Bright Lights, Big Ass

by Jen Lancaster

  And then I may or may not have started yelling and spouting shovel-wielding threats.

  Anyway, you’d think that would have ended the issue.

  Enter today.

  I woke up really early and decided to get a running start on the day. After vacuuming, mopping, polishing, scrubbing, and washing any fabric that comes in contact with pets, it wasn’t even eleven a.m. yet. So, I decided I’d prune my plants and give them a healthy dose of Miracle-Gro. The dogs hung out in the yard with me until they’d had their fill of hose water. After putting them inside so they could immediately start making things smell like wet dog again, I headed back down my stairs to hit my terra-cotta planters.

  I was in the process of deadheading my geraniums when I saw a big gray butt skulk under the stairs. My first thought was, Damn it, how did my cat Jordan get out here? She’s always trying to let herself out, and I’m always extra-vigilant about not letting her. I walked over to the stairs and called to her.

  What came out the other side was not Jordan.

  It was a rat the size of Jordan.

  Instead of screaming myself hoarse like when the mice washed into the yard, I completely froze. The rat looked at me, took a bite of delicious ivy, chewed it, and looked at me again, as if to say, “Yeah, you know what? Fuck you,” before leisurely slipping through a hole in the fence the size of a quarter. (Apparently the dogs, hose, and I had been disturbing him.)

  So, not only have our repeated attempts to poison and drown the rats been unsuccessful, they’ve found a way to feed on our weakness and have morphed into some super-breed with the strength of ten rats and the attitude of a fourteen-year-old boy.

  So now I’m obsessing about my neighbors, their decayed and infested yard, and the damage I could inflict with said spade.

  For now the war is on.

  Like Donkey Kong.

  (Shut up, it almost rhymes.)

  Off to polish my shovel,

  Jen

  * * *

  * * *

  from the desk of Miss Jennifer A. Lancaster

  Dear Alderman,

  Today I received your campaign literature asking me for my vote in your bid to become a District Congressman in the State of Illinois.

  Here’s why you won’t receive it.

  According to your own brochure, you’re the person who “wrote and passed the City Council ordinance calling for an end to the war.” The first time I heard about this, I thought it was an Onion headline or Leno monologue. This leads me to wonder—if Chicago can call for the end of a war, would the reverse be true? Could we also declare war? If so, we should totally go kick Saint Louis’s ass just because they’ve been asking for it, sitting down there all smug for so long. We’ll paint the Arch yellow and claim it in the name of McDonald’s!

  Seriously, though, whether or not I support the war is not the issue. (And actually, I admire the principle that drove you to make such a declaration.) However, the issue here is that I’d greatly prefer the City Council to concentrate on issues confined to, you know, the actual city. Once you guys resolve the problems we have with drugs, gangs, poverty, homelessness, and internal governmental corruption, then sure, feel free to branch out—you’ll have earned that right. Until then, let’s try to concentrate on Cook County, okey-dokey? In regard to issues currently within your control, I’ve been calling your office for six months about getting a new city-issued garbage can. You’ve yet to resolve this. How exactly are you going to broker a lasting peace agreement in the Middle East like your brochure says when you can’t even procure me another plastic receptacle? Also, you are going to have a war on your hands in your own district if the weird family next door shoots me one more dirty look. (I do thank you for responding to my four hundred requests to cut down the tree in their front yard, though. Now my living room is even sunnier!)

  If you’re as “tough on terror” as you are on the neighborhood rat situation, then we have a big problem. What started out as a “pack” of rats in my alley became a “hoard” and is now verging on “swarm.” And I’m going to be one pissed-off resident if I catch bubonic plague in my own backyard.

  Also, do you honestly believe including a photo of a SpaghettiO-covered baby with the caption Who’s going to clean up George Bush’s mess? to be the best way to persuade me about the horrors of war? If so, I urge you to fire your campaign manager, like, immediately. I have two words about effective campaign imagery for you, pal—“Daisy Girl.” Please consult Lyndon B. Johnson’s play-book if you’re confused. You’ll note his marked lack of SpaghettiOs usage. (You should probably avoid any “Hang in There, Kitty” imagery as well.)

  Finally, can you please tell the rest of the aldermen to stop voting to ban pit bulls and foie gras within city limits? This is the kind of ridiculous shit that makes me want to pack up and live in a militia compound in the middle of Wyoming, which would suck because I’m sure there’s no Trader Joe’s or Target anywhere near there.

  By the way, if I move, I’m leaving the rats here.

  Best,

  Jen Lancaster

  P.S. You included a lot of photos of yourself in your brochure and all I can say is, a mustache and leather suspenders? No.

  * * *

  Be Witch

  Remember 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, y
ou 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 downstairs2 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!

  I wonder if I’m the only one disturbed by their display of affection when I notice that Paul’s been quietly closing up the boat, even though it’s hours before we’d all planned to leave. We stand—one of us rather unsteadily—so Paul can clip the coverings over our seats, and we help him police up the empty cans.

  The couple detach themselves long enough to exit the boat. We’re saying our good-byes when the girl says, “Hey, do you mind if we, um, just hang out here and finish our drinks?”

  Paul thinks about it for a moment. “Well, you’re welcome to stay on the dock, but I absolutely can’t have you on board the boat for liability reasons, okay?” He continues to talk in fine print about his insurance policy until they agree, and the three of us start down the long path to the gate.

  I raise my eyebrows at Fletch—is he kidding? The boat is still wide open—they could reboard in five seconds. All we did was cover the seats and the electronics, and something tells me these two aren’t going to need access to the boat’s sonar for what they have in mind.7

  As I stagger to the gate, I turn and look back through the wan dock lighting to see them watching us. Half in the bag and full of bravado, I tell Paul, “Better bring some paper towels for tomorrow.”

  “Why’s that?” he asks.

  “Because those two are about to have sex on your boat.”

  He stops in his tracks and grimaces. “No. No, no. They wouldn’t do that. I specifically told them they couldn’t get back on.”

  “Two bucks says you find evidence tomorrow that they totally did.”

  He begins to fidget with his wedding ring. “They aren’t going to do anything.”

  “Please allow me to quote what I heard ten minutes ago. ‘I can’t wait to kiss your boobies.’ Does that sound like a friendly drink on an exposed dock, or does it sound like you’re going to need to be swabbing your deck tomorrow? Two bucks says you’re swabbing.”

  “Not happening.”

  “Afraid you’re going to lose? Are you a big chicken about losing?” I start clucking and notice Fletch is giving me the stink-eye. “What? Don’t glare at me. I’m not the one about to have sex on Paul’s boat.”

  “They aren’t going to do it.”

  “Just ’cause you say it’s not true doesn’t make it not true.”

  “Unless it’s actually not true.”

  “Bock, bock, bock.” I flap my imaginary wings and bob my neck.

  “They aren’t getting on my boat because I told them not to. Besides, I think he’s married and not to the girl who’s with him.”

  Fletch begins to throw me all sorts of high signs.