wandering off with Eric toward the World Showcase lagoon. We lean on the fence and look out over the water.
“This place is completely bananas,” I say.
“Epcot?”
“Sunset Havens.”
“Oh, yeah,” says Eric. “That place is a shit show.”
I laugh. “The funny thing is that that’s the reason I usually love the place. But, with your parents here, it’s like I’m seeing it from a totally different perspective.”
“Mom and Dad are having a blast.”
“You sure? Your mom’s already been to the hospital, and your dad crashed a golf cart into a lake.”
Eric looks at me funny. “Weren’t you the one that put them on jet skis way back when?”
“That was different. Back then, I wasn’t a week away from marrying their daughter. I don’t know. I feel like maybe I haven’t been taking all of this seriously enough.”
“You are who you are, man, and we all know it. Including my parents. If you think they’re suddenly judging you based on your parents’ retirement community, you’re nuts.”
I don’t typically take life advice from Eric, but he makes a valid point.
“Look,” he continues. “Before Tanya and I got married, I introduced them to her father who’s on his third wife and has grandchildren older than his step-kids. Mom and Dad survived, and they still love Tanya. This isn’t any different.”
I look over my shoulder at Roger, who’s standing on a bench thrusting his hips.
“It’s a little different.”
“It’ll be fine,” laughs Eric. “Let’s just focus on the weirdness of the fact that you’re marrying my sister. You ready?”
I smile. “I’m ready.”
“I don’t have to give you the speech about how if you hurt her, I will hunt you down and kill you, do I?”
I look at him, surprised. “No offense, but I never took you for that kind of a brother.”
“What? Protective?”
“Yeah.”
Eric shrugs. “Summer and I have had our differences, but she’s still my little sister. And the way she’s stuck it out with Mom and Dad all these years, watching out for them after I left, I have a lot of respect for her.”
“Have you ever told her that?”
Eric snorts. “She’s my sister, I’m not going to talk to her about my feelings. Gross.”
“Right. Well, you don’t have to worry,” I say. “You know I would never hurt her. Summer is it for me.”
“I know,” says Eric. “But I also know us, back before we were two old married men. I know about Oslo, and Amsterdam, and Rio. And then there was that time in Tokyo—”
“Tokyo. Ya.” I rub the back of my neck. “That was a rough night. But hey, we were young. We’re better people now. Tanya and Summer are no small part of that.”
“Here, here!” says Eric, as we clink our empty shot glasses.
We stand in silence for a few moments, bidding farewell to my bachelorhood, and watching the ducks paddle peacefully around the lagoon.
“What are you two girls giggling about?” asks Roger, wedging himself between us and handing me another shot. “Comparing pantyhose brands?”
He bursts out laughing, and the ducks scatter.
“Nope,” says Eric. “We were just discussing how many women a guy like you probably gets in a month. At a place like Sunset Havens, it’s got to be up there.”
“Oh, hey now,” says Roger. “That there is private information between myself and Mr. Tambourine Man.” He motions to the lower half of his body.
“You call it...Mr. Tambourine Man?” I ask, before realizing that I never should have asked.
“That’s right,” says Roger. “In the jingle jangle morning I’ll come...”
“Got it, thanks,” I say, drinking the shot. “That’s...very clever.”
“Did you know that I’m the only one of my friends—my single friends, might I add, so you don’t get the wrong idea about your dad—who hasn’t had an STD?”
“Wow,” says Eric. “You and Mr. Tambourine Man must be so proud.”
“We sure are. Though, that might change by the end of the night.” Roger lets out a long whistle as a gray-haired woman in denim short shorts walks by.
Mr. Tambourine Man, Eric mouths to me. What?
I shrug and shake my head. Strangely nicknamed genitalia or not, the alcohol I’ve consumed is filling me with a fair amount of regard for Roger. Here is a man enjoying life to the fullest, up until the not-so-very-far-away end. I can only hope to have that same amount of vitality when I get to be his age. I hope that I’m not widowed, of course. But if I am—God rest Summer’s soul—what better place to be widowed than Sunset Havens? Roger and Mr. Tambourine Man are living the dream down here, crashing bachelor parties, popping Viagra, thrusting their strangely named geni—
Man, I’m pretty buzzed.
What was that about pacing ourselves? Did I really say that? Where did all of these ducks come from, anyway?
Okay, maybe buzzed isn’t the word. Whatever. Focus, Blenderman.
I clamp a hand onto Roger’s shoulder, about to openly express my admiration for his lif
estyle, when he turns and belches directly into my face.
And just like that, the moment’s gone.
SUMMER
28
I stare Graham down with my mother’s look of death until he’s swallowed up by the crowd. Then I turn around and take inventory.
Francine
Janice
Nadine
Gloria
Lorraine
Babette
Tanya
Mom
Plus half the female population of Sunset Havens.
All here. All at my bachelorette party. My second bachelorette party. To be honest, I was perfectly happy just having one. As I said, we spent a weekend in Miami, and it was a blast. The best part? My mother did not attend. I know, that sounds mean. But my mother isn’t exactly the bachelorette party type. Shocking, right? Joan Hartwell, who has never in her life used the proper terms for the male and female anatomy. Joan Hartwell, who simply calls them “your business,” as in, “Come any closer and I’ll kick you in the business.” Needless to say, Small Business Saturday has taken on a whole other meaning for me.
Anyway, the thought of having an Australian beefcake shake his business in my face while my mother stood by draped in cheap, plastic, penis-shaped necklaces, was horrifying beyond all horrors. So yes, it was a relief when she didn’t join us in Miami. But leave it to Graham to feel bad about that. Leave it to my thoughtful, empathetic fiancé to consider that maybe our parents felt left out of the whole thing.
So, he went and arranged this little do-over that he thought would be cute and safe and would make everybody feel happy and included. He’s definitely going to be one of those soccer coaches that has to give everybody a trophy.
“Get it off!” I say, shrugging off the rainbow boa that Nadine’s been trying to drape across my shoulders. “That’s the last thing I want to wear in public.”
As Nadine removes the boa, Janice steps in and replaces it with what is truly the last thing I want to wear in public—a battery-operated plastic penis that flashes (or as Janice loudly announces, throbs) from blue to pink to purple.
Mom and I lock eyes as Janice drapes the cord over my head—like the recipient of an Olympic medal—and then drapes another one onto my mother.