Page 90 of The Fake Husband Play
It’s Saturday night,the one night of the week when I can stay out as late as I want, and I’m spending it in a place that smells like every bad decision I’ve ever made, soaked in day-old beer.
But what can I say?
I love The Brass Monkey.
It’s like me—a little quirky, a little broken, definitely not winning any fashion awards, but a lot of fun.
I push through the door into a wall of noise. The sound of pinball machines competes with drunk male laughter, the mechanical wheeze of the Borris the Bucking Bull, and someone butchering “Crocodile Rock” at the karaoke machine onstage. The sticky floor grabs at my sneakers all the way to the bar, as if the building itself is trying to warn me that there are better places to be.
Perhaps, Building, perhaps.
But do those other places have Trash Pandas on special every Saturday?
I think not.
I claim a barstool with minimal duct tape damage and shout to be heard over the guy howling “Wah wah wah wah wah,” into the mic, “Trash Panda, Cobb, make it a double with extra stick.”
Cobb, the sweetest former motorcycle club member ever to transform his love for animals into a chaotic, animal-themed dive bar in the suburbs, flashes me a gold-toothed grin. “Coming right up, Mack. Good to see you, girl! Been too long.”
As he turns away to make my drink, the anxious-looking woman next to me in jeans and a sparkly tank top hisses, “Sorry, but could you tell us what’sinthe Trash Panda?” She motions to the menu, a simple list of the cocktails on one side with prices on the other. Technically, Cobb is supposed to list all the ingredients, but following rules has never been his strong suit. “There are no descriptions, and the bartender is so…busy.” She glances at Cobb’s broad back, covered only by a scarred leather motorcycle jacket.
Cobb is a massive beast with a craggy face, a scar across his forehead, and the kind of muscles that threaten a beating if a patron steps out of line. He’s also a secret cuddle bear who goes flea market hunting with his husband every weekend and donates a third of his proceeds to youth homes—hence the dilapidated state of the bar.
But I’m not about to spoil a tourist’s “dive bar” experience with a glimpse behind the big, scary bartender curtain. Grinning, I say, “Sure! The Trash Panda is whiskey, coffee liqueur, a splash of root beer, and a touch of whatever well liquor Cobb is trying to get rid of, on the rocks.”
“Oh, okay. Thank you.” Her upper lip curls as shecasts a glance at the woman behind her, also in sparkles, also looking like she read about The Brass Monkey in an “off the beaten track” guide and is now regretting her decision to leave Bourbon Street.
“And the extra stick part you asked for?” Sparkle Two asks. “What’s that?”
“Meat stick,” I say, suppressing a laugh as the two women exchange horrified glances. “Every Trash Panda comes with a Slim Jim of your very own. Use it to stir your drink or enjoy it as a bar snack. Or both! We don’t judge here.”
But Sparkle One and Sparkle Twodojudge. They judge hard and are off their stools, mincing across the sticky floor in their heels a second later, fleeing to the parking lot to find a cab to take them back across the river.
“Scaring off my customers again, Mack?” Cobb asks, a twinkle in his gray eyes as he sets my drink down.
“I do what I can to help out,” I say. “I know you have a limited tolerance for tourists. Especially ones who turn up their noses at a Slim Jim.”
“Damn straight. Catch up with you later when I’m not slammed, kiddo, and good to see you.” He reaches over, ruffling my hair with an affection that’s nice.
“Good to see you, too, Cobb.” I gather my mason jar close, inhaling the weirdly comforting scent. It smells like the remnants of my grandma’s ancient liquor cabinet, summer camp, and smoky, salty secrets.
And Cobb gave me not one, not two, butthreemeat sticks of my very own.
My Trash Panda is glorious tonight. I’m still considered a “regular” even though I haven’t been here inmonths. And Cobb is my friend and will smash the face of any guy who tries to fuck with me tonight.
I should be feeling good.
Great, even.
Instead, the same cold sadness that’s been floating around in my brain returns the second Cobb swaggers off to make a round of Angry Gooses. (Excuse me, AngryGeese—gin, grapefruit juice, a single slice of jalapeño, and molasses. Surprisingly, not as gross as it sounds.)
The feeling is one part melancholy, one part something worse than melancholy.
Something hopeless.
Something that feels like “the end” in a way I’m not ready for.
I’m not ready to give up on happily ever after, on finding my person and building an even bigger, more beautiful life, magnified by the glory of having someone special to share it with. But I’m thirty-two, almost thirty-three, and starting to doubt I’m ever going to find it again.
