Sunshine & Whiskey

by R. L. Griffin

  “I mean rationally, I know that,” Laura starts. Then the server brings over several platters of food. My stomach grumbles as he places ribs, “Piggy Mac” and “Chicken Fried Chicken” on the table in front of us. We’d decided to share. “I guess I just feel a little lost.”

  “Me too,” I agree with her. I’ve never not had a goal, a plan, an agenda...it’s terrifying. “But wasn’t it Thoreau who said you never find yourself or understand yourself until you’re lost?”

  “Well, I understand that I need a job to pay bills.” Laura pulls the skillet of pork topped with mac and cheese toward her and gets a huge bite on her fork. “I’m pretty sure I’ll gain a hundred pounds on this trip.” Then she puts the entire forkful in her mouth. Her doe eyes disappear as she closes them and a low moan escapes her lips.

  “Well, that must be good because you just made a sex face,” I say as I dig my own fork into the skillet as well.

  She continues groaning then she opens her eyes. “You know. Sometimes I feel like when I need sex I should just eat something like this, go home, and masturbate. It’d be much less trouble.”

  I point my fork at her, trying to finish chewing my mix of Gouda, noodles, and smoky pork. “I do think it’d be less trouble.”

  The strumming of a guitar cuts off conversation, and I let myself be taken away with the gravelly tone of the singer, the savory taste of the food, and numbness of the alcohol.

  Chapter Sixteen

  That’s My Kind of Night

  Our first tourist stop after last night’s walk down Broadway, or Honky Tonk Row as it’s called, is the Grand Ole Opry. We sat at a few different bars and drank beer listening to live music. It was great. Now we’re standing in the middle of a parking lot.

  The Grand Ole Opry is in the middle of a mall, this is a surprise.

  “I don’t know, I thought this would be somewhere else.” We stand in line to get inside the building, and I am doing some fine people watching. I mean boots and jean shorts never looked so good.

  “Like the 60’s?” Laura laughs.

  I shrug. I honestly thought it’d be where we were last night. I had no idea it’d be in the middle of a mall.

  “Oh, look at those boots.” Laura is pointing at a woman wearing white shorts, a white tank and red cowboy boots. “I bet she’s a whore.”

  Laughter erupts from my throat.

  “I mean she had to wear white to try to fool her date into thinking she isn’t a whore, but look at those boots. Total whore boots.”

  Okay, I’m not making any sense, but we do this. “I bet her bra and underwear is red under her white,” I whisper, joining in the game.

  “No, it’s white too because if it was red everyone would know what a whore she is. Her daddy would even know.”

  “She was wearing modest sandals until she got in her date’s car, then she put on her whore boots.”

  “For sure, her mother would never let her leave the house in those boots.”

  It sounds really mean, but it entertains us and no one knows so it doesn’t hurt anyone. When we pass the girl she sees us looking at her.

  “I just love those boots,” Laura coos then she winks at the girl.

  I can’t breathe I’m laughing so hard.

  “I might need some whore boots myself,” she comments as she directs us to where our seats are located.

  We walk down the aisle to the right of the stage, but we have a pretty good view. “So who are we seeing?” I sit down and check my phone for the time.

  “I didn’t recognize any names, but you know I don’t listen to country music.” Laura hands me the program with all the names of the musicians that will be on the stage tonight.

  I don’t recognize any names of groups or artists, except one. “That’s cool, maybe we’ll find new artists we like.”

  “Doubtful,” she responds, sitting in the narrow chair.

  I smile as I look down on the stage and see the famous circle where all performers stand. The slogan is that the “circle remains unbroken.”

  “Whatever, snob.”

  “I’m not a snob, I just don’t like twangy shit about needin’ a man.” She tries to say this with a southern accent, and it’s actually hilarious.

  “Not every country song is about needing a man. There is an artist I love. She’s a bad ass and she sings about killing a mother fucker. She sings about every aspect of life, including how fake bitches are.”

  “Good thing we aren’t fake bitches.”

  “Not fake, just bitches.” I hit my plastic cup of beer with hers.

  We’ve heard a few different acts, no one sings longer than a few songs. It’s sort of nice. It’s like concerts created for people with ADHD. Holly Williams, Hank Williams Jr.’s daughter, is one of the acts we see, and I will be buying her CD on the way out. She has an amazing voice and has a songwriter vibe about her.

  The last act comes out, and it is a very hot man in the tightest pants I’ve ever seen on a man in my entire life. I lean into Laura. “Is he wearing spandex?”

  She nods. “With sequins,” she adds.

  “I can’t...with a man in sequins.”

  “That’s country music.”

  I turn my eyes to the stage when a beat sounds throughout the room, and everyone starts rocking to the thrum of the drum. My hips move on their own accord in time with the rest of the people in the audience. The man runs around the stage and gyrates in time with the music. Everyone eats it up, including Laura.

  “WooHoo,” Laura calls when he turns his ass toward the crowd and does a little gyration.

  “We aren’t at the strip club,” I whisper in her ear.

  “Oooooo, let me look that up,” she says without moving her eyes from the stage. Not really the stage, but this dude’s ass is what stories are made of. Most men’s asses aren’t anything to write home about. They’re hairy and have a crack, that’s about it. Every once in a while you run across someone who has an ass that defies gravity and looks better than any ass you’ve ever seen. I’ve only seen one ass like that. I promise myself right now I will see more crazy asses.

  “I’m not going to a male strip club.”

  “And why not?” Laura asks.

  “Look, I get going to see women. Women’s bodies are beautiful visually, but men’s bodies. The penis isn’t pretty to look at, it’s utilitarian.”

  “You need to see more penis.”

  “I’ve seen plenty of penis.”

  “You’ve seen three penises in your fucking life, you need to see more penis.”

  “If you say penis one more time I’m leaving you here.”

  “I love dick,” she responds to my threat and then winks at me. Then she turns her ass toward me and rubs it on my leg to the beat of the music.

  The rest of the night goes by quickly and before I know it we’re headed out to find Thor in the massive parking lot.

  “That was pretty awesome, even if I don’t like country music.”

  “Why don’t you like country music? I like most good music. Give me a person with a guitar and kick ass lyrics and I’m in.”

  “You mean like my man cheated so I’m going to key his car?”

  “No. I mean like when someone leaves you and you think you’re going to die of heartbreak and a person sings right to your heart.”

  “You didn’t listen to country music when…”

  “Whatever, there is good country music and bad country music, just like every other music.”

  “You mean you think there is bad 90’s R & B?”

  “Like the Thong song?”

  “That thong thong thong thong,” Laura sings.

  I glare at her. “I mean what kind of lyrics are those?”

  “The kind that makes people millionaires.”

  “I hate that such shit can be so big with the mass of humanity. I mean when I think of brilliance, I think of song writers who write lyrics that stop your heart. You get chills, you feel your heart break with them and you can’t imagine
ever feeling the same again.”

  “Well, look at you getting deep,” Laura comments.

  “I saw this guy at Eddie’s Attic in Decatur and I’m pretty sure he changed my life. Chad didn’t like him, of course. I recognize now he has extremely bad taste.”

  “Does that include you?”

  “It most certainly does.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Red Whore Boots

  The next night, after a concert at the Ryman Auditorium, Laura and I are eating ribs at Jack’s on Broadway nearby. There are two men on stage crooning old country songs that I grew up on. There’s Randy Travis, Hank Williams, Jr. and George Strait. I wipe my hands off on my wet nap, write one of my favorite songs down, and wrap it around a twenty, then I drop it into the tip jar.

  “What song did you request?” Laura asks when I sit back down.

  “Whiskey Ain’t Workin’,” I answer and shove another rib in my mouth.

  “That’s a fucking disaster.”

  “What? I like that song.”

  “I don’t know anything about the fucking song. I’m talking about if whiskey stopped working.”

  “I mean, what would you do?” I quip.

  “I guess I’d need to try vodka or wine,” Laura answers.

  “Right?” I agree as I watch the men on stage start another song. “What the fuck?” Why aren’t they playing my fucking song? My phone buzzes with a text from Justin.

  Press went out today. Congrats everyone now knows you won $226 million dollars.

  I blink. I won two hundred and twenty-six million dollars. Is that even comprehendible? No? I didn’t think so either. I text him back.

  We good.

  His response comes quickly.

  We’re fine for now. The news locally is scrambling to find you. They are using your public Facebook photos and have contacted the firm. I’m fielding all the calls. It should blow over quickly.

  I text.

  Thanks.

  My phone buzzes again.

  Yep.

  While I’m texting with Justin I see I missed a text from my dad.

  Your mom has been on the phone for six hours. You’ve given her a gift of celebrity amongst her peers.

  I chuckle.

  Anything I can do to help her social life.

  I still don’t get my parents. You know when you reach the age that you understand your parents shouldn’t be on a pedestal, but you want them to be. You want them to tell you what to do, but you realize they don’t have the answers. It’s truly traumatizing.

  “Is this the whiskey song?” Laura asks, pulling me out of my reflection on my parent’s relationship.

  I listen and then shake my head. “If they don’t play my song I’m getting my money back.”

  “You should, that’s bullshit.”

  I laugh. I couldn’t imagine going up and pulling my money out of the glass. Then I actually think about it. I’m totally getting my money back if they don’t play that song.

  By the time I have had three more drinks these mother fuckers haven’t played my song yet. I drain my beer and walk up to the stage. The one guy smiles at me like, hey she’s going to give us some money. I reach my hand in their jar and pull out twenty dollars. The crowd boos.

  “I requested a song over an hour ago, and they haven’t played it so they don’t get my money,” I answer the crowd’s booing.

  I put the money in my pocket. The guy closest to me leans in. “We don’t play that song.”

  I look at him.

  He shrugs.

  They don’t play that song? If I pay you twenty dollars, you should play whatever.

  “But I love that song,” I say to him.

  He looks taken aback.

  “You guys suck.” I’m not above name calling when I’m drunk. Oh, I’m drunk. I sulk back to my table and slump in my chair.

  “Did you really just dig around in the tip glass and pull out money?”

  “Well, I wanted them to play a song and they refused. They don’t get money for that.”

  “I can’t wait to see the video of the lottery winner who fishes in the tip jar for her tip back.”

  “Wait, are you serious?”

  “I’m totally serious. You’ve been trending all day.”

  “I’m trending?”

  “Yep, Megan Walker wins a shit ton of money. Everyone is talking about you.”

  I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know what they’re saying.

  “There is all sort of speculation on what you will do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like if you’ll come back to Atlanta or not. They’re talking about Chad too.”

  “Ugh, fuck. Really, they know about that?”

  “You put shit out on social media and people know about it.”

  “Last week they didn’t know about it.”

  “You win a ridiculous amount of money and people know everything you do.”

  This is the truest thing ever said.

  After finishing one too many beers we walk into a store on Broadway and the sign says buy one pair of boots, get two free. “What in the actual fuck?” I point at the sign.

  Laura picks up a boot and looks at me. “Well, it’s because every pair of boots is like $500.”

  “Oh,” is all I can say. I’m ashamed to say I own a pair of five hundred dollar boots. They are fabulous. I own several shoes that are expensive, so I’m not put off by the price. These boots are soft, the designs are unique and gorgeous. They have every color leather from white to different shades of black and all colors in between, including a set of red boots that I’m already eyeing.

  “You must get those.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Those red whore boots.” Laura reaches up and pulls them off the shelf. “You probably need to buy them, wear them, and whore it up.”

  “I like them.” I shrug.

  “You should buy them, whore.”

  “I’m about to punch your whore face.”

  “Takes one to know one.”

  Laura challenges me with her eyes, and her face dares me to try on the whore boots.

  Needless to say, I leave there with a gorgeous pair of brown cowboy boots with a design that looks like butterflies and a pair of red whore boots. I get Laura a pair of whore boots too.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I’ll Never Look at a Ham

  Sandwich the Same Again

  The highway stretches out before us, the white lines playing on repeat. I lean over and turn up the music when I hear a catchy beat come on. Then I stare at the radio in disbelief as I listen to the words. I turn to Laura and her face mirrors mine. I stare at her so long she starts pointing frantically at the road.

  “Eyes on the road,” she yells.

  I swerve swiftly to get back into my lane. “Fuck,” I mutter.

  What you ask has me so distracted I almost wreck my car? A song that has a hypnotic beat telling the female in the club to shake her “big fat butt.” Is this a new compliment I’m unaware of?

  “What the fuck is this song?”

  “No idea.” Laura starts laughing. “Go ahead and go ham ‘sammich?”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” I’m laughing at the song’s lyrics too. “Whatever happened to lyrics about the state of the world or commentary on society, like Pearl Jam?” I comment as Laura is tapping away at her phone.

  “Oh yeah, your obsession with R&B music is due to the lyrics,” she comments. Then she taps on her iPad, and I can see her shoulders moving up and down in a silent hysterical laugh. “What?”

  “You...” more laughing “...are not...” there it is, a snort.

  “What?” I demand.

  “Go ham sandwich,” Laura spits out before launching into more laughter.

  I give up trying to get her to tell me what is so fucking funny and look at the road ahead of me. I take a sip of my vanilla latte, still keeping my eyes on the road.

  “According to Urban Dictionary, a ham sandw
ich is when a woman’s inner labia are longer than the outer labia, giving the vagina the appearance of a ham sandwich.”

  I spit my latte all over my steering wheel and windshield. I’m choking on my laughter mixed with coffee. I hold my hand over my mouth, trying to keep the rest of my latte from spraying the inside of my car.

  “Wait...” Laura laughs. “Sorry. It just gets better. There’s an example ‘I ate a huge ham sandwich last night.’”

  “Are you...” I swallow, making sure everything is gone from my mouth. “That’s disgusting.”

  “And you thought ‘big fat butt’ was bad?” She’s still laughing. “According to the same website, ‘go ham’ means go hard as a mother fucker, so I guess he is saying shake your long ass labia hard as a mother fucker.”

  Laughter bursts out of both of us and we continue for minutes. Tears are rolling down my face. I mean shake your labia...

  “I just don’t understand why?”

  “Why men are disgusting?”

  “No. I know why men are disgusting, but I don’t understand why a woman would be okay with being talked to this way?” Laura asks.

  “Well, I’m pretty sure her response is not captured in the song.”

  “My response would be I’ll tell you what to do with your small penis and inability to use your fingers.”

  “That’s not that catchy,” I quip.

  “I just think women are getting used to being treated a certain way with music and books and I worry.”

  “Explain,” I say as I gaze out the part of the windshield not splattered with latte.

  “Well, it’s just I’m reading this book. When’s the last time you read a book, by the way?”

  “Um, I read the law every fucking day, I don’t feel like reading when I get home.”

  “I mean seriously, last book you read.”

  “Mr. Mercedes.”

  “Stephen King?”

  “Yeah, it was totally fucked up in a great way.”

  “I don’t like books like that. I want a good love story and a happy ending. Period. I don’t want to deal with real life shit in a book. I’m reading to escape.”

  “I get that.”

  “Well anyway, I just finished this book. It was okay, but I’m serious, some of these popular books now I worry for humanity.”