It's my party and I'll laugh at the fat kid if I want to

The month of April is one giant clusterfuck of birthdays and holidays. There’s April Fool’s Day, which most don’t consider a holiday, but I’m the sort to celebrate anything that allows me to make an ass out of myself or someone else. Unfortunately, this year I was too busy behaving like an adult (pronounced in this case, for effect, as “add-ult” rather than my usual “uh-dult”.) to play a decent prank on anyone. I didn’t even get fooled until the day after, and that was almost as depressing as the ideas I didn’t have time to come up with.

Being a fastidious employee, I opened a work email intended for April 1st on April 2nd. It was our weekly newsletter of company updates on things like new retirement plan information, classes, discounts, and praise for staff that go above and beyond. (I’ll get there one day.) One of the very first headings announced that George Clooney would be using our campus to film his next movie. Now, I know what you’re thinking: “I know that idiot didn’t fall for that.” Well yes, actually, I did. And I’ll tell you why: Because a few years ago Kevin Bacon used the area surrounding our campus for a movie. The place was a madhouse, with employees using their lunch break to try and catch a glimpse of him during filming and get autographs. I never once went near the set. I couldn’t be bothered to interrupt my blog reading for the likes of The Bacon. But for The Clooney I’d at least take a peek. Anyway, so I read the heading, gasped very loudly and excitedly, and then proceeded to read the paragraph that followed. In the first sentence it said, “blah blah blah April Fools”. Then I sat there and seethed because it was such a sucky AF joke and I fucking fell for it and now I hate Kevin Bacon even more than I did before because it’s obviously his fault.

Anyway...

Then of course there’s Good Friday, Easter, Administrative Professional’s Day (to celebrate wonderful assistants like me), and Earth Day, which I can’t be bothered with. I will celebrate the Earth when it starts producing money trees in my front yard and stops inspiring people to avoid deodorant on account of being “natural”, which is really just another word for “stench” and/or “ugly”. (I’m looking at you, Matthew McConaughey.)

As for the birthdays: My daughter and uncle on the 6th, The Grandmother on the 9th, mom on the 19th, and little cousin Dave on the 22nd (I think...fuck.). That’s a lot of money to spend, cake to eat, and family gatherings to get through. Now, with the month almost half over, I’m starting to relax a bit. But I totally deserve it.

Easter and the kid’s 5th birthday were the first stressful hurdles. While we decided to make Easter Sunday a combination holiday/birthday dinner at TG’s, there was still the other half of the family and her friends to consider. We used to have one party and combine the two families, but The Grandmother now hates my Papa (long story) and calls him “that fat rat bastard”, so we have to do two of everything.

In the end I went the easy route and invited only family and neighbors for hot dogs, cake, and ice cream to Papa’s house where I wouldn’t be expected to clean up. Score! In our family there are always enough kids around without inviting outsiders anyway. (Wow, that sounds very Mormon of me, doesn’t it? I should stress that I have no particular religious affiliations at present and when the kid tells TG (ahem, shouts at her) that she doesn’t want to talk about Jesus, it has absolutely nothing to do with me.)

That Tuesday evening there were approximately 15 adults and four children: the birthday girl, my cousin’s two kids, and Air Hose, the daughter of a neighbor’s boyfriend. (Some of you will recall last summer’s video blog in which I am startled by a fat kid on a trampoline. That’s the one.)

In case you are concerned I am not prejudice against fat children and having been one myself, I’ve learned a few things:

1) Sometimes laughter cannot be helped, no matter how wrong or inappropriate it is.

2) It’s usually the parent’s fault and there’s nothing funny about that.

3) Baby powder helps with chafing.

4) Eating while laughing is dangerous and ineffective.

Everything was going wonderfully. The kids were playing together in the designated play area. The adults were chatting amiably in the designated chatting area. And the men folk were grilling in the...well, outside. My best friend, Rachel, sat opposite me at the cake table and we discussed things and stuff that likely weren’t appropriate for a five year old girl’s birthday party, though I don’t remember specifics. That’s about the time my mom started giving me the stink eye.

“Hey”, she half shouted from across the room, “don’t you think you should pay attention to the children?”

“Why? They’re fine”, I shouted back.

“Don’t you think it’s time to do cake and ice cream?”

“Sigh. I suppose.”

I forced myself off the tall swivel chair and marched into the living room to confront the “avoiders”. These are the relatives and friends that must be present at every birthday, barring death (coma and nervous breakdown are not acceptable excuses as child’s birthday parties have been known to cause these), or be banned from free lake access and big people parties with wet bars. So they come, but they sit out of sight and look around furtively lest they be asked to help serve, slice, or hold a squirming crumb snatcher by the ankles.

“Time to do cake”, I said. They all looked at me and then around at each other. “Move it! Now!” (Mom says I’ve a bit of a bossy side when it comes to “events”.)

I moved on to the play area and rounded up the miniatures. At the mention of cake they all took off running, Air Hose galumphing behind like a grizzly on the hunt. The facial expression under the blonde bob haircut, with horrifically short bangs, was nothing short of animal lust. I know it well. It’s the same look Fisher Price used to have before he would attempt to maul me with sweaty paws, fish lips, and that...cocktail weenie.

The kid was placed in the chair of honor, cake pushed close, and the other children scrambled into the surrounding chairs, putting their nappy little heads in the way of prime photo ops.

“Get back! Sit down! Don’t touch that! Hey, hey, kid!”

The song was sung, candles blown out, cake sliced, ice cream scooped and passed around. I was in charge of cutting the cake, of course, so I wasn’t paying much attention to unrelated details. Like the fact that Air Hose’s caretaker decided to leave the party temporarily.

I had just started eating my own slice when there was a slimy tug on my elbow. “Hey...hey...”

I looked over at her, irritated at being interrupted (really just irritated in general because kids tend to have that affect on me) and touched with fingers coated in icing. “Yeah?”

“Can I have some more ice cream?”

I looked at her fleshy cheeks and arms, coated in blue from the icing and birthday cake flavored ice cream. “Um...you should probably ask Person Who Should Have Been Here to Field Request for Food.”

“She’s not here. She went to go pick up my dad from work.”

“Oh...well...I...guess so.” I wasn’t really sure how best to proceed, but I figured I should probably just give her the ice cream in case she decided to throw a very large tantrum. But while I was scooping it out of the carton I was distracted by an adult asking me some random question. As I was answering I plopped the ice cream on her plate.

“Wow!”

By the time I realized what I had done, she was already face down in the melting glob. I’d put a very, very large scoop on her plate and now there was no getting it back. Unfortunately I was not the only witness to this accident. I heard what sounded like choking and turned around just in time to see that one of the “avoiders” had been leaning around the door frame and was turning to run before the laughter came out. Not that Air Hose would have noticed, but still, I was horrified. I might have had the urge to laugh several times that day, but damn it I suppressed it and soldiered on! Mostly. I shot her a glare and turned back to my mother of the birthday girl duties.

Opening presents was a fiasco because my precious angel tears off one tiny strip of wrapping paper at a time and flings them away with abandon. I stood to her left behind Air Hose, who had squeezed herself into the closest chair, and snatched paper as it flew by. Every now and then Air Hose would attempt to grab a passing present or tempt me into conversation with little tidbits like, “I have one of those”, but I wasn’t having it. And then came the kicker: The Slip-N-Slide.

My friend bought the kid a double laned slip-n-slide with a little pool and sprinklers on the end. It came with two inflatable surf boards and all you had to do was hook up the hose. The others agreed that it would be a great way to entertain the kids for the remainder of the party so I sent my cousin Dave outside to set it up while I got them ready. Air Hose wore a pair of leggings and a long t-shirt, my cousin’s kids wore a pull-up and shorts, and my always prepared (snort) child had on her new swimsuit.

We (the adults) arranged ourselves on steps and swings and sat back to chat and watch. The kid went first. She zoomed down the slide on her float and splashed into the cold pool of water, immediately popping up and laughing like a hyena. Success. My cousin’s two children went next, the boy followed the kid’s example and the girl, being a bit more cautious, eased herself half way down then ran away, pumping her fist in triumph. We laughed at the sight of them. It was adorable.

Then it was Air Hose’s turn. She started out by holding the float in front of her, running a bit, and jumping. But rather than traveling down the slide like the rest, she landed with a flop and stayed there. All around me people were laughing, but thankfully it didn’t appear to be directed at her because they’d already been laughing at the others. I twitched and bit my lip, a small snort escaping unintentionally.

She stayed there for a minute, unsure of what to do, while the other kids kept zooming past her and crashing into each other. I was just before getting up to help her when she tossed the float away and started to army crawl toward the bottom, digging her elbows in and grunting with effort.

That’s when I lost it.

My best friend and another friend were sitting to my right, my sister to my left, and my mother in front of me on the steps. I watched my mom’s shoulders shake while the rest of us fell into each other, unable to sit upright. Again, there was so much noise and so much generalized laughter that she didn’t notice.

The poor thing finally reached the bottom and performed a graceless roll into the pool that dumped a large amount of standing water out onto the grass. But rather than get up, she continued to roll around under the spray like a trained Orca. And that’s how it went for over an hour. It was an impressive show.

Occasionally she would get lucky and roll all the way down, tumble into the pool and right over the side, and continue rolling down the grassy hill. My mom finally had to leave because sometimes when she laughs too hard she pees her pants.

We pushed Air Hose down that slide and clapped and cheered for her just like we did the others. But I still felt bad that night when we went home. My friends and I were sitting on the porch sipping wine (well, Rachel was continuously spraying her throat with cherry throat spray in hopes of getting a bit drunk) and talking about it. And yeah, it was funny. It was impossible not to laugh at that image. Even my Papa laughed. But it was also a bit sad. Her mom is a big fucker and had her hair cut in a bob just because she knew it would upset her dad. Every time I think about the things that woman does just to bring that kid down, I want to stab her in the ovaries.

And so I’ve been around her twice since the party and it’s gotten a little easier not to laugh. We even hooked up the slip-n-slide for them yesterday and I only snickered three, maybe four, times. My mom says that part of the problem is that she’s 6, looks like she’s 10, and when she opens her mouth and that squeaky voice comes out it’s a bit of a shock. This could explain why every time she spoke I’d get the urge to giggle or run away. But like I said, I’m doing much better. PTA moms have to deal with fat kids all the time. At least I’ll be prepared come fall when I immerse myself in parenting/school/stuff I’d sooner pull my eyelashes out than do. So, in fairness, I owe Air Hose a debt of gratitude. She might have just saved me from getting my ass handed to me by the parent of some kindergarten brownie stuffer.

Where was this originally going? Ah! Holidays and birthdays!

After the kid’s birthday was The Grandmother’s 75th. My sister and I bought her a few outfits for spring that she desperately needed because she has issues with buying anything that isn’t some shade of beige. We all went out to dinner, stayed with her that night, and went to lunch the next day. She was unusually thankful and complimentary about her presents and all the attention she was receiving. My mom says that the reason she’s been so happy and hasn’t been shouting about lesbos and homos is because she’s actually taking her medicine. Though...she did have one incident:

We were sitting in the living room Saturday evening and a car went by with a sound system in it. The BOOM BOOM BOOM drives TG up the wall. She got up and looked out the window, then sat back down in a huff. I think we might have been talking about Jesus or something before that because when she sat down she raised her right arm high over her head, fist balled tight, and said (loudly and in quite the terrifying manner), “I pray God raises his mighty right arm and smites them all! Mighty smiter!”

I laughed really hard and she gave me a stern talking to on the dangers of boom boxes.

Next on the agenda is my mom’s birthday. She’s not hard to buy for, but after the events from last night I imagine she’s not much in the mood for celebrating. Neither am I, really, but more on that later.

This way for attention

Things have been a bit tough around here lately – monetarily, physically, and emotionally. (I’ll be using this as an excuse for my sporadic involvement in blogland.)

I’ve been alternately slammed with work, then so bored that I have to stop myself from wasting the entire supply cabinet’s staple stock by shooting them randomly at people as they walk past my door. Professionalism is not as entertaining, you know.

I received my lovely income tax return and wept over the most beautiful bank balance I’ve had since, well, last tax season. Then I wept again because every single dime of it went to catch up on bills. But the joke is on me, because I’m still not caught up. Mainly because there’s always something unexpected happening. Like two flat tires, an alignment, and another bridesmaid dress.

That’s right. I’m officially on my way to becoming Katherine Heigl’s character in the rom com 27 Dresses.

The only difference is there’s no leading man to watch me try on my collection of pastel colored finery or make out with me in a car. Not that I’d want to make out with anyone in my car. The inside should be featured on a poster for Ebola awareness or a support group for hoarders. Then there’s always the “who gets to sit in the kid's car seat” awkwardness. You know what I’m talking about? The one that’s not sitting in the car seat always feels like a pedophile and the one that is sitting in it can’t spread their legs comfortably. Unless you have one of those fancy ones with the arm rests that lift up. And a cup holder for your beer.

And did I mention that this bridesmaid dress I have to purchase it the exact same dress I wore in last September’s wedding? Did I? Oh, well it is. Only it’s a different color. Instead of candy pink, it’s called watermelon, and would you believe they can’t (read: won’t) dye the motherfucker?

I met the girls at the shop on a Saturday morning a few months ago. It just happened to coincide with one of my rare nights out at the bars and I showed up wearing brown yoga capri pants, a yellow tank top with a pink one over the top, flip flops, a blue knitted headband (yes, yours Erin), and white disco style sunglasses covering truly heinous leftover makeup. I was, to put it mildly, extremely hung over and extremely cranky.

I was half an hour late and one of the attendants immediately shoved a dress in my hands and sent me to a changing room. It wasn’t until I’d slipped it on that I realized it was from the exact same collection as the previous wedding. At first I was miffed, but then I thought, “Hey! I can get the dress Whitney wore. It still has pockets for my cigarettes and I don’t have to worry about tan lines again. Stupid strapless...”

(The collection I’m referring to is of the mix and match variety. All the bridesmaids wear a different style dress, just in the same color.)

I stepped out of the dressing room in a bright orange number (the try on dresses aren’t necessarily in the color you will be ordering), still wearing my blue headband and white shades. Thankfully everyone found it hilarious. I was afraid the bride would blame me for ruining her fitting by crawling out of a liquor bottle.

“I don’t like this one”, I said.

“Neither do I”, said the bride. “Here, look at the book and pick a style you like and they’ll see if it comes in the color I picked.”

Shoulder to shoulder with an attendant, I leaned over a catalog and leafed through the pages. “What about that one?” I pointed out the dress Whitney had.

“That one doesn’t come in watermelon.”

“That one?”

“Nope.”

“Ok...that one.”

“One of the other girls already picked it.”

I glared at the attendant and the bride, sensing trouble, intervened.

“I loved you in the strapless. Let’s do that one.”

“But I didn’t really want...”

The attendant already had the dress in her hands and she thrust it into my arms. “Go put it on and let’s see, hmm?”

“I already know what it looks like”, I grumbled.

“Humor me”, the bride replied.

I sighed, went back into the changing room, pulled on the dress, and stomped back out. All the girls did that collective murmuring in the affirmative and it was settled: I would wear the blushing twin of the dress I’d worn in September. “...without the headband, please”, the attendant added.

I stomped on her toes on the way out.

In another conspiracy to bankrupt me before thirty, the kid is turning five next week.

Some of you non-parents may not be aware of this, but you can’t half-ass a five year old girl’s birthday party. You might get away with just family, cake, and ice cream for the first two or three years, but after that they expect you to buy stock in Never Never Land, shoot glittery fireworks out of your ass, and invite every snot nosed brat they ever laid eyes on.

Every commercial that comes on the television advertising a toy is followed with: “Maaaaama! Can you get me that? For my birthday, mom? Seriously, I need it.” Every window display that has anything remotely colorful: “Maaaaama! I want that for my birthday! It’s in two weeks, right? Didn’t you say it was in two weeks?”

It’s crunch time and she’s not taking any shit or accepting anymore noncommittal “mmm hmm’s” or “We’ll see’s”.

I was in the shower the other day, blissfully shampooing my hair, when the door flew open. “Mom!”

“WHAT”, I screamed in panic and covered my bizness. (It's a reflex. Flashback from being startled in the shower and maiming myself, you know.)

The shower curtain whipped open and she shoved a glossy toy ad from the newspaper toward my face. “Can you get me this for my birthday!?”

“I’M NAKED!”

“But can you get me this?”

I jerked the shower curtain back into place. “Boundaries, kid! We’ve talked about them.”

“But can y...”

“If you don’t get out of here right this minute there will be no presents and no party! Out, out, out!”

She then burst into tears and ran from the room.

The kid is one of the best actresses I’ve seen. Watching her in action, I’m often torn between admiration, frustration, and amusement. Usually I settle on amusement...and sometimes I taunt her a little. She particularly hates it when I chant, “Liar, liar, pants on fire,”...then once I’ve gotten her really mad switch to, “I see your hiney, so bright and shiny. You better hide it, before I bite it.” (I’m southern. Hide and bite rhyme, ok.) But I digress. Birthdays...

I haven’t picked up a single present or made a single plan yet. Sure, we’ve kicked around a few ideas: bouncy house, dress up party, Tinkerbell theme. But I just can’t seem to make a decision. All of them are going to cost me lots of money and cause some type of emotional and/or physical damage.

The bouncy house was my first pick because once it got dark and all the children were gone and mine was in bed, my cousin and I could get drunk, bounce around, and laugh our asses off. But after thinking about it more carefully (popping, vomiting, etc), it didn’t seem like such a great idea.

I hate character paraphernalia, so Tinkerbell wasn’t at the top of my list to begin with. That leaves...the dress up party, which would be very loud and messy. Someone, who might be dead before this is over with, even suggested we make it a slumber dress up party. Oh, dear gawd in heaven.

Do you know what would happen? Somebody’s kid would freak out and decide at 2 o’clock in the morning that it wants it's mother. It's mother who isn’t home because it’s her first free night out in 6 months and she’s too busy line dancing and snorting coke off the brim of a cowboy hat to the tune of ‘Redneck Woman’ to answer my phone calls. And then do you know what happens? It’ll ask to sleep with me since it can’t go home and I’ll be completely creeped out when it gets all cuddly and grabby. Then I’ll have to get up and make them all breakfast, but someone will be lactose intolerant and vomit all over the rug...right next to the purple eye shadow they ground into it the night before. And, at some point during all that, I’ll likely teach them a few words their parents will later say launched their cutting careers. “This way for attention, dear.”

Sigh. I’ll keep you posted on what we decide.

Either way I’ll likely need a second job. Anybody know a nice pimp?

The shoe and the man parade

The black and white tile floor is littered with the debris of celebration: plastic cups, napkins, beads, and even a stray high heeled shoe. There isn’t much room to move around. The crush of bodies is excessive even for this place – a sea of green revelry.

But the shoe sits in a small circle of calm, dancers move around it as if there’s an invisible force field. I stare at it, idly stirring my drink. I wonder who it belongs to and if they’ll come back for it or just leave it to be swept away with the rest of the night’s waste.

The thought makes me sad and at that moment I realize that I look a bit like that shoe – lost, out of place. I’m standing near the center of a group of friends and for once, I’m not cracking jokes or running the conversation. I’m not even listening, really.

The festival has been going on all day. I might very well be the only half sober person in the room. Even the two people I came late with have drunk enough before hand to fit right in. I decide that I need to be on their level and I head to the bar for another drink.

Ten minutes later I finally have another Jack and coke. As I’m walking back toward my group, weaving through the maze of people, a cool hand grabs mine. I smile as I turn, thinking it’s one of my friends. It isn’t. He looks Brazilian – tan and dark, short and muscular, with a thousand watt smile. He’s mouth watering. He tugs on my hand, attempting to draw me to him. I resist, free myself, and continue pushing my way through the crowd.

Back in my original place, I can still see him. He reminds me of another man, most certainly Brazilian, that I had years ago. The sex was fantastic and I have a feeling it would be with this one too. He has the same look in his eyes – a confidence that should seem arrogant and off-putting, but somehow isn’t. Rather than kick myself for not acquiescing, I simply marvel at my self control. After all, I haven’t had sex since New Year’s. I smile to myself. I’ve become a regular girl scout.

I attempt to be sociable and I manage, but not with my usual flair. I’m hauled back to the bar for shots with my friend Claire and the small town heartthrob from a rival school that I’ve met many times over the years, yet he still has no idea who I am. He’s good looking, though dressed in the oddest manner. In the middle of gold beads, stilettos, green t-shirts, wigs and face paint, he wears a plaid button up shirt, tan sweater vest, and loafers.

More shots are passed around. Sweater vest guy tries to coerce me into dancing to every song that comes on. He’s very handsy and I suspect he may be on Ecstasy. It amuses me to turn him down, but it bothers me a bit too. I don’t exactly want to say no, but I can’t say yes either. Maybe this isn’t self control after all. Maybe it’s something entirely different.

The man parade continues with an old flame I ran into right before Christmas. The friends I’m with know him well, but they have no idea about our past indiscretions. He looks at me and I smile nervously, hoping no one notices my discomfort, most of all him. He walks over, but instead of standing in front of me, he walks around and half presses himself into me from behind. He’s over a foot taller and has to lean down to say in my ear, “I sent you text messages. You didn’t respond.”

I turn to face him, an apologetic smile on my face. “I’m sorry! I meant to, but when I got them I was busy. Then by the time I remembered, they were gone and I hadn’t saved your number.”

He looks properly unconvinced, but pulls out his phone anyway. “Should I call you now so you have my number?”

“Oh, you can just text me later. I’ll save it.”

I look up at him, trying to exude a casualness I don’t feel. In truth, I feel like I’m being pulled in different directions. On one hand - he’s attractive, he wants me, he’s free, I’m free, and seeing how much I still affect him is a rush. On the other – I feel dirty. Being around him makes me think of what we did and where we did it and who we could have hurt had we ever been caught. I wonder why I didn’t feel that way when it was happening and I can only assume that it’s because I was too young to really care. Guilt is a rare emotion for me, it was then and it is now. Now I feel guilty for the past, and for avoiding his text messages and not having the balls to say, “I’m sorry, I can’t”, when confronted.

“Ok”, he says, pocketing his phone again. He must sense my reluctance to be near him so he hugs me, says goodbye, and moves across the dance floor to another group. I catch him staring at me often.

When he leaves a little over an hour later, he comes to say goodbye again. I’m pretty drunk, surrounded by three men in a semi circle while I regale them with nonsense. He stands on the edge and holds out his arm hesitantly, like he wants to touch me but he’s not sure if I’ll allow it.

“We’re leaving”, he says.

“Ok!” I smile and throw my hand up in a half wave. “See you later!”

“Yeah, later”, he replies, dropping his arm and backing away.

Without him there to remind me, the guilt disappears. I'm relaxed again. I even dance a little bit. It is my cousin’s birthday after all.

She’s dancing too, grabbing my hands and twirling us around. Claire slaps my ass and I laugh. Someone else hands me a shot and I take it, still moving. My cousin turns around, intent on backing her ass up in my direction, knowing I have no where to go but back into a wall of green clad men. Suddenly she stops, screams, and lurches forward. She jumps, wrapping her arms and legs around someone I can’t see.

When she lets go and backs away, I’m not happy. I’m too drunk to stop the words from coming out of my mouth. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” Trey doesn’t hear me, but other people do. Her boyfriend’s expression matches mine, but at least he can keep his mouth shut.

It’s not that I mind Trey, exactly. It’s that the night has already been a bit of a drama fest without having him around too. One night stands are supposed to fade into the background and not pop up every where you go. I’ve never been lucky in that respect.

We say hello to each other and take shots. The act feels a bit like using Novocain – numb the reaction. He’s a fun guy, but he’s also an arrogant asshole. And, truth be told, not that great a lay – though I must admit the circumstances were a little difficult.

We used to work together back when I was seeing the kid’s dad. I’d known Trey for a few years though friends. I went to a few of his parties, smoked with him a few times, but that was about it.

One night a bunch of us went out drinking and ended up crashing at a friend’s apartment. Trey and I shared one of the couches – his head at one end, mine at the other. People were scattered all over the living room floor and the other couch. I don’t recall there being any flirtation between us at all.

I was almost asleep when I felt his hand on my leg. I was drunk and I knew he was drunk, so I decided to ignore it. Then, somehow, ignoring it progressed to having sex. I don’t remember all the details in between, as this was several years ago and alcohol was involved, but in the beginning we attempted to do it without changing our original positions - scooting together, legs laced.

It worked at first, but then it just wasn’t cutting it.

He dragged me off the couch and into a bedroom that was supposed to be off limits. We started going at it, but again, things just weren’t going well. By then the sun had been up for awhile and we started hearing people wake up in the living room. We stopped and I had to make the dash of shame, wrapped in a comforter, to get my clothes.

Not a great experience.

Things are awkward at first. We have nothing to say to each other and I know he’s probably thinking the same thing I am – why did I do that?

Our stilted conversation is interrupted by the blinding overhead lights. The bar is closing and everyone is being hustled out. I pay my tab and wait while my friends do the same. I watch as the room that was so packed mere moments before the shouted “closing” empties rapidly. The sea of green is gone. The black and white tile floor, previously only seen in bits and pieces, is open. Trash, mud and glass are everywhere.

My cousin joins me, linking arms, as much for stability as habit. We trip toward the stairs, her boyfriend and Trey following. I realize I left my jacket on a stool and I tell them I’ll be right back. They continue down as I hurry back, kicking plastic cups away as I walk.

Thankfully my jacket is still there. I pause to put it on and that’s when I see it – the lone, black, high heeled shoe. It’s turned on its side, surrounded by bits of broken glass. I can’t leave it there.

I pick it up and take it to the bar. “Someone lost this”, I say. I hand it to the girl. “In case they come back looking for it.”

She looks it over. “That happens all the time. She’ll be back for this one, it’s expensive”, she says, sticking it under the counter.

I turn and walk away. “I don’t believe she will.”