by Colleen Alles
When I told Ashley I didn’t mind nannying Hayden because baby pee smells like
buttered popcorn, I was certain I’d just taken our new friendship, forged in the boredom of Psych 200, off the rails. It was my first semester, and I desperate to make friends. My last report card at Northern Michigan sent me packing, tail between my legs, taking up residence in my childhood bedroom, enrolling in “CC”, and nannying on the side.
But on Thursday, after class, Ashley turned to me and asked me to hang out.
“I want to go to this bar in Big Rapids Saturday.”
“Sure. Uh… one problem. I’m not twenty-one.”
“I thought your birthday was last week,” she said, frowning. She swept her blonde bangs
out of her eyes and pressed her lips together like she was putting on lipstick.
“I just turned twenty.”
“You’re twenty?”
“Yup.”
“Huh.” The class we shared was required for almost all academic programs, so it was full of people who sort of cared about Psychology, but also, didn’t. When I wasn’t in class, I nannied for Hayden. When I wasn’t nannying for Hayden, I was at home. Because that’s what all cool part-time college students who live at home—who also recently got dumped by their boyfriends in the parking lot of the mall—do.
“You know what? I think it’ll be fine. The last time I went, they didn’t card.”
“Okay,” I said, grinning. Ashley made Psych 200 palatable. She was fun. We shared notes and swapped glances whenever our instructor was being weird.
Not unlike myself.
What kind of weirdo talks about baby urine? Even if it does smell like buttered popcorn?
A weirdo like me.
Who now had plans Saturday night.
With maybe a new friend.
“Why this bar?” I asked on Saturday as I settled into the passenger side of Ashley’s
Camry. She’d offered to pick me up. I pulled the seatbelt over my faux leather jacket, hoping it was the right kind of cool. She appraised me for a moment before telling me I looked cute.
“Thanks,” I said. “You too.”
And she did. She was wearing a black mini skirt with gray suede boots, a white tank top under a thin teal cardigan. Also, way more eye makeup than I was used to seeing on her on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 2:15 to 4:00 p.m.
I’d told my folks I was going out with a friend from class, and my mom had been excited. My dad had given me his standard look. I was too old to have a curfew, but also beholden to my parental landlords. Maybe next semester I could move out. Get an apartment. I was saving a lot, considering I spent so little. Maybe I could afford an apartment with a roommate.
We made small talk until we hit 131, and I realized she’d let my question hang in the air.
“Wait—so what bar are we going to?”
Ashley looked over at me, one hand on the steering wheel, a grin on her face “Stag’s.”
“Stag’s? God, that sounds like a terrible bar.”
“Oh, it is,” she said, laughing. “Total dive.”
“Why are we going there?”
Ashley glanced in her mirror before changing lanes. She was picking up speed as we got away from the city. It would be dark soon. I realized I didn’t know her last name
“To see a band.”
Sort of. Turns out, sort of to see a band, mostly to see Craig.
Piece by piece, I pulled it out of Ashley.
To see the guy she had a crush on. The guy she worked with at the bookstore in the mall. A guy who played in a band. In short: to see Craig.
“He’s the lead singer.” She drummed her hand on the steering wheel. “He’s hot. You’re gonna die.”
I laughed. I realized I hadn’t been out much since Patrick had dumped me—ironically, in the parking lot of the same mall where Ashley worked. What a place to get dumped. We’d had lunch at the food court, gotten into a fight. I’d had a giant Diet Pepsi and really had to pee. What I couldn’t get over is that we were long-distance for an entire semester and he broke up with me once I moved home. The amount of time I spent on the phone with him and traveling back and forth from Grand Rapids to Northern Michigan murdered my GPA, but he’d waited until I moved home to dump me.
“Are you going to ask him out?”
“Of course not!”
“Oh. Well, does he like you?”
“I think so,” she said, smiling again.
“How do you know?”
“Like during my shift, he’ll come over if I’m on register, and like, he totally didn’t need to, you know? After I’m done, sometimes we hang out.”
“Sounds promising.”
Ashley just giggled. It seemed her crush was a fire that didn’t require extra fuel from me.
“What about you?” she asked. “Anyone special right now?”
“Not since Patrick.”
“Parking lot Patrick?”
“Yup,” I said.
“Well!” She reached over to pat my leg, like she was giving my left knee a series of high fives. “That could change tonight. You never know.”
“Are you suggesting I’ll meet my soulmate at Stag’s?”
She giggled again. “You never know! I feel like Craig is mine.”
“Wow. That’s heavy.”
Ashley nodded, her lips pressed together. “Mmmm.”
“Shit,” Ashley said as she put the Camry in park.
“What?”
“They’re carding.” I’d been shaking down my purse for a breath mint, not really paying attention. Following her gaze, I saw a line by the door of Stag’s, which fit the image I’d drawn in my mind: log-cabin building, big neon sign. Through the windows I could see fake deer heads on the wall. I could almost feel the sticky floor under my black ballet flats.
“They’re carding?” I parroted.
“I’m sorry. I swear they didn’t last time.”
“I believe you.”
“You wanna try anyway?”
“Try to get in?”
“Yeah,” Ashley nodded. “You’re really pretty. Maybe if you just tell him you won’t order anything?”
My stomach dropped. I’d only ever tried to sneak into a bar once, when Patrick was with his friends and they’d convinced me it was a good idea. Or that it would be funny. I don’t remember.
It was neither a good idea, nor was it funny. A bouncer with full sleeve tattoos had yelled at me, and I’d wound up sitting on the curb with Patrick’s friend Gabe while Patrick got wasted inside. Because he was 21. My most recent Instagram stalk showed him at that same bar, with the same guys. I wondered if he’d remembered me crying that night.
“I don’t know.”
“Please? Let’s just try.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “I have a feeling something good is going to happen tonight.”
I sighed, unclicking my seatbelt. I did need to make friends. Stop being such a loner who spent all her time on social media or with a boy who could only babble: mama, dada, baba, on repeat.
“Oh my God,” Ashley squealed, squeezing my arm as we walked through the entryway and to the big bar in the back of Stag’s. “I can’t believe that worked!”
I couldn’t either. I let my eyes adjust to the dim lighting. Indeed, those were deer heads on the wall. So many deer heads. I counted eight.
“He, like… looked at your ID, and then at you, and then he just… let you in! He must
have thought you were cute.”
“Yup,” I said, studying the black ink circle stamp drying on the back of my hand.
“Let’s get a drink.”
“Thanks, I’m good.”
“What?” Ashley shrieked. “You just got into a bar a full year before you’re supposed to, and you don’t even want a drink?”
“Well,” I considered. “Who’s driving home?”
“Me, goofball. But don’t worry, I’m totally responsible.”
I sighed and reached into my wallet for a five-dollar bill. “Okay, but will you order it for me? I don’t think I can keep a straight face.”
Ashley took my five and rolled her eyes. “Go find a table. Near the stage, okay? They’re coming out soon.”
I sat at a table and fished my phone from my purse. I thought about checking in on
Facebook, just in case Patrick was following me, too. He’d be impressed I’d gotten into a bar. Then, I thought better of it. Someone would see and it would get back to my mom somehow. Or—just as likely—Patrick would see and know exactly what I was really trying to say: showing him I was out at a bar. That I was fine. That I was cool. That I was having fun without him.
And with a new friend, who started screaming the moment the band took the stage.
Their name: The Dadbods.
I realized, when the lead singer came out and greeted the crowd, which had grown to about forty people, that Craig was old. Old enough to be Ashley’s dad. He looked like a dad. He had a dadbod. Because he was probably fifty. Older.
“Wait,” I said, yelling over the loud guitar chords. Their first song was one I didn’t know, but apparently a cover. “Which one is Craig?”
I wanted to make sure I was reading the situation right, that half a Bud Light wasn’t
going to my head. I didn’t feel buzzed. I just had a sour taste in my mouth, and I was bored.
“That one!” Ashley said, jutting her chin toward the lead singer. “He’s the assistant
manager!”
I sat back in my chair and took a swig of beer. When a waitress had passed our table, Ashley had ordered a second drink, and she was almost done with it. I realized there was a good chance I was going to be driving us home.
As the Dadbod’s fourth song moved into its chorus, I studied Craig and realized he was staring at Ashley. I glanced at her. She was smiling and swaying back and forth in her chair, occasionally holding her beer in the air. She raised her hands and clapped exuberantly when the song ended. Craig winked at her, then turned his back to the crowd to take a pull from the longneck sitting on a speaker.
“You wanna get a pitcher?” Ashley asked me, loudly. I noticed for the first time a tattoo near her shoulder, visible under her sweater. Birds on a thin branch.
“I’m good. But if you want to.”
She was a little clumsy on her feet. She leaned in to whisper something in my ear. “Don’t let anyone take my spot!”
The Dadbods played another song—this one I knew: a slower, sweeter version of Brown Eyed Girl. A few people began to dance at tables around me. I realized more acutely we were among the youngest people in the bar. I also realized that the Dadbods were actually pretty good, and that if I squinted the right way, Craig was kind of cute. Just old. Receding hairline. Wrinkles around the eyes. Round glasses.
I assessed my bottle and saw I had about a third left, and told myself under no
circumstance was I to finish it.
“God, I love this song!” Ashley said, returning to the table. The pitcher sloshed as she set it down, foamy beer spilling down its side. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks.” The question of how long she wanted to stay was near my lips, but the pitcher was my answer. I sat back again, cupping my Bud Light with my palm, hoping Ashley wouldn’t notice how empty it was.
She didn’t. She didn’t seem to notice anything but Craig.
And once I noticed the gold ring on his left hand, I didn’t really notice anything else
about him.
During the next song, I told Ashley I needed to make a phone call outside. She didn’t ask any questions, even as I asked her for the keys. Then, I sat in the driver’s seat for maybe 45 minutes, the windows rolled down. It was a nice night and my phone could access the Wi-Fi. STAGS, in all caps—that was the name. No password. Not concerned with security. I scrolled through Instagram, then Facebook, then played around applying different filters to some photos I’d taken that week of Hayden. I hate an extremely cute one of him in his crib, smiling up at me. If I were his mom, I’d post it, but it felt weird for me to post it, as his nanny, so I didn’t. I didn’t even text that photo to his mom. She was having a hard time being away from him.
I looked up when I saw a pair of people walking toward Ashley’s car. It was the bouncer who had carded us, supporting Ashley, who was struggling to walk.
Immediately, I could tell she was crying.
“Hey,” the bouncer said. To my surprise, he sounded kind. On the exterior, he looked like a tough guy: bald, full beard, big muscles—kinda like the bouncer who had yelled at me last semester. But this guy was soft-spoken. Sweet, even.
“Hi,” I said, sitting up straighter. I wasn’t sure if I should open the door or not, and as I
was deciding, he asked if he could put Ashley in the passenger’s side.
“Sure,” I said. Ashley was sobbing and saying something I couldn’t understand. I felt bad I’d left her in there for so long. Had she finished that pitcher? She was a mess of smeared mascara. There was something on her sweater.
“You can get her home?” he asked, leaning his shoulder into Ashley’s car. His face was lit by the car’s interior lights, and I saw that his eyes were kind, too—a pretty shade of hazel. He was looking at me intently, and I could tell he cared about what was happening.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m—I’m good.”
“Good. I had a good feeling about you,” he said. “I can always tell about people.
“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks.”
He was still looking at me, and for a long moment I just held his gaze. Then he smiled at me and looked like he wanted to say something. I smiled back at him. When we’d arrived, I’d thought he was older, but staring at him now, I realized he was probably closer to twenty-five than anything.
“Thanks,” he said again.”
With that, he shut the passenger door of Ashley’s car and turned to walk back into Stag’s.
At the entrance, he turned and gave me a little wave. I almost missed it because I was helping Ashley take off her sweater. She pressed her forehead to the dashboard. “What the hell just happened?” she sobbed.
The drive back felt longer. Eventually, Ashley quieted down and I was able to understand her address. I parked her car at her apartment, and her roommate helped me get her inside, get her a big glass of water.
I took an Uber home and smiled when I saw Dad had left the porch light on, like he’d
been doing for years.
It was Tuesday after Psych 200 before I pulled the whole story from Ashley.
She’d gone up to Craig, between songs. She’d told Craig how she felt about him. She’d told Craig she had feelings for him.
He’d told her she was crazy. He was married. That she had the wrong idea. He asked her what she had possibly been thinking? She’d read the signs all wrong. He’d just been friendly. She was crazy, he said. She said that a few times. It stood out, considering the topic in class that week had been mental illness and the societal stigma tied to it.
“The worst part?” she said. We were packing our backpacks and shuffling out of the
classroom. “Now he’s avoiding me like the plague. It’s like he’s afraid of me. He sees me coming and literally runs the other way. It’s embarrassing.”
“You gonna quit?”
She looked down. “I don’t know. I want to, but I like the job. It’s easy money. And I feel like I’m not ready to not see him all the time, you know?”
“Yeah. I get it.”
I didn’t, though. I had no idea why she was chasing after a married man who was so
much older than her, who told her she was crazy. Seemed to me like there would be nothing but pain down that road, and I had no idea why she wanted to go down it.
We didn’t say anything for a moment. I thought about telling Ashley that Craig was the crazy one, that of course he should like her back. Telling her that Craig was the crazy one felt like something her best friend would do, and I wasn’t sure we were going to be best friends after all. So I held my tongue. I didn’t say anything else. For some reason, saying nothing felt like the right thing to do.
Colleen Alles is a native Michigander and award-winning writer living in Grand Rapids. The author of two novels, a full-length poetry collection, and four poetry chapbooks, she’s also the Poetry Editor of The Lakeshore Review and a contributing fiction editor with Barren Magazine. You can find her online at www.colleenalles.com.