“We’ve got thirty minutes before the flight and I bore easily. There’s a bar over there. Let’s go,” Jane instructed Mike as the two stood in the middle of the airport, carry-ons in hand.
“It’s a restaurant/bar,” Mike corrected. “Are you finally going to eat something or does subsisting on air work best for you? No wait – you had some orange juice with the vodka this morning so maybe that counts as a day’s worth of calories in the Diet Book of Jane.”
“Fuck you. I’m suggesting we stop there because I know when you don’t eat, you bitch and moan and there’s not enough valium in the world to shut you out,” Jane snapped and began dragging him towards the restaurant.
It was your typical airport eatery – there was a bar area furnished in dark, shiny wood, with tall wooden chairs and a long mirror located behind the available booze. Jane loved mirrors like that. Not only did the reflection of the glass make it seem like that the bottles of alcohol went on forever, but you could catch a glimpse of how you looked if you positioned your head between the pretty glass containers. Perfect for checking to see if you had food in your teeth or boogers in your nose.
Next to the bar area were some booths lined in red faux leather for those who actually wanted a sit-down meal. A perky brunette hostess in a green and white striped apron went to approach them but Jane held up her hand and dismissed her, making a bee-line for the bar counter. As soon as she was seated, Jane whipped out her laptop.
“You’re not going to look at the menu?” Mike asked. “Even the martini menu?”
“I’ve got to get this thing with James rolling. Login to Facebook.”
“Me? Why?”
“Because he’s unfriended me, you douche! And I can’t make him realize how much he still loves me if he’s forgotten I exist. You’re still his friend, so login and let me see his profile!”
Mike shook his head and entered his information then slid the laptop back to Jane. “There you go, stalker.” A young bartender with heavy eyelids and bedhead sauntered over when he felt like it. Mike ordered a burger and fries along with a Guinness. He shut the menu and slid it across the bar.
“And you, miss?” the bartender inquired. Jane’s head was deep in James’ posted photos, already looking for any sign of a current girlfriend. She recognized one girl as his sister – Claire, or Courtney or Candy. Whatever. She recognized another as the singer in James’ band, but Jane was willing to bet that the singer was gay and not a threat. Still, she made a mental note to check into that.
“Miss?” the bartender asked.
“Martini. Grey Goose. Three olives. Three.” Jane requested without looking up.
“Anything to eat?”
Jane’s eyes whipped up at him from the blue glow of the laptop. “Does it look like I want something to eat? Just a martini!”
The sleepy bartender bit his lip and furrowed his brow, but walked away without saying anything.
Jane continued to click furiously through the tagged pictures, picking apart the other girls who dared to pose with James, leaving Mike to just suck on his beer and stare off into space as he waited for his meal.
“Nose is huge.”
“What’s with her duck lips? Isn’t there a legal limit to how much Botox they can pump into you?
“Those boobs are fake. Or she’s stuffing. They’re fake. Doesn’t matter, they’ll be saggin like Grandma Jones before she’s 40.”
“Oh my God, she looks like an Oompah Loompah with that tan.”
“That’s a guy… that’s gotta be a guy. Pre-op, or something…”
Mike was halfway through a burger, Jane was on martini number two when she was finally ready to speak to another person and not at the portrait of a perfect stranger. “I don’t think he’s dating anyone.”
“How can you tell, Sherlock?” Mike asked. “It’s obvious you didn’t check his info tab like the rest of us normal human beings to see if he was ‘single’ or ‘in a relationship.’”
“Those status things don’t mean jack. You have no idea how many greedy little bitches and bastards are on Facebook and don’t even mention that they’re freaking married, just to see who posts flirty shit on their walls. It’s a huge ego boost.
“And don’t even get me started on how insanely fake the typical person’s profile pic is. They stand there like fools, holding their cameras out at arms length, taking about one thousand pics until they get one that looks half-way decent. Then they Photoshop the shit out of that. They look cute from that one warped angle when they’re literally as big as houses and homely as shit,” Jane ranted loudly, taking another sip of martini. She popped two olives into her mouth.
“Ok, so you think he’s single,” Mike agreed. “He’s unfriended you. You have no way of getting in contact with him unless you call him or email him.”
Jane swallowed the olives. “Not true. I’ve got you. You’re going to shoot him a message, asking if he has my phone number because you have this huge part in a TV series that you want to offer me. Tell him that I’m the only one who can play the part.”
“What if he doesn’t have your phone number? What if he erased it because of the awful way you treated him?
“He’ll still have it,” Jane promised her friend. She paused for a moment. “But if he doesn’t… then when he hits you back to tell you he doesn’t, tell him that you just found me on Facebook so you’re going to connect with me that way.”
“And what does any of this accomplish?” Mike asked, taking a full swig of drink. “It just makes me look ridiculous because I can’t seem to find a way to contact my best friend through any reasonable avenue of communication. Am I supposed to be living under a rock?”
“No, babe,” Jane said. “It plants a seed. If you mention calling me or reaching out to me, he’ll start thinking about it too. Especially if he knows that I have something amazingly cool going on like my own television show.”
“You remember that the show is about Olivia, right?” Mike asked. “Olivia is the one getting married.”
“You know I love that girl, but this is going to be my fucking shot at making it. There’s no debating about that, thank you so much.”
“Excuse me,” a woman in a nearby booth called, obviously irritated by Jane’s language. Mike held his breath when he saw that the lady was not only rocking mom jeans and a sweatshirt and turtleneck combo, but wearing white Keds as well. She was like a pig waiting to be slaughtered by Drunk Jane.
“I have small children,” she said, gesturing to the three vastly overweight blond-haired beasties who sat nearby. Mounds of fries and nachos were in front of them and their fat little cheeks where shiny with grease and stained with ketchup. Jane shrugged, pretending not to notice the family and turned her back to them.
“I have three small, children,” the mother repeated loudly.
“It’s not my fault birth control failed you,” Jane spat. “What do you want?”
“I WANT you to watch your foul mouth around my kids,” the mom answered, her round face turning red with embarrassment, or anger, or high blood pressure. “Before I call a manager.”
“Call a fucking manager, you oaf,” Jane said. “We’re in a fucking airport bar. If you and the three little pigs don’t want to hear my voice, then move the fuck away to another booth.”
There was a minute when no one quite knew what to do. Mike sat frozen, chunks of unchewed burger in his mouth, eyes darting back and forth between Wonder Mom and Drunk Jane. The bartender was standing close by, motionless but not frozen, secretly hoping that Wonder Mom was going to tackle Drunk Jane and beat her over the head with a kids’ menu. Wonder Mom seemed to hesitate as she tried to decide her path of action and Drunk Jane remained just that.
It was the littlest of piglets who took the initiative to keep the night moving forward. With unnervingly perfect aim, she threw a pair of plastic play keys at Jane. The kids, Mike, the bartender, Wonder Mom and even Drunk Jane watched in amazement as the colorful keys flew through the air and nailed Jane right in her boob.
Jane screamed. Mike motioned for the check.
“It’s obvious my child knows evil when she sees it,” Wonder Mom said, crossing her flabby arms triumphantly across her shelflike bosom.
“Look,” Jane growled, holding her injured boob in her hand and getting right into to Wonder Mom’s face. “I am not going to tear you a new asshole in front of your kids. But if I see you outside and your children are not around, I am going to rip that cheap sweatshirt off your body and strangle you with it. I am a television star. I could sue you and your fat family for every last Ring Ding you have but I’m not going to do that, because I pity you. You’ll all be dead from plaque build-up in your arteries by your mid-fifties. So I’m going to walk away like a fucking adult.”
With that, she turned and began walking out of the restaurant with Mike at her heels. Suddenly, Jane turned around and walked back to the table, this time addressing the kids.
“Do you believe in Santa Claus?” she demanded. They nodded slowly, plump pink mouths hanging open.
“Well that’s too bad. Because he’s dead. Your mom killed him. With her mini-van. She keeps his head in your basement as a trophy.”
With that, Jane walked out.
Mike was standing in the glaring white lights of the airport’s main corridor. “Gate 35,” he said.
“Send James that message before we board.”
No comments:
Post a Comment