Stories I'd Tell in Bars

by Jen Lancaster

  “I have no idea.”

  This is not coming out like I mean. “Why are you giving me that face?” I ask. “People see these calendars, it might change their minds about law enforcement officers. Most people will never go through a CPA course, they don’t know what we know. This was a game-changer for us. But a calendar is visual. Maybe someone who is anti-law enforcement, which may or may not be fair in this day and age, will see this attractive officer posing shirtless with a baby goat on a hay bale. And in their heads, they’re suddenly experiencing everything from an entirely new perspective. A calendar would promote understanding! Folks could be like, ‘My philosophy has always been, ‘Fuck tha Police,’ yet I never considered the alternative before. Perhaps I shall reevaluate and I could fuck the police in an-’ Wait, why are you leaving? I wasn’t done telling you about the night!”

  He shakes his head. “I’m going bed. You just made it weird.”

  Yeah.

  I do that a lot.

  FLETCH’S LAST WORD:

  Both officers showed me how to unlock the rifle on my ride along. We even discussed tactics for its employment if a traffic stop went sideways.

  “Roll out the passenger side, leave the door open, work your way to the back of the car. Stay low, and provide cover fire if needed.” 10-4!

  I’m proud of Jen for stepping out of her comfort zone, but I don’t have anything to add to this story. However, I do have a story about losing and recovering my latest iPhone.

  People who freak out when they lose a phone because their “entire life is on that phone” are doing it wrong. Storing your precious photos, videos, contacts, and credit cards on your phone is a bad idea in the modern era of cloud storage. Keep your shit in the cloud, and your phone becomes an expendable device that can be wiped clean remotely, effectively becoming a paperweight for whoever finds it.

  Last week I took the commuter train to our office in downtown Chicago, which is directly across the street from the train station. I crossed the street, rode the elevator up twenty-four floors, sat down at my desk, and realized I didn’t have my phone. I immediately checked Find My iPhone, and it was still sitting on the train in the station.

  I stood up from my desk, rode the elevator down twenty-four floors, crossed the street, descended into the train station, and began spewing a stream of obscenities that hung thick as the diesel fumes permeating the depot when I saw the train was gone.

  I crossed the street, rode the elevator… you know the rest. I went back to Find my iPhone, and watched my phone make the journey to Fox Lake, which is damn near Wisconsin. I don’t know if people there would recognize an iPhone, or if they would throw it up to the sky like the Coke bottle in The Gods Must Be Crazy. I remotely switched the phone to Lost Mode, which prevents any attempts to unlock the phone and allows the owner set an “if found please contact owner@email.com” message on the home screen.

  I was shocked when I immediately received an email from a Good Samaritan stating, “I found your phone on the train and gave it to a conductor.” Hot damn, my faith in humanity is restored! All I have to do is wait for the train to make the round trip from the Land of Packers Fans, Monster Trucks, New Glarus Spotted Cow Farmhouse Ale, and Cheese, meet the train at Union Station when it arrives at 11:23 a.m., find the conductor, and get on with my day.

  At 11:15, I stood up from my desk, rode the elevator down twenty-four floors, crossed the street, and descended into the train station again. I found the conductor and, assuming he was expecting me, greeted him with a wave.

  “I left my phone on the train this morning, and a passenger gave it to a conductor,” I said, thinking, “You know why I’m here, I’ll be taking my phone now.”

  “Nobody turn nothing into me.” And the Oscar for best use of double negative goes to… This Guy!

  What? That’s not possible! You have it, you must have it! Maybe you just forgot.

  “Have you checked Lost and Found? It’s next to the ticket windows.”

  Of course I checked Lost and Found! What kind of idiot wouldn’t check… oh, actually I hadn’t checked Lost and Found. Damn.

  The walk from the boarding area to the ticket windows was only two to three miles. Uphill. I finally reached the bank of fifteen windows in about an hour, and two of them were actually open! After standing in line for another hour, I finally stepped up to the window and spoke to a person behind three inches of bomb-proof glass.

  The ticket agent’s mouth moved, and I could barely hear her voice through the weird intercom speaker thing embedded in the glass.

  “May I help you?” She didn’t mean it, I could just tell.

  “I’m looking for Lost and Found.”

  The ticket agent may have rolled her eyes, I couldn’t be sure through the up-armored window, but I saw her look over the wall towards the closed window to her left, and heard her yell, “Jerry, are you over there?”

  I hadn’t noticed the gold leaf LOST AND FOUND lettering over the art deco window frame. The window was obscured by mini-blinds that were tightly shut, so I never considered approaching it as an option. But, just like that, the blinds raised about six inches and a face appeared – sideways, peering under the mysterious curtain of bureaucratic solitude.

  “Nobody gets in to see the Wizard, not nobody, not no how!”

  That’s what I heard anyway. Jerry actually asked what I was looking for, and after I gathered my thoughts I told him.

  “Nobody turn nothing into me.” And the Oscar for best use of double negative goes to… wait a minute, is Metra Rail fucking with me? Or is this just standard procedure?

  I returned to my office empty-handed. When I checked Find My iPhone again it placed the phone in Elgin, which is damn near Iowa (for all practical purposes), and from here the story gets complicated and would require a completely separate book to explain.

  Eventually my phone made its way back from The Land of College Wrestling Fans, Monster Trucks, Corn, and Presidential Primary Caucuses, and I finally caught up with it eight hours later and less than two miles from my home. It’s like it never really went anywhere.

  And that’s why you always get insurance on your phone and store your shit in the cloud.

  I CAN’T LET IT END THERE

  Did you think he was going to get the last word? Seriously? Bless your hearts.

  The bad news is, the memoir part of the book is over. Fletch and I (and the rest of the gang) must live some more life before we have anything new to document. However, in the next section, there’s a whole big chunk of something special I think you’re going to dig.

  Maybe it’s not so much a story I’d tell in a bar, but rather, one you’d watch someday. Again, thanks for supporting me in this endeavor. This is the first time in a while that writing a memoir’s been fun again. Now, I hope you like this extra-special, special-extra, bonus for sticking around after the credits Ferris Bueller ending!

  Bonus

  Housemoms Pilot

  Here’s a look at the kind of material I’ve been creating when I haven’t been writing books. Housemoms is a dramedy pilot. If you’re unfamiliar with the term, other dramedy examples include Desperate Housewives, Devious Maids, GCB, Mistresses, and Ugly Betty.

  The background here is that I’ve been working with a team of agents who pitch my books in the film/TV world. They suggested I also put together an original script to demonstrate I understand the mechanics of writing a television show. That’s how Housemoms came to be.

  While not actively in play now, at least for the fall season, this pilot opened a lot of doors for me in Hollywood, putting me in front of those I never thought I’d meet. [Trust me, it was badass. Then I went home and had to clean litter boxes, so, as always, perspective.]

  After I reread the script, I realized how much affection I have for these characters, how much more I want to say about their pasts and futures. If you read this and you love them, too, let me know. I’m considering giving these women the narrative arc they deserve in their own novel.


  So, now... it’s showtime!

  TEASER

  INT. THE OMEGA LOUNGE BASEMENT - EVENING

  We see what looks like a sorority house TV room. An Omega symbol is painted on pastel pink cinderblock walls. A few cardio machines sit to the side. The floor's littered with diet soda cans and hair ties. EIGHT PRETTY COLLEGE-AGE GIRLS, 20's, hang out in baggy sweats and lots of makeup. They text, read celeb magazines, or watch TV.

  SOFIA (Off Screen): We take care of the girls.

  SOFIA JIMENEZ, 24, enters. She's a petite, serious Latina in a white Omega shirt and simple gold crucifix necklace. Older than her years, she's a classic beauty, even without cosmetics. She walks briskly, holding a clipboard and a giant coffee cup while an anxious TRAINEE tries to keep up.

  SOFIA (CONT'D): Omega hired us to maintain order, but our job really is to help. Housemoms are more like therapists or nurses or maids. (laughs) Sometimes? We're even plumbers.

  TRAINEE: Do I need to know about pipes?

  SOFIA: Nah, plumbing's not a big issue.

  CANDY, 21, one of the girls, snorts.

  CANDY: Unless it's burrito night, Desiree.

  DESIREE, 22, kicks Candy, who flips her off. No one acknowledges their squabble; they're all friends here.

  SOFIA: That reminds me, let's talk dinner.

  Sofia marches the trainee down the hall into...

  INT. THE OMEGA LOUNGE KITCHENETTE - EVENING

  Steam trays line the counters. There's a table stacked with dirty plates. Sofia sets down her cup, sweeping everything into a bus tub in one deft motion, then washes her hands.

  SOFIA: We serve at 6:00 p.m. sharp. God help you if the food's late.

  Sofia gives the trainee a detailed spreadsheet labeled Omega Meal Planning.

  SOFIA (CONT'D): Nutritional needs, dietary preferences, allergies. Ariel claims she's gluten-free but those Oreos didn't inhale themselves.

  Sofia uses her clipboard to gesture for the trainee to follow. They scurry back down the hall to...

  INT. THE OMEGA LOUNGE BASEMENT - EVENING

  TRAINEE: Why are you leaving the Omega?

  SOFIA: I'm not. Gonna audition for that TV singing show so I'm taking voice lessons a few nights a week. You'll cover those shifts.

  CANDY: Girl doesn't need lessons. Her version of I Will Always Love You?

  Candy points to her fully contoured/highlighted face.

  CANDY (CONT'D): Tears. For realsies.

  Sofia appears uncomfortable with praise. She touches her crucifix, then glances at her watch.

  SOFIA: Ladies? Showtime.

  Sofia snaps her fingers. All of the girls except Desiree leap into action, whipping off their comfy attire. They reveal skimpy spangled G-strings and racy push-up bras. They swap their Tom's for platform shoes with clear heels.

  We PULL BACK to see a row of lighted make-up tables and a sign that reads The Omega Lounge; Patterson's Premiere Gentlemen's Club.

  SOFIA (CONT'D): Main stage in ten. Des, move it, no one's gonna get off stuffing a Jackson into your UGG boots. (considering) At least I hope not.

  Desiree's eyes stay fixed on the television. ON THE TV SCREEN, we see a NEWSCASTER showing a photo of CHIP BARCLAY, late 40's, handsome, looks like he lives on a yacht. Chip is with an EFFORTLESSLY BLONDE SOCIETY WIFE, 45.

  NEWSCASTER (O.S.): The investigation continues into the disappearance of financier Chip Barclay, who's been accused of --

  DESIREE: This dude ripped off his own family and ran away, just like my Uncle Paulie. (a beat) Except he took millions and not my aunt's El Camino.

  The trainee sits down to watch. Sofia curtly shakes her head and the trainee jumps back up.

  SOFIA: Cool. So, he's bringing his millions here tonight? Then he'll buy enough private dances to cover your son's tuition at that school I told you about?

  DESIREE (confused): Well, no, he's missing. Like, maybe even left the country.

  Sofia herds Desiree to her dressing table.

  SOFIA: Yet Mr. Guzman, your best customer, will be here tonight. He will want to see you sparkle.

  Sofia hands Desiree a jar LABELED -- Ultra Gloss Rack Spackle, for the Discerning Dancer.

  DESIREE: Guzman sucks. Dude's a drug lord.

  Sofia holds up finger in caution.

  SOFIA: Alleged drug lord. What's not alleged? Your kid's limitless future if he learns Mandarin.

  Desiree rubs glitter cream on her enhanced cleavage.

  DESIREE: I dunno, Sofia. That school is --

  SOFIA: That school is amazing.

  EXT. FANCY IVY-COVERED SCHOOL - DAY

  TODDLERS wearing striped rep ties and blue blazers sit on the entry's steps. They READ -- War and Peace.

  SOFIA (Voice Over): What I wouldn't give to have gone there.

  INT. FANCY SCHOOL/CLASSROOM - DAY

  Toddlers stand at whiteboard, solving quadratic equations.

  SOFIA (V.O.): With a start like that, maybe I could have finished high school. I'd have other options. I'd be more... cultured.

  INT. FANCY SCHOOL/CAFETERIA - DAY

  Toddlers eat sushi with chopsticks.

  INT. THE OMEGA LOUNGE BASEMENT - EVENING

  SOFIA (wistful): I could have gone to college, studied voice. Met a decent guy. Everything would be different.

  Sofia sighs and touches her crucifix.

  SOFIA (CONT'D): Anyway, heading to my lesson, but I'll see you in a few hours. Ladies, werk.

  She dashes down the hall, clipboard still in hand.

  EXT. THE OMEGA LOUNGE PARKING LOT - NIGHT

  Sofia crosses in front of a Bentley idling by her old beater, held together with duct tape. LUIS GUZMAN AND FRIEND, tough men with scars, hustle into the club. They ignore Sofia.

  SOFIA: Hi, Mr. Guzman and friend. (a beat) Bye, Mr. Guzman and friend.

  She notices she's still carrying her clipboard. She rolls her eyes and returns to the club.

  INT. THE OMEGA LOUNGE MAIN STAGE - NIGHT

  Candy twirls on the pole to Pour Some Sugar on Me. Sofia steps inside, stopping short when she sees Mr. Guzman and his friend pull AK-47s from their jackets. They spray A BOOTH FULL OF STRIP CLUB GUESTS. We FOCUS ON Sofia's clipboard as it clatters to the ground.

  INT. PATTERSON POLICE STATION - DAY

  The station is dark and dingy, with case files stacked high on every desk. Sofia clutches her clipboard, shell-shocked, her shirt flecked with blood. She's sitting with a grizzled DETECTIVE, 50's. He looks to have slept in his cheap suit.

  DETECTIVE: Thirty people there and nobody saw nothing. Four people gunned down, cold blood, no witnesses. Typical.

  FLASHBACK TO:

  INT. THE OMEGA LOUNGE MAIN STAGE - NIGHT

  GUZMAN (addressing the room): You didn't see nothing.

  Sofia and the girls hover by the side of the stage, nodding in mute terror.

  END FLASHBACK

  INT. PATTERSON POLICE STATION - DAY

  The detective makes a note in a thick file labeled Cartagena Cartel. He hands Sofia a business card.

  DETECTIVE: Here's my number if you suddenly recall Guzman pullin' a trigger, which I very much doubt. So I guess I'll add this unsolved case to the stack.

  He flings his file at the pile, which topples. Exhausted, Sofia cants forward. Her crucifix catches in her clipboard. As she untangles and rises to leave, she pauses.

  SOFIA: Theoretically, what if... what if I saw what happened?

  DETECTIVE: Theoretically, we'd finally have cause to lock up this dirtbag. Then, theoretically, you'd be placed in witness protection because Guzman's so high profile.

  She nods, not sold, but close.

  DETECTIVE (CONT'D): Theoretically, your whole life would change. New city, new name, new everything. Witness protection's a fresh start.

  Sofia weighs her options. Resolved, she touches her crucifix.

  DETECTIVE (CONT'D): You ready to talk?

  She sits.

  SOFIA: Detective, I'm ready to sing.

  END TEASERr />
  ACT ONE

  EXT. PATIO OF ELI'S HOUSE OF BEANS - DAY

  SUPERIMPOSE -- ONE MONTH LATER

  Sofia sits outside a coffee shop with a giant latte, two battered suitcases to her side. She watches a video on her tablet, idly touching her crucifix. ON HER SCREEN we see --

  EXT. GRASSY QUAD AT ELI WHITNEY UNIVERSITY - DAY

  ASHLEY, a perky coed, 22, with long black hair in a high ponytail, cartwheels into the shot. She wears head to toe Eli Whitney University gear.

  ASHLEY: Welcome to Eli Whitney, Central Illinois' premiere public university!! Founded in 1864 --

  Sofia jumps when MARSHALL PAT O'BRIEN, late 40's, taps her on the shoulder. He's a solid type, a man who could kill then cook his own dinner. He sports a neatly trimmed mustache and sense of purpose.

  O'BRIEN: Janelle Smith, I presume?

  SOFIA: No, sorry.

  O'Brien pulls out a chair and sits across from her.

  O'BRIEN: You sure about that, Janelle?

  Sofia, having been given the witness protection name of JANELLE SMITH, buries her face in her hands.

  JANELLE: Oh, no! I keep forgetting my new name. Nice to meet you in person, Marshall O'Brien.

  She offers her hand but Marshall O'Brien hugs her, much to her surprise. He doesn't emit a touchy-feely vibe.

  O'BRIEN (quietly): Families hug. Don't forget, I'm your Uncle Pat. I'm definitely not the U.S. Marshall assigned to look out for you.

  Chastened, Janelle curls into herself, overwhelmed and lost.

  JANELLE: Damn it. Will this get easier?

  O'BRIEN: Yes, and soon.

  She wants to believe him.

  O'BRIEN (CONT'D): What will help is your new job. You'll like it.

  JANELLE: I'm ready for something different. What's the position?

  O'BRIEN: Housemother at Gamma Kappa.

  She deflates.