“So what’s this package you have back here?” I cut in, referring to the brightly wrapped box on the seat next to me.
Ricky says it’s the present they got for Courtney, and I’m like, “Were we supposed to bring presents?”
Bethany goes, “It is a birthday party, you know.”
“Yeah,” I say, “but usually a motel birthday party’s just about getting blasted.”
“Well,” says Bethany. “This one’s just about having fun.”
I’m like, “What’s the difference?”
“Don’t worry,” says Ricky. “I’m sure everyone isn’t bringing a present. You can just think of paying the cover charge as your gift.”
“What? A cover charge? Presents? What are these people, a bunch of capitalists?”
Ricky gets a chuckle out of that, but not Bethany. It is weird, though. Why should I pay a cover charge? I’m bringing my own whisky.
I have to admit this motel is a cut above the usual for these kinds of parties. There’s a downstairs club, an indoor pool, a workout room, and an atrium with pool tables, Ping-Pong, and arcade games. The adjoining suites are pretty plush. Much bigger than the usual.
Unfortunately, there is almost no electrical charge to the party atmosphere. When we first arrive, there are only six people sitting around talking. A microscopic boom box leaks out some lukewarm tune so softly that you can barely hear it. Presents are piled in the corner and there’s a fat white Wal-Mart cake on the bureau. They have two ice chests, one with beer and the other with Cokes.
That’s right—Cokes!
Good thing I have the trusty flask.
Right from the first, it’s clear that I won’t get in much socializing with Ricky. He and Bethany are lost in each other. They stand there talking, staring into each other’s eyes, with no more than a couple of inches of space between them. They’re even doing the double handhold. Next thing you know, they’ll be calling each other honey-bunny.
Here’s my problem with the public display of affection—it’s undemocratic. It’s like here’s this couple and they’re reigning over their own little universe and no one else is invited. My universe is way too vast for that. Once I get a girl alone, it’s different, but until then I’m like, Come one, come all! Bring your cousins, bring your dogs. No one’s excluded. But here’s my best friend, practically building a border fence to keep the rest of us out.
More people file in, mostly couples. A lot of softball chicks and their dudes. Then Tara Thompson shows up single, and it’s pretty obvious that something fishy is going on. It’s very likely that the main reason Ricky asked me to come along was to hook me up with her. Of course, I like Tara. Tara is great. I’d date her in a second if it wasn’t for the Cassidy fiasco. But that’s what pisses me off. Ricky knows that. I’ve told him I can’t ever date her. And still he’s plotting against me.
Now, not only is the party lame, it’s awkward. I’m standing around with a group of guys who are talking about tennis of all things, while Tara sits across the room next to Courtney, shooting glances my way about every fifteen seconds. There’s nothing to do but put a heavy, heavy dent in the flask.
Okay, I could go talk to her. After all, she’s probably the most fun person here. But then I’d just be leading her on. When we sat together in the botanical gardens that night, everything was cool. I had a girlfriend then. It’s like having a force field around you that keeps romantic expectations at bay. Tara and I could talk about anything. We could even hug. But it was just as friends.
I try going into the adjoining suite. It’s less awkward, but the lame factor is off the charts. Everyone’s sitting around while this girl named Taylor something plays guitar and sings contemporary Christian songs. No one seems to think this is an odd choice for entertainment at a beer bust. And it’s fine with me, really. Even Jesus needs to party now and then. It’s just boring.
Naturally, I feel the duty to inject a little zip into the proceedings. So, when the song’s over, I stand up on a chair and go, “That was fabulous, Taylor.” I give her a round of applause. “Now, let me try one. Taylor, see if you can play along with me.”
I start in with a Sutter Keely original off the top of my head, something with a Caribbean feel.
Listen to Sutter Keely
Listen to the Sutterman
He’s the king of feely-feely
He’s the master of romance
“Come on, everybody, dance along with me!” I go into a sultry hip swivel.
Let’s do the raunchy rumba
Let’s do the nasty dance
Give me the humba-bumba
Down in me underpants
Yes, yes, yes,
Down in me underpants
Now, you’d think everybody would get into the spirit and want to sing along but no. They’re like, “Give it up, Sutter. We want to hear Taylor play some real music,” and “Aren’t you supposed to be in rehab?”
Ricky and Bethany are standing in the doorway between the two rooms. Ricky’s grinning, but Bethany has this look on her face like I’m a poodle that just shit on the rug.
“Hey,” I say. “I’m only trying to be of service. I didn’t mean to break up your funeral or anything.”
I hop down from the chair, walk over to Ricky, and go, “When you’re ready to leave this mausoleum, I’ll be downstairs at the arcade games.”
Chapter 37
I’m not really a big arcade-game guy, but anything would have to be better than this motel party. At the restaurant downstairs, I get a 7UP to go, and as I’m heading to the atrium, I hear a girl shout, “Yo, Carmine!”