Chapter 4--part 2

Val might not be too bright, but she can dance like crazy. B.J. came over and joined us, and the three of us just let loose and were having a blast. I don’t know what it is about dancing, but it makes me feel really free.

Have you ever seen a movie where there’s all this noise and stuff going on, but then there’s a little squeak or a tinkle or something and the main character hears it over all that noise? And you’re thinking, “Yeah, right, like anybody would’ve heard that”? Well, I swear that actually happened. One second all I could hear was the music and the talking and people laughing, and then, I swear, I heard the click of the doorknob turning. If it happened in a movie, everything else would be kind of quiet, while the character goes to investigate the noise. Well, I didn’t have to go investigate. The doorknob clicked and turned, the door swung open, and in walked the last person on earth I wanted to see. And hanging from his arm, just like snot from a nostril, was this cheap-looking twat, who I swear couldn’t have been any older than sixteen.

Val and B.J. realized I’d stopped dancing—I don’t think I’d realized it myself—and turned to look at the door.

“Oh, shit,” Val said, grabbing onto my arm.

“Just stay away from him, Nadine,” B.J. advised.

“Don’t worry about me,” I said, jerking my arm out of Val’s grasp. “I don’t want to get anywhere near that asshole. There isn’t enough toilet paper in the world to clean him up.”

I stomped back to the bar and took another long swallow from the mouth of the amber bottle. I was sweating like a pig from dancing, and my insides felt like they were on fire. I turned around, rested my elbows on the bar, and hooked the heel of my shoe over the low bar railing. It made me sick to see him walking around, talking to people, looking so damn proud of himself.

“Just don’t say anything,” B.J. said, coming up and stroking my arm as if I were her invalid aunt or something.

“Leave me alone. I’m fine. I’m cool,” I assured her. But I was anything BUT cool. I was so hot I coulda melted all the ice behind the bar. The smoke alarm would’ve gone off if the battery in it hadn’t died six months ago.

I just stood there looking at him, smiling and talking as if he didn’t have a care in the world. His hair was still long and full—like a friggin’ lion’s mane—and he still flipped it when he talked. Somebody oughta tell him shoulder-length hair doesn’t look so good once a guy’s past thirty. He’ll probably be doing a Danny DeVito when he’s fifty, bald on top and pulling his long, stringy hair back into a ponytail. He had on a wife-beater tank and tight blue jeans. His tight little ass that used to make my mouth dry and my pants wet did nothing for me except make me want to kick him right there.

And little Miss Bitch was right there next to him, like they’d been surgically joined at the arms or something. She was holding onto him and rubbing her size D boobs against his arm. She had on sparkle mascara, and she kept flitting her eyelashes and squealing at everything he said as if he was the funniest guy in the world. Oh, he was funny all right. He really cracked me up.

I’d like to crack him up, good.

I turned my back on the dance floor, so I didn’t have to see him and his little tramp girlfriend. I ran my fingers lightly up and down the sweating sides of the Coors’ bottle, picturing what it would be like to just smash that bottle right down over the crown of his stupid head. I could hear the “crack” of his skull splitting and imagine the sides of his face folding in on each other like a popped balloon. Ahh, probably it wouldn’t do any real damage—nothing could hurt that thick skull of his—but it would wipe that stupid grin off his stupid face.

I could hear him joking and laughing with Carl at a table not too far from the bar. Sweet Cheeks was still giggling along with him. I was still cool; I thought, “I can get through this.” But when I heard him tell Carl he was gonna buy the next round of drinks for the table, I lost it. I whirled around on the barstool.

“Hey, Big Spender,” I called to him over the music. “You can buy a round of drinks for your buddies, but your kid’s drinking sour milk because I can’t afford to buy a fresh quart.”

His head snapped up like I’d slapped him. I saw his eyes go narrow, like a snake’s for just a minute. I’d managed to wipe the smile off little Sweet Cheeks’ face, too. She leaned into him, and I saw her mutter something. He answered, “Nobody,” loud enough for me to hear it, and I wanted to kill him on the spot.

“Yeah, honey, I’m ‘nobody’—just the mother of Mr. Big Spender’s daughter . . .
Oh, he didn’t tell you he had a kid, did he? Gee, that’s a surprise. He’ll usually so honest and up front about everything. When are you planning to send a check again, Wayne, when Tristiana starts high school? If she hasn’t starved to death before then?”

Wayne took the girl by the elbow and started to steer her away, but she kept looking back at me, her mouth open in a perfect, stupid O.

“Just a word of advice, honey, old Wayne is a regular Looney Toons cartoon. He’ll woo you like Pépé le Pew as long as he thinks he can get into your pants, but if you get pregnant, he’ll turn into the RoadRunner. All you’ll see is his dust.” I raised my voice to shout to her as Wayne pulled her toward the door, but I needn’t have—that room was silent except for the jukebox still twanging away.

Wayne’s face was almost purple, he was so mad, and the wench kept looking from him to me as if she was trying to figure out what to do. He practically dragged her out the door with his hand clamped just above her elbow. What a friggin’ gentleman he is.