they were obviously not part of the game. While both were certainly more than attractive enough to garner attention from the younger men, they had about them a mystique of experience, of having been there and moved on, of unbullshitability. Essentially, they scared the hell out of all but the drunkest of the Slug's suitors, and the fact that they were drinking straight diet Coke scared the hell out of the drunks. Molly and Lena, despite their own personal distress, had slain their own holiday desperation dragons, which was how the Lonesome Christmas party had started in the first place. Now they were on to new, individual anxieties.
"Sloppy joes," said Mavis, a great cloud of low-tar smoke powering the announcement and washing over
Lena and Molly. It had been illegal to smoke in California bars for years, but Mavis ignored the law and the authorities (Theophilus Crowe) and smoked on. "Who doesn't like his meat sloppy on a bun?"
"Mavis, it's Christmas," Lena said. So far Mavis had only suggested soupy or saucy entrees—Lena suspected that Mavis had misplaced her dentures again and was therefore lobbying for a gummable feast.
"With pickles, then. Red sauce, green pickles, Christmas theme."
"I mean shouldn't we do something nice for Christmas? Not just sloppy joes?"
"At five bucks a head, I told her that barbecue was the only way to feed them." Mavis leaned in and looked at Molly, who was muttering malevolently into her ice cubes. "But everyone seems to think it's going to rain. Like it ever rains in December."
Molly looked up and growled a little, then looked at the television screen behind Mavis and pointed. The sound was muted, but there was a weather map of California. About eight hundred miles off the coast there was a great blob of color whirling in jump-frame satellite-photo motion, making it appear that a Technicolor amoeba was about to consume the Bay Area.
"Ain't nothin'," Mavis said. "They won't even give it a name. If that thing was crouched like that over
Bermuda, they'd have given it a name two days ago. Know why? 'Cause they don't come onshore here. That bitch will turn right a hundred miles off Anacapa Island and go down and dump all over the Yucatan. Meanwhile we won't be able to wash our cars because of the drought."
"The rain at least will stop any sand-pirate attacks," Molly said, crunching an ice cube.
"Huh?" said Lena.
"The hell did you say?" Mavis adjusted her hearing aid.
"Nothing," Molly said. "What do you guys think about lasagna? You know, some garlic bread, a little salad."
"Yeah, we can probably do it for five bucks a head if we don't use sauce or cheese," said Mavis.
"Lasagna just doesn't seem very Christmasy," said Lena.
"We could put it in Santa Claus pans," Molly suggested.
"No!" Lena snapped. "No Santas! We can do a snowman or something, but no friggin' Santas."
Mavis reached over and patted Lena's hand. "Santa played a little grab-ass with a lot of us when we were little, darlin'. Once your mustache starts growing you're supposed to let go of that shit."
"I am not growing a mustache."
"Do you wax? Because you can't see a thing," said Molly, being supportive.
"I do not have a mustache," said Lena.
"You think it's bad being a Mexican, Romanian women have to start shaving when they're twelve," Mavis said.
Lena took that opportunity to plant her elbows squarely on the bar and grip two great handfuls of her hair, which she began to pull, slowly and steadily, to make her point.
"What?" said Mavis.
"What?" said Molly.
And there was an awkward moment of silence among the three—only the muted jukebox thumping in the background and the low murmur of people lying to one another. They looked around to avoid talking, then turned to the front door as Vance McNally, Pine Cove's senior EMT, came through it and let loose a long, growling belch.
Vance was in his midfifties, and fancied himself a charmer and a hero, when, in fact, he was a bit of a dolt. He had been driving the
"Sloppy joes," said Mavis, a great cloud of low-tar smoke powering the announcement and washing over
Lena and Molly. It had been illegal to smoke in California bars for years, but Mavis ignored the law and the authorities (Theophilus Crowe) and smoked on. "Who doesn't like his meat sloppy on a bun?"
"Mavis, it's Christmas," Lena said. So far Mavis had only suggested soupy or saucy entrees—Lena suspected that Mavis had misplaced her dentures again and was therefore lobbying for a gummable feast.
"With pickles, then. Red sauce, green pickles, Christmas theme."
"I mean shouldn't we do something nice for Christmas? Not just sloppy joes?"
"At five bucks a head, I told her that barbecue was the only way to feed them." Mavis leaned in and looked at Molly, who was muttering malevolently into her ice cubes. "But everyone seems to think it's going to rain. Like it ever rains in December."
Molly looked up and growled a little, then looked at the television screen behind Mavis and pointed. The sound was muted, but there was a weather map of California. About eight hundred miles off the coast there was a great blob of color whirling in jump-frame satellite-photo motion, making it appear that a Technicolor amoeba was about to consume the Bay Area.
"Ain't nothin'," Mavis said. "They won't even give it a name. If that thing was crouched like that over
Bermuda, they'd have given it a name two days ago. Know why? 'Cause they don't come onshore here. That bitch will turn right a hundred miles off Anacapa Island and go down and dump all over the Yucatan. Meanwhile we won't be able to wash our cars because of the drought."
"The rain at least will stop any sand-pirate attacks," Molly said, crunching an ice cube.
"Huh?" said Lena.
"The hell did you say?" Mavis adjusted her hearing aid.
"Nothing," Molly said. "What do you guys think about lasagna? You know, some garlic bread, a little salad."
"Yeah, we can probably do it for five bucks a head if we don't use sauce or cheese," said Mavis.
"Lasagna just doesn't seem very Christmasy," said Lena.
"We could put it in Santa Claus pans," Molly suggested.
"No!" Lena snapped. "No Santas! We can do a snowman or something, but no friggin' Santas."
Mavis reached over and patted Lena's hand. "Santa played a little grab-ass with a lot of us when we were little, darlin'. Once your mustache starts growing you're supposed to let go of that shit."
"I am not growing a mustache."
"Do you wax? Because you can't see a thing," said Molly, being supportive.
"I do not have a mustache," said Lena.
"You think it's bad being a Mexican, Romanian women have to start shaving when they're twelve," Mavis said.
Lena took that opportunity to plant her elbows squarely on the bar and grip two great handfuls of her hair, which she began to pull, slowly and steadily, to make her point.
"What?" said Mavis.
"What?" said Molly.
And there was an awkward moment of silence among the three—only the muted jukebox thumping in the background and the low murmur of people lying to one another. They looked around to avoid talking, then turned to the front door as Vance McNally, Pine Cove's senior EMT, came through it and let loose a long, growling belch.
Vance was in his midfifties, and fancied himself a charmer and a hero, when, in fact, he was a bit of a dolt. He had been driving the
Similar Books
