Bright Lights, Big Ass: A Self-Indulgent, Surly, Ex-Sorority Girl's Guide to Why It Often Sucks in the City, or Who Are These Idiots and Why Do They All Live Next Door to Me? (37 page)

Be Witch

R
emember in the show
Bewitched
, Darrin was always having his boss, Mr. Tate, over for soirees and somehow each time the evening was ruined? Roasts were burned, drapes set on fire, and new clients accidentally turned into goats, each incident jeopardizing his job at McMahon and Tate. And even though it was never directly his wife Samantha’s fault, Darrin always blamed her. I mean, she
was
a witch, and sometimes when you’re a witch, witch-type stuff happens; it’s unavoidable.

So, you’d think after shit continued to go down in the Stephens household, Darrin would instead decide to take everyone to a restaurant for dinner in order to avoid the unpleasantness. Or maybe he just wouldn’t mix his business and personal life together, because if history taught him anything it was that the evening was going to break bad every freaking time and he’d spend the remaining twelve minutes trying to resolve the crisis before the credits rolled.

At some point Darrin should have, like,
learned
something, but he never did. So when you’d see him running around, totally losing his mind, you don’t even empathize because you think,
You pomade-abusing ass-clapper—how did you
not
expect Uncle Arthur to show up in the ice bucket? Or Aunt Clara to tumble out of the fireplace?

Come to think of it, many old sitcom wives messed stuff up for the head of the household. Lucy was always plotting ways to insert herself into the show, Lisa Douglas refused to acclimate to life on those vast green acres, and Jeannie lost her mind when Major Nelson gave her a credit card.

Given the fine examples blazed by the shows of yore, you’d
think
someone as smart as my husband, Fletcher, would have the good sense to never allow his boss to meet me.

Fortunately, Fletch realizes this.

Unfortunately, we’re already on the way to his boss Paul’s boat when he does.

“I don’t get it,” I say. “We’re just hanging out on his boat? We’re not going to go anywhere?” When we left our house, we waited on our corner for half an hour to hail a cab, but none passed us. Resigned, we waited another twenty minutes to board a bus to take to the Blue Line to take to a neighborhood where taxis are available.
1
Fletch suggested we just give up, but having already committed most of an hour, I said there was no way we were turning back. We’re finally in a cab on our way to Diversey Harbor when I begin to grill Fletch about boating specifics.

“Right. Paul had the boat out earlier, so it will just be docked now,” Fletch replies.

“Then why are we going to his boat? Why don’t we meet him in a bar or something?” I read that there’s a Chicago phenomenon about its boaters simply hanging out on the docks all day, but it makes no sense to me. I mean, this is
Chicago
. People actually have outdoor space in their apartments and condos. You want to catch some air, go stand on the deck off your house, you know?

“Here—turn left down Cannon Drive, please,” he instructs the driver, who pulls down the tree-lined street by the lake. “This is what we do on Fridays—after we take the boat out in the afternoon, we hang out on the dock in case any clients drop by.”

“If anyone shows up do we start sailing?”

“Jen, it’s a powerboat with three outboard motors. It’s not called
sailing
, it’s called
boating
. But, no, after getting in from the afternoon run Paul will have cocktails and then he stays docked.”

“Didn’t you tell me he lives in a huge house up by Wrigley Field? Why don’t clients go there?”

“Because they like to be on the boat.” Fletch pays the cabdriver and we grab the bags of ice we were tasked to bring. We walk down the path to the iron gate between the sidewalk and the docks and Fletch punches in the code to open it.

“Is the boat that great? I mean, are there bedrooms? Bathrooms? Is there a kitchen?”

“Jen, it’s not a yacht, and you’re using the wrong terms. There’s a small galley and a head, but no separate stateroom.”

“Pfft. If this thing isn’t moving, it’s pretty much a studio apartment in my book. By the way, how do I look?” I hold out my arms, modeling my boring preppy black cotton shorts and yellow polo shirt. I’d planned to show up dressed exactly like Danny Noonan, but (a) I couldn’t find an ascot, and (b) wasn’t sure anyone would get the
Caddyshack
reference.

Fletch stops and takes a long, hard look at me right before we get to his boss’s slip. “Am I going to regret bringing you here?”

I kiss him on his freshly shaven cheek. “Would I ever intentionally embarrass you?”

“Intentionally? No.” We arrive at Paul’s boat and Fletch holds my arm and helps me in the boat. “We’re here!” Paul is downstairs
2
and emerges to greet us. “Paul, please meet my wife, Jen. Jen, this is Paul.” I’d planned on sucking up to his boss, telling him the boat was “yar,” but since we’re parked, I’ve no idea if the boat is trim, lively, or responsive because it’s just floating in one spot. Basically, I know it’s watertight and holds a lot of beer, so it may as well be a Coleman ice chest.
3

“Hey, Paul. Nice boat, thanks for inviting me. Are we going out into the lake tonight?” I ask. I figure if I badger him, maybe I can change his mind.

“Nice to meet you, Jen.” He shakes my hand. “Sorry, I’ve already had a couple of drinks, so we’re going to stay docked.”

I mull this over for a minute. Damn it, I did not just spend one and a half hours of my life in motion just to arrive here to sit still. “Oh, that’s a shame. Hey, I’ve got an idea—next Friday, you should come over to our house and we can sit in my car in my garage.”

He laughs and I bristle. I hate when people don’t bite back, although judging from the beads of sweat that just appeared on Fletch’s head, perhaps it’s for the best.

We busy ourselves filling the ice chests conveniently located all over the back of the boat and crack open a few beers. After the initial awkwardness, our conversation begins to flow and I can see Fletch unclench. Paul turns up the stereo and we sit and talk, gently buffeted by the ripples in the water. The sensation is not wholly unpleasant, and I begin if not to understand the whole parked boat business then at least to appreciate it. The sky is bright blue and cloudless and I catch some rays before twilight comes.

A little while later, a couple of people wander down the long dock to join us. The guy, whose name I don’t catch, is a potential client. The girl tells me her name, but as I’ve had four beers already, I promptly forget. These two are fresh from the Cubs game and have been drinking in the hot sun all day. We discuss the game
4
and exchange other pleasantries. They’re both slurring, so conversation isn’t as easy as it was before they arrived.

The darker it gets, the less these two talk to us and the more they talk to each other. With, um, their tongues. What had started out as an innocent kiss here and there has morphed into a bit of a mash session. I find it terribly inappropriate and begin to slam drinks in response.

As a distraction, I ask about the boat’s various features, so Paul points out the lights that change colors and flash in time to the music, the video display screen, and the boat’s computerized navigation system. He gestures at the couple. “And right over there we’ve got the Maker Outer.” We laugh uncomfortably.

Paul begins to busy himself behind the console steering panel, so I turn my back to the hot and heavy petting happening behind me, directing my attention solely on Fletch. They are getting louder and louder and I’m the kind of mortified only three more beers can assuage.
5

I’m about to launch into an unsexy discussion about the city’s smoking ban when I distinctly hear the guy part of the couple tell the girl, “I can’t wait to kiss your boobies.”
6

Awkward!

Chug!