Stories I'd Tell in Bars

by Jen Lancaster

  I positioned myself in the deep end on a fun noodle (AKA “horse”) while Fletch stayed in the shallow end. My position took more exercise, which was fine with both of us. You don’t even need a pool – any body of water will do. The only constants are a ball (whatever kind floats) and some Yacht Rock.

  As the game progressed, we made up increasingly elaborate rules regarding score. We determined that’s where the real fun comes in – this is less a game about athletic prowess and more about who can bullshit quicker and with more authority. For example, on one of my serves, I knocked over Fletch’s High Life, so I awarded myself one hundred points. However, Fletch allowed that to happen only once, so now beverage spilling is verboten and an automatic penalty. Plus, the tosser loses an additional hundred points if the drinker first quotes the Big Lebowski, saying, “Hey, careful, man, there’s a beverage here.”

  After one serve, I got nailed in the face. Fletch said I had my hands in place and they were positioned to catch. However, in sensing the ball’s imminent approach, my mitts were suddenly afraid and fled the scene. While you’d think being tagged in the face would be automatic points for me, Fletch awarded himself a bonus for my hands being cowards.

  While I was trying to determine if my nose was broken (it wasn’t) the most significant thing of all happened – The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald began to play. We ceased the game immediately to swing our drinks and pay homage to those twenty-nine lost lives. This song has since become Poolyball’s official anthem, played at the kickoff and during the seventh inning stretch, with mandatory toasts to the early gales of November, to Wisconsin, to Cleveland, to the rooms of Gitche Gumee’s ice water mansion, to the old chef, and to the wives and the sons and the daughters.

  We came up with all kinds of rituals that afternoon, like going boneless to Christopher Cross tunes. We didn’t mean to halt play, but his music does temporarily turn one into Jell-O. There’s a mandatory sing-along for Rupert Homes’ Escape and if Tequila Sunrise is in the rotation, everyone must consume something tequila-based. (The one time this happened, I had a margarita. Fletch mixed Cuervo with Gatorade, which I dubbed a Tequila Sad-rise.)

  Point?

  On that fateful Fourth of July, history was made.

  The nice thing about Poolyball is that it’s so athletic, I don’t get liquored up at all. I’m at the age where I opt to stop drinking after I feel buzzed. I don’t like to be super-impaired and the last thing I want is a hangover. What’s fun and adorable at twenty and easily cured by a McDonald’s fountain Coke, is un-freaking-bearable in my late forties.

  Fletch and I played Poolyball all summer. We kept asking ourselves, “Should it be this fun? Would normal people like this? If we have friends over, are they going to laugh at us behind our backs? [More so than usual?] Is this stupid game as awesome as we think?”

  The big test was a weekend where we finally invited a crowd, believing the dogs to be ready. (They were. Yay!)

  That week, I worked out at the gym at the same time as Ryne Sandberg and Brian Urlacher. I was so excited, not because they were celebrities, but because they were potential recruits for my side. I envisioned bringing them in as ringers. I kept mentally plotting, all, “Let’s see… Fletch, you can have our old friend, the patent attorney, and… I’ll take my new buddies, the Hall of Fame Second Baseman and the ex-Bear.” Then I realized I’d be better off with the quick-quitted lawyer who could come up with point-grabs on the fly. Also, that way I wouldn’t be banned from my gym for bothering the famous dudes.

  That Saturday marked the first official Poolyball game. Many of us playing were the same ones who’d been picked last in seventh grade gym class. Our techniques were sloppy and balls flew everywhere. No one cared. We went boneless during Sailing and we sang along about getting caught in the rain after using classified ads to cheat on our long-time lovers. We inadvertently knocked over each other’s High Lifes, demanding points and issuing penalties with abandon. While we splashed and shouted, Bertie Higgins reminded us about that time that we had it all down in Key Largo.

  Fletch and I looked at each other from our opposing sides of the pool and we nodded. Yeah. The stupid game was as awesome as we thought. So Poolyball and High Life have gone together exactly as well as peanut butter and chocolate.

  And then I go and almost blow it all up.

  I’ve just returned home from the trip of a lifetime to Turks and Caicos. Six months earlier, a travel agency had asked if I’d be willing to travel on their dime to the luxury, all-inclusive Beaches resort they were trying to promote. My only obligations would be to post on social media beforehand and hit a couple of group dinners once everyone arrived at the resort.

  [Yeah, I could probably pencil that in.]

  The whole trip was better than I could have imagined, like a five-day-long bachelorette party, minus the strippers and pornographic drinking straws. We spent each minute as a group, as we quickly discovered we shared the same dark sense of humor. The women who came may have started as fans, but left as friends, complete with memories to last a lifetime and our own inside jokes.

  [Game changer!]

  Prior to departure, the travel agents sent us checklists of what to pack. One of their tips was to bring a thermal cup to keep frozen drinks cold. “Please,” I’d scoffed to Fletch. “I don’t need a special cup to keep my drink cold. That’s what my mouth is for.”

  Luckily, Alyson brought Joanna and me darling floral print thermal cups as a surprise. Turns out, the travel agents were right, because they are travel agents and this is what they do all day, every day. They are agents who understand every aspect of travel, including what you need to do about the whole resort drink sitch. The tumblers were so important because they were three times bigger than the glasses Beaches served. One day I forgot to bring mine down from my room and I felt like I was trekking back and forth to the bar every twenty minutes.

  My intention on the trip was to load up everyone’s tumblers and then teach them to play poolyball as we had our choice of pools and ocean. However, there was no way for us to commandeer the resort’s sound system, so no Yacht Rock. Plus, no one wanted to relax so actively. The whole vibe of the trip was way too laid-back, even though some of us worked out on our own in the mornings. If I’d been all, “No, no, we must play, regardless!” that would have gone against the group’s energy.

  Poolyball could wait until our next trip.

  The very best day was when a group of us were lazing around in the azure water, as warm as if we’d drawn a bath, about twenty feet away from the pristine white sand beach. There’s such a high salt content that floating was effortless. The six of us bobbed and sipped our mojitos.

  [I’d been drinking dirty bananas for the past few days, but switched after watching how they were made. Each regular-sized drink contained a whole banana, so when I used the tumbler, I’d have three bananas. Over the course of two days, I calculated I’d consumed at least twenty-five bananas, which seemed... excessive.]

  As we floated, our group would laugh at all the windsurfers and paddle-boarders who kept falling. We’d narrate what we thought they were saying whenever they’d biff, all Mystery Science Theater 3000-style.

  We observed that each time a water sportsman would venture too far from the coastline, lifeguards would hop in a motorized raft and tow him or her back to shore. We could tell the guards weren’t pleased about this by their body language, which made it even more amusing to watch.

  Our group made up a lot of dialogue each time that happened.

  One woman – who was fine, let me state that up front – had paddled well beyond everyone. Each time the guards went to rescue someone, they bypassed her, even though she seemed to be in the direst of straits. With each mission, the wake from the boat would knock her off course/off her paddle. In saving everyone else, the guards practically drowned this woman.

  In retrospect, this sounds like a terrible story, except this woman’s friends were floating in the water right by us, laughing the
whole time, holding onto their own giant thermal cups. We learned her name was Emily and they weren’t at all concerned for her safety. In fact, they mocked her mercilessly while she struggled. We stopped making fun and allowed her friends to do this by proxy; they were so much better at it.

  We learned that an hour earlier, Emily had lectured the rest of her party on the dangers of day-drinking. “While you slothful people suck down your adult beverages, I’m going to exercise! Do you even know how many calories are in those things?”

  This speech had not gone over well with the rest of her group.

  Now, watching her struggle in the deep water had become a bit of a spectator sport with her crowd.

  “Hey, Emily, how’s that paddle-boarding working out for ya?” “What’s your target heart rate?” “You feeling the burn yet?” her friends would shout, tumblers waving, even though she couldn’t see or hear them, as she was but a speck on the horizon.

  Emily was humbled when she finally did drag her exhausted self onto shore, collapsing onto the sand. Her friends gave each other knowing side-eye before bringing her a bottled water. Grudgingly, they forgave her and accepted her back into the fold. I think she even took a sip of someone’s cocktail.

  At no point did the guards ever glance in Emily’s direction; I got the feeling she’s pulled this kind of shit before.

  [The lesson here is if you go on a group vacay, don’t be an Emily. Nobody likes to travel with someone who’s a pill. Be the person everyone tells stories with afterward, not about.]

  That day was my favorite, but every day was magical, filled with heartbreakingly beautiful sunsets, pastry shops where you could have as many tarts as you could carry (if free, I take,) and a breeze that perpetually smelled of coconuts.

  Once I’m home, I still have a taste for the islands. I long for heartbreaking sunsets and the scent of coconut in the air. But it’s so cold here that the pool isn’t even open yet.

  When Fletch pulls out the dodge ball the first official summer weekend, I eschew my usual Miller High Life. I decide I’ll recreate a little slice of Turks and Caicos here in my backyard. I pull out my pretty tumbler, clip some mint from my garden, and make myself a frozen mojito, following a recipe I find online.

  “Hey, this is good, even better than at Beaches,” I say, offering him my glass. “Have some.”

  He takes a sip and pulls a face. “Taste like gum. No, thanks.”

  “Seriously? I think it’s delicious.”

  The mojitos at the resort were tasty, too, but the flavor was different than this. They reminded more of, say, a spearmint Slushie. I suspect they used more ice and a lighter pour. What’s funny is we had our tumblers with us all day, every day and at no point did I ever feel tipsy. I wonder if that’s because the bananas sucked up so much of the alcohol?

  We commence play and I take a drink now and then. This mojito is going down fast and smooth and my breath feels extra-fresh. Twenty minutes into the game, I knock my serve out of the pool. When this happens, whoever says, “Fuck outta here,” first is exempt from having to retrieve the ball.

  “Fuck outta here,” I say.

  [This is an esoteric expression I picked up from Ed Lover when he had Fuck Outta Here Fridays on his Backspin show. Like I said, some of the rules are beyond obscure, but that’s why it’s fun.]

  Fletch climbs out to grab the ball. Usually it’s him who knocks it out, as he’s always trying new serves. I like to volley, seeing how many times we can send the ball back and forth, because then it feels like a real sport.

  We begin to discuss our friend Tracey’s suggestion that we add Wildfire to the playlist. Fletch is vehemently opposed. “Absolutely not,” he says. “It’s about a ghost horse. From Nebraska. Who dies during a blizzard? That is some bullshit. You can’t have a Nebraska ghost horse on your Yacht list. There’s zero Yacht about it. Does not work.”

  I smack the ball out of the pool again. “Fuck outta here!” I say, watching the dodge ball bounce across the yard into a bush. I swim over to the side and suck up some more minty, minty deliciousness.

  Fletch sighs and hops out of the pool. He tosses me the ball and then jumps back in. “She also suggested Horse with No Name. I’m considering it, but leaning towards no. He’s been through the desert and all, but then it turns to water. At first glance, that’s hard to argue. He talks about the ocean being a desert with its life underground, but I can make a case that-”

  “Fuck outta here!” I can’t stop giggling as he hauls himself out yet again.

  “In the beginning, that was funny. Now it’s getting on my nerves,” Fletch grumbles. He rounds up every spare dodge ball he can find in the yard so he doesn’t have to climb in and out quite so often.

  I help myself to my mo’ mojito in the interim. Mmm, island-y. I can almost taste the sunset.

  “I’m starting to have thoughts on bands named after places,” he says. “I heard Kansas on my way down to the barber shop. I hated Carry On, Wayward Son growing up, but, my God, in the moment, it was perfect. But if I let Kansas onto the list, then what? Do I open the door to Chicago? What about Boston? Will that lead to anarchy? We’re going to need to look at this from every angle.”

  I’ve been saying his list is too restrictive, so I’m delighted that he’s opening his mind a bit, loosening his standards. I indicate my agreement my raising my tumbler and cheering, “Mojito!”

  We have a decent volley until Benny Mardones’s Into the Night begins to play and I must stop for another drinking break. I say, “They don’t make enough songs about statutory rape, in my opinion. Seriously, what A and R guy was all, ‘Wait, this is about an adult male who can’t seem to leave his sixteen-year-old girlfriend alone? Why, that’s not crime, that’s romance, baby!’ What’s next, songs about stalking?”

  “You mean like Every Breath You Take?” Fletch replies.

  Okay, Sting. You’re on the list now, too.

  I say, “You know who I blame? Those fucking Love Is... kids. They are playing soccer in cleats but no shorts or shin guards, riding around on mopeds, wearing helmets but no goddamned leathers. They’re protecting all the wrong bits! Do you know what kind of road rash they’re gonna get if they skid? Fuck outta here, the both of ‘em.”

  We play some more and I continue to work on my cocktail, which has melted surprisingly quickly. Maybe my cup isn’t so thermal anymore?

  Eventually, I adjust my serves and whip up a second batch of mojitos, which is even better than the first.

  Dave Mason’s We Just Disagree comes on and I change the lyrics as I sing along to make it more mojito-centric. “There ain’t no mo-ji-tos/There ain’t no mo-ji-tos/There’s only mo-ji-to and we just mo-ji-to-o-o.”

  “You know, I recall this game having been more fun last summer,” Fletch says. He paddles over to the side where his towel is and wipes off his sunglasses again. I’ve long since stopped lobbing serves out of the pool and now they’ve been landing like the perfect curve ball, breaking and dropping right as they get to him. Each time I send the ball his way, he’s being sprayed with great plumes of backsplash.

  “I’m going to need you to stop that, please.”

  “Mojito?” I reply.

  “Is that a question?”

  “Mojito!”

  A few minutes ago, I stopped using every word in my vocabulary, save for “mojito.”

  “I’m going to need you to stop that, too,” he adds, his own words coming out more clipped.

  “Mojito?”

  “Not kidding.”

  I take a big sip of my drink and nod. “Mojito.”

  “Maybe you should slow down,” he suggests.

  Well, now I’m offended.

  “Schlow down?” Okay, the slurring? Not making my case for me.

  I try again. I say, “This is only my second drink! I had, like nine of these on Emily Day and then we went kayaking. P.S. Joanna made us tip over. She’s not allowed to be captain again. I had to tow the damn boat back to shore myself and the whole
time Joanna was holding up her glass all, ‘I saved my drink!’ Yes, she knocked us over, but she rescued her drink. But she’s no Emily. She’s the anti-Emily. Don’t be an Emily. I should have a shirt made what that on it.”

  He points to my floral cup. “How strong is that thing, exactly?”

  I shrug. “I followed the reppice.”

  “The reppice?”

  I take a drink. Minty! “Yassss. Two cups ice. One handful mint. Two cups rum-”

  “Jesus Christ. Two cups of rum? You’ve slugged down four cups of rum in less than two hours? It’s like you got broadsided by the Bacardi truck.”

  I take a slurp, draining my tumbler. “And now it is gone! I have made it disappear-ed! I am the David Copperfield of rum drinks! I shall have another! You there – make me a mojito!” I shout, twirling around the deep end on my fun noodle. “Two cups ice! One handful mint! Two cups rum! One cup simple syrup!”

  “You’re all hopped up on sugar, too? You’re cut off.”

  “You can’t cut me off. You’re not the mojito police! No mojito polito.” I grab a dodge ball and throw it at him. “Make me a mojito!”

  “No.”

  I throw another ball. Perfect splash! “Two cups ice! One handful mint! Two cups rum! One cup simple syrup! Make me a mojito!”

  “Never going to happen.

  “Love Is... two naked kids who make me a mojito! One handful mint! Two cups rum! One cup simple syrup! Make me a mojito!”

  “Stop.”

  “Mojitos are Yacht! Make me a mojito! One handful mint! Two cups rum! One cup simple syrup! Make me a mojito!”

  Apparently, I go on like this for a while. I don’t remember while it’s happening, as I’ve yet to feel the full the full impact of being run over by the rum truck. Fletch is kind enough to film it for me, just in case.

  It’s bad.

  At some point, he hustles me into the shower to sober me up, to no avail. At least he doesn’t tape that.

  Now, I wish fewer of my stories ended with, “And then I woke up sans pants on the bathroom floor,” yet here we are. I do not throw up, but if I had, I imagine the effect would have been like vomiting mouthwash, again and again. Emily was right. Day-drinking is bad.