Famous by Blake Crouch Page B

in no way a dancer. Not even remotely. I reach the
center of the dance floor. It’s ridiculously loud and hot. People
move together all around me—sexually, robotically, gracefully, all
uninhibited. There are several columns six or seven feet high, and
people dance solo on top of these. I stand at the base of one and
look up at this Asian woman who is “lost in the music,” as they
say. I can see up her dress. She’s not a big fan of underwear.
    This enormous, beefy black man bumps into me.
He holds glow sticks and dances with his eyes closed. Another
woman, very tall, is garbed in a wedding dress. She just stands in
one place, nothing moving but her head, side to side with the
beat.
    The disco balls come to life and spit their
bursting light all over the walls.
    I plow on through the crowd to the other side
of the room where a beer bar and more tables line the wall.
    I sit down beside a table of five lovely
women, and after listening to them gab, I discover they’re a
bachelorette party. All late twenty-somethings. You can tell they
don’t come out to places like this very often. I wonder how they
got into La Casa anyway. They’re all drinking highly colorful
drinks garnished with slices of tropical fruit. I imagine that once
they’re sufficiently liquored up, they’ll be stumbling out onto the
dance floor with everyone else.
    One of them catches me staring.
    “Hello.” I smile that winning smile.
    “Hi.”
    The other four women now look at me.
    “Let me guess,” I say, very charmingly,
“bachelorette party?”
    They smile politely, let out some nervous
laughter, and confirm that I’m correct.
    “Who’s the bride-to-be? No. Let me
guess.”
    I lean back and squint and take them in.
    Facing me, they occupy one half of a circular
table.
    From left to right: (i) a redhead, oldest of
the bunch, cute, but the glitter on her cheeks is a little
disturbing;
    (ii) one of those tiny little blonds that
probably have to shop for clothes in the children’s department.
Short hair and twinkly eyes that shine with something none of her
friends possess (hope she’s not the bride);
    (iii) another blond, more regular-size, who’s
athlete-pretty but might be stronger than me (yikes);
    (iv) a factory-issue brunette who looks as
though she’s been smiling since Christmas;
    (v) another brunette, who, because of the
disinterested way she’s staring back at me, I surmise is a lesbian.
Quite beautiful though.
    I point at the smiley brunette.
    “I’ve got to go with you. You look very
bridey.”
    Incomprehensibly, her smile widens, until I
think her face is going to split apart.
    “Yep. It’s me.” They all laugh, and I laugh,
too.
    “Well, good luck to you and your fiancé. I
wish you all the best.”
    A waitress passes near our tables, and I lift
my hand, snag her attention.
    “Another round for the ladies please, and an
Absolut for me, one ice cube, no lime.”
    “Certainly.”
    The ladies all thank me and make excuses
about how they’d better not drink too much since their partying
days are long since gone. But boy when their fruity drinks are
replenished, and I’ve suavely toasted the bride-to-be, they suck
them down like you wouldn’t believe.
    The glittery redhead suddenly lights up and
exclaims how rude we all are because we don’t even know each
other’s names.
    “This is…” She proceeds to name all five
women in about three nanoseconds. I’m awful with names, so the only
one I remember is the marvelous blond. Kara.
    “I’m Jim,” I say and I reach across and shake
everyone’s hand very delicately.
    The lesbian cocks her head.
    “What’s your last name?” she asks.
    I can’t tell you how happy that makes me, but
I play it very cool. Hesitating. Like I don’t want to say.
    “Jansen,” I say, extremely
understated-like.
    The athletic blonde says, “ Down From the
Sleeping Trees Jansen?” Her eyes are about to pop out of her
head. I’m serious.
    But I just nod and look away like