There are dive bars, and then there are dive bars, and this was one of the diviest dive bars I’d ever been in. At the end of Elm Street, way down at the end, where the town practically gave up and ceded back to the trees, sat Roxie and Leo’s favorite Saturday-night bar. And judging by the amount of cars parked outside, it was all of Bailey Falls’ favorite Saturday-night bar as well. Originally called Pat’s, it’d been renamed Pat’s Nightmare sometime in the eighties, to now be forever known as . . . wait for it . . . Pat’s Nightmare on Elm Street.
I’ll tell you what, people were pretty funny in the sticks.
Hair metal screamed out of the speakers, peanut shells and sawdust carpeted the gouged wooden floor, and people stood elbow to elbow like sardines to get a cheap beer. If you were very lucky, you were able to nab one of the four tables in the entire bar; those seats were gold.
Luckily for us, we got there just as the mayor and his wife were leaving with a few friends. Leo may have leapt the last ten feet to snatch the table before someone else got it, and now crowded around it were myself, Roxie and Leo, Roxie’s mom, and Chad and Logan.
“So, wait, your mom’s in town? It’s too bad she couldn’t come out tonight, too,” I said to Leo, yelling a little to be heard since the music was so stinking loud.
“I think this is one place you’ll never see my mother in,” Leo said with a laugh. “She’s not really a bar type. Besides, Polly’s staying up at the big house with her this weekend, and they’ve got their own grandma/granddaughter thing going on.”
Leo’s family was very old New York, blood bluer than blue, banking dynasty. His family had a large estate on the outskirts of town that went back generations, including a huge old mansion that Leo referred to as the “big house.”
“And we’ve got our own thing going on this weekend, if you know what I mean.” Roxie leaned against Leo and tugged at the top button on his shirt.
“Yeah, we know what you mean. The entire bar is about to go up in flames from the sexual tension between you two.” Chad sighed, fanning himself.
It was true; the amount of sexual energy being generated on that side of the table could have powered a small town.
Just then another pitcher of beer arrived at our table, along with another bowl of peanuts, and the next thing I knew I was standing on the stage (plywood set on cinder blocks) singing the only song I knew in their twenty-song karaoke lineup.
There are songs that are meant to be sung loudly and accompanied by a PBR and peanut buzz. Songs that make you think you can sing, and that you alone understand the lyrics the way no one else possibly can, and that the only way to do them justice is to leave all self-awareness and good judgment behind.
Which is why when Oscar showed up at Pat’s Nightmare on Elm Street, he found me singing at the top of my lungs, finger-pointing and fist-pumping, giving my all to my performance of “Don’t Stop Believin’.”
To be clear, if this song is on, you turn it up. You stop what you’re doing, you roll down every window within reach, you throw every care away, and you give yourself over to the genius that is Journey.
And that’s what was happening when I saw Oscar from across the cheering, clapping crowd. You have a choice when you get caught doing something like this—especially in front of someone who’s currently blowing your socks off. You can run and hide, or you can sing louder.
I chose the latter. And as I straddled the mike and gave it my eighties all, he grinned wide and wolf-whistled loud, clapping his hands right along with every other fool in that bar. When the song was over, and my voice was still ringing (shrieking) through the air, I dropped the mike, gave a little bow, and strutted offstage to the screams of the twenty or so applauding locals who happened to be there.
“Glad I didn’t miss that,” he said as I made my way over to where he was standing by the bar. “That was some song.”
“Journey brings out the best, what can I say?” I replied, my eyes appreciatively taking him in. He was easily the biggest guy in the place, but somehow he didn’t look intimidating to me anymore. Sure, he wasn’t quick to smile, and the scar over his right eyebrow made him look perma-dangerous. I wanted to lick that scar. “How was the farmers’ market? Did you sell out?”
“We did.” He nodded, his eyes running over the length of my body. “What the hell are you wearing, Pinup?”
“Like it?” I asked, giving him a little twirl. I was feeling a fifties retro vibe when I was getting ready tonight. Off-white skirt with large black polka dots, black turtleneck, wide red belt. The best part? Red stiletto platforms, with an ankle strap and a four-inch heel. When I twirled, the skirt did, too, and revealed one more retro accent.