It’s now dark out and there are lightning bugs floating around in the Tennessee summer. I smile to myself, thinking of all the times I would catch them in my hands with my parents as a kid and pretend like I had magic. My mom still lives down the street from me in the house that I grew up in. I love being near her so I can be there to help since dad passed, but it always feels bittersweet going to my childhood home. I’m thankful for the memories it still holds, but I also feel like something is completely missing, being there without him.
I feel a thud on my back and turn to see Wes standing to my right. “Let's go, brother,” he says, before heading towards his Jeep.
He knows I was lost in my thoughts and understands how the loss of my father has taken a part of me that I will never recover from. Since I am an only child, Wes and Eddie have always been like my siblings. They literally picked me up off the floor after losing my father and sat with me as I wept. We bust each other's balls and joke around, but at the end of the day we have each other's backs.
Eddie runs past me and yells, “Shotgun!” Like I even care about having to sit in the back seat. I laugh and hoist myself over the side of the Jeep and fall back into my seat as Wes peels out of the parking lot.
Not even ten minutes later, we pull up to a small bar with muffled music blasting from inside. There’s a flashing sign hanging from an old pole that says Whiskey Jane’s. A few of the letters flicker on and off; the place definitely needs some fixing up. Once Wes parks, we all get out of the Jeep. Walking up, I can see some of the wood is eroding on the building and the paint is chipping off on the front door.
“This place must have been here for a while,” I say, as Wes takes the lead and pulls open the door.
As soon as he opens it, I notice two things. The first is that there is writing in every color you can think of on all the walls inside of the bar, and the second is that every single person inside is wearing a mask of some sort. Suddenly, everyone looks over at us and cheers.
Chapter 7
Olive
I’m bent over filling up the ice bucket when I hear everyone cheer at once.What the hell?I stand up and follow the patrons’ line of sight to the door where I see three guys standing like deer caught in headlights. Johnny starts chanting, “Task, task, task,” and soon the whole bar has joined in. These poor guys have no idea what's going on. They probably think they just walked into a cult.
Rick gives a look around the bar and tells everyone to pipe down. I laugh to myself as I watch the guys walk in, confused as ever.
After speaking to each other in a huddle momentarily, a tall blond one with tattoos on his arms walks up to me at the bar.
He clears his throat, “Hey…Fruity O’s?” he says, while motioning to the box on my face. For my last-minute DIY mask, I cut the cereal box in half and made eye holes and a mouth hole, finishing it off by tying some string around the back to keep it on my face. So needless to say, I look hot.
“That’s Miss Fruity O’s to you,” I tease. “What can I get for you?” I gesture to all the bottles lining the bar.
The blond guy who looks like he was carved on Mount Olympus laughs. “Okay well first, are we allowed to be here or isthis a private event?” He looks around at the bar guests, his eyes visibly confused. “What the hell is this?”
At that I laugh with him, knowing how insane we all must look. There hadn’t been a single patron all night without a mask on before they showed up. Our regulars have been dying for someone to come in the door sans mask—which is why the aggressive cheering and chanting happened at their arrival.
“This is Mask or Task night at the bar. Basically, since you're not wearing a mask, you must draw a task out of that bucket over there,” I say, and point in its direction.
He looks over at the blue bucket on the wall, full of papers, and turns back to me. “So, this isn’t a karaoke night? That’s why we came here, for my buddy’s birthday.”
“Oh, it's a karaoke night. We get wild. But first, you all must prove yourselves worthy to partake. This is the way,” I say, mock seriousness in my expression, while gesturing back to the bucket.
He lights up. “I’m so in. This actually sounds fun.” He looks over at his two friends standing together and then says, “Can I get six shots of Jameson first? One of my friends is a little shy.”
I nod and pour them. Then I slide them in his direction and say, “Good luck.”
He gives me a wink as he hands me a fifty-dollar bill and then walks off with the shots.
Before they can even take their first sip, Johnny, wearing a Ghost Face mask and of course, his top hat, goes over and introduces himself. I see the tallest guy, with tan skin and buzzed black hair shake his head and laugh at something Johnny has said. He’s got to be at least six-foot-six; the guy towers over everyone else. Johnny looks up at him and makes a comment that has all the men smiling now. He could make friends with a shoe; that's one of the things I love about him.
Slapping the guys on their backs one at a time, Johnny points to the stage and then to the bucket again. The blond guy downs both his shots and pretends to crack his neck. Then he walks over, digs his hand around the bin, and pulls out a slip of paper. You could hear a pin drop. He opens it and lets out a hardy laugh after reading the paper.
“Tell us what it says,” a lady at a high-top shouts out.
Giving her a dazzling smile, he says, “Well, it looks like I will be giving a lucky lady who volunteers a lap dance tonight on stage. It also says the song is ‘bartender’s choice.’”
The regulars cheer and everyone turns towards me. I give a thumbs-up in response, knowing exactly what song I’m going to choose, and head over to the jukebox. The blond guy pushes his hair out of his eyes and yells, “Any volunteers to sit in the chair?”
Half of the hands shoot up in the bar and I laugh when I see Johnny has also raised his hand. I turn to the jukebox and shuffle the selection until I find the song I want. Then I punch in the number and wait. “Hocus Pocus” by the band Focus begins to blast out through the bar speakers and one of the three guys, the one with curly brown hair, lets out a laugh.A man of good taste, I think.
The blond guy takes Mrs. Frett’s hand, a seventy-year-old widow who always wears cheetah print, and carefully leads her to the stage. Loud rock music blasts as he guides her to a chair on stage and he bobs his head, looking overly confident. He grabs the front of his tank top and begins to rip it in half just as yodeling plays through the speakers. He gives his friends a confusedwhat the fucklook, but then shrugs after a moment and finishes yanking his tank in half. He flexes and throws the ripped tank into the crowd; someone cheers when they catch it. He dramatically turns back, fully committing to the routine, and drops down on Mrs. Frett, grinding on her. She smiles as he quickly turns around and shakes his butt towards her face. Sheplayfully spanks him while laughing and saying, “Look at that tush!”
No one in the bar can hold back their laughter at this point and I honestly have never seen her happier. After multiple minutes of dancing around like his rent is due, I put him out of his misery.