I saw the back of his head: a
pageboy cap. The hat led to
doughy arms holding a can of Budweiser, or was it a mug?
What
would a bar serve in a mug?
“That’s
Jack,” My brother pointed as we walked through the glass doors. He
motioned to two stools next to Pageboy Cap.
“Hey! It’s been a long time.” Jack
made mental notes of my hair and lips.
“Hey
Jack, what’s going on.” Childless
Brad Pitt ordered drinks.
“And
who is this?” Blue eyes
under the dim lighting.
“January. Hey.” I spoke as we started to
shake hands. I pulled mine
back and we laughed. He glimpsed my nervous boobs.
“Sorry.”
My coat was off and I required vodka. I needed vodka an hour ago at my
dad’s. Childless Brad Pitt leaned over.
“Jack,
January, January, this is Jack. We
went to high school together.” My
brother spoke with as much as interest as he had in pumping gas.
“Hi
there sweetheart.” He raised his can, stood up and started a conversation
with his other barstool neighbor. Distracted
by the drink my brother pushed towards me, it took me a few sips before I
refocused on Jack. An inch
shorter than me and semi-stocky.
My Ketel One and soda vanished and my
breath went with it. Baffled
and my whole body at battle, I picked
at my damp napkin as I abused my limes and overheard Rod Stewart sing “Stay With Me.” My brother talked to his friends
nearby: I didn’t know many people in Pismo anymore.
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