Tuesday, December 6, 2011
"Nancy. We're going. Get in the car."
I took a furtive sip of my mudslide, which Emily had poured into a Big Gulp cup. My stomach twisted as I settled into the backseat of the convertible.
"Woooo!" squealed Jessica, "That's my jam!" She lifted her hands in the air as Prince's "Pussy Control," blared from the speakers. I ducked---my seventh grade students were everywhere.
My husband had said, "You should go out with Steve's girlfriend, Marcy. She's a lot of fun."
He would be hearing about this. Or maybe not.
I took another long sip. A bit of ice clogged in the straw. I wiped my hands on my jeans, and tried to smile, laugh. I could be fun, too.
"Ahhhhh. Pussy Control!"" screeched Marcy from behind the wheel. We approached the intersection.
"We're almost here, bitches!" She took a quick left, and rear-ended a truck. A thud. An air bag. And Prince singing, "Better sit your ass down."
"OhShitOhShit," mumbled Marcy. She was sober, yes. But also an Air Force Airman. The Big Gulp cup rested heavy in my trembling hands.
The rear ended car drove away, as Marcy paged her boyfriend.
We sat in the parking lot, the marquee reading, "Home of Thunder Down Under."
It was to be my first trip to a strip club. But the universe, or perhaps Prince, had taken control.