I realize that will sound harsh to some readers, especially mothers.
I’m not looking down on Danielle so much as identifying what’s going on.
Child-free women do this—observe with all the objectivity of an outsider—whether you want them to or not, and I am a child-free woman.
“Chuck and I are in a band,” Tommy says.
“You’re just in time for the show!” Danielle says to me and then musses Tommy’s hair. “Tell her the name of your band.”
“Shot with a Fart,” Tommy says and then giggles so hard he can no longer open his eyes—he even tears up.
“And you’re to blame!” Danielle says, poking Tommy’s ribs with a forefinger to the rhythm of each syllable, and then tickles him.
I wonder if this is the performance.
But then a curly-haired blond man who looks to be about our age or maybe a few years older enters the room from the front bar. He’s wearing a long-sleeved black T-shirt, faded blue jeans, and black high-top sneakers. Into a microphone he says, “Ladies and gentlemen, please put down your two-dollar Coors Lights, your deep-fried chicken wings, your cheese fries, and your tuna melts, for you are about to see the greatest show South Jersey has to offer before five-year-old bedtime.”
I look around the room, and the patrons are clapping and smiling in anticipation.
“You know me as Chuck the bartender—the man who’s continuously provided you with free Chex Mix and who will always be there to turn the channel for you sports junkies. The man with the remote control. Quick wrist on the tap. The guy who gives you a generous pour every time. The man who works extra hard for your tips. But I also lead a double life as the awesome uncle of Oaklyn’s best-kept secret, the pint-size man who fronts South Jersey’s most supreme Bon Jovi cover band, Shot with a Fart, the one and only Tommy Bass!”
The room explodes with applause.
Little Tommy jumps up out of the booth and runs behind the side bar.
The applause grows, and then everyone starts chanting, “Tom-MEEE! Tom-MEEE! Tom-MEEE!”
After thirty seconds or so another bartender—a beefy bald guy with the Phillies P tattooed in green on the side of his neck—lifts little Tommy up onto the bar, only Tommy is now wearing fake leather pants, a little leather fringe jacket, a long purple scarf, mirrored cop sunglasses, and a blond wig that makes him look like he has a lion’s mane on his head.
Chuck hands Tommy the microphone and then picks up a broom.
Tommy says, “How you doing tonight, Oaklyn, New Jersey?”
Everyone cheers.
“This one’s for my mom over there in the corner,” Tommy says and then looks down at his feet on the bar, which is when I realize he is wearing little cowboy boots. He looks up again and says, “She really works at a diner. It’s true.”
Someone puts two fingers in his mouth and lets out one of those eardrum-piercing whistles, and the cheers get louder.
I look over at Danielle, and she’s staring at her boy intensely—she’s smiling, but she looks like she could break down crying too.
The beefy bartender puts some money in the jukebox, punches in a number, and then we hear the synthesizer chords and that jingling baby rattle. When the drums kick in, Tommy begins to gyrate in rhythm and the now straight-faced Chuck does his best Richie Sambora, strumming his broomstick, nodding his head, opening and closing his mouth to imitate that voice-box sound that Sambora does for “Livin’ on a Prayer.”
“Everybody up!” Tommy yells into the mic, just before he starts singing along. I’m surprised that everyone actually gets up and also that Tommy can sing pretty well for a kindergartner. The little guy has more confidence and swagger than seem possible.
And while he works the entire room with his shades and finger pointing, most of his glances and gestures go toward his mother in the corner, which is when I realize he’s doing this for her, to pump her up and keep her going, and even though I know he’s five and has no idea what he’s doing at all, but is most likely naively running on instinct, I love the kid instantly.
I watch Chuck lean back and make comical faces during his guitar solo. He’s terrible compared to Tommy, but sacrificing himself for his nephew and I’m guessing Danielle too, who must be his sister if Chuck is Tommy’s uncle. I sort of remember him from high school. Maybe he was a grade or so ahead of us? And he’s still pretty fit—actually very fit. And his face has remained kind after all these years.
Tommy cocks his head to the side, points at me when he sings, “You live for the fight when that’s all that you got!” and then does a pelvis thrust that makes me more than a little uncomfortable, since he’s five, but I seem to be the only one thinking about age-appropriate behavior, because the rest of the bar is pointing back at Tommy and singing along.
He’s too young to be this captivating, and yet there are fifty or so Bud-bottle-drinking adults dancing and singing and clapping and enjoying the hell out of the performance.
I look over at Danielle and catch her wiping a tear from her cheek as she nods and dances and sings along, which is when I realize that this is the pinnacle of her week—this moment right here at the Oaklyn Manor bar with her brother and son performing a Bon Jovi song.
This is what she has.
And it makes me so sad and happy at the same time.
It makes me think about Mom watching me drink Diet Coke with Lime.
And before I know it I’m screaming too, “Whoa! We’re halfway there!”
Which is crazy, because I’m not halfway to anywhere, but maybe that’s the point of the song.