“Earl,” I said. “How ’bout I buy you a drink?”
“Maybe later,” Earl said, not looking at me. “Right now I got me a date with this purdy lil’ gal. We gonna dance.”
“How about tomorrow?” I said.
Finally, he squinted at me. “Who’re you, an’ wuzzit to ya?”
“The name’s Mort, and this purdy lil’ gal and I are engaged, that’s wuzzit to me.”
“Well, then, you’re some kinda lucky, stud. But that mean she can’t dance?”
“How about you leave that up to her?”
Earl sized me up with bleary eyes. He had me by fifty pounds, but they weren’t good pounds. Mine were better even though I was still convalescing, not yet at a hundred percent. He didn’t get that, however, because he pushed back into Jeri’s space. “Man, y’all’re some kinda gorgeous, gorgeous.”
“And you’re some kinda—”
“Maybe,” I said before Jeri could say whatever incendiary thing she was about to say, “you two oughta arm wrestle for it.”
Well, it just popped out. That’s my excuse. My mouth has a mind of its own, an entire inner life independent of mine. Thing is, something like that can take on a life independent of the mouth. This one did.
Jeri turned and stared at me.
Earl, however, roared with laughter. I think that’s what really did it. His belly shook. In a beard, a red suit, and a button nose he’d make a jolly old elf. Trouble was, his nose looked like a pickled cucumber and it was only September.
“Arm rassle?” he howled. “Har, har, har.” His laugh was one of those. It dug into your brain and loosened neurons.
“C’mon, Earl,” said one of his buddies, five-ten and as bald as an egg.
Baldie wasn’t nearly as drunk as Earl. Or the rest of them, for that matter. I figured him for the designated Shriner With A Brain. His job might have been to keep Earl out of jail. The other four were staggering in place, trying to keep up with all this, but they looked like harmless souls, just wanting to down a few more shots or shooters, turn their brainpans into happy comatose oatmeal, then head off to a room and crash. The Designated Brain’s name turned out to be Barry Flynn.
Earl looked at Barry with tears in his eyes. Real tears. He had to wipe them away with the back of his hand. “Arm rassle, Barry. ’Magine me rasslin’ Missy ’Merica here? Har, har, har.” He sucked in another breath. “Har, har, har, har.”
Jeri popped off the barstool, all five feet three and a half inches of her. At the sight, Earl doubled over with laughter. The top of her head didn’t reach his shoulders.
Barry gave us an apologetic shrug.
Jeri, however, gave Earl a look that could freeze a yak. She was facing away from me, but I caught her look in the mirror behind the bar. Type-A, like I said. That “Missy” thing had fired her rocket. Earl’s “har, har, har” was just the cherry on top.
Jeri poked him in the belly, hard. “Bring it on, wiseass.”
For a moment, time stopped. Stopped so dead it seemed the earth had quit rotating—which would’ve thrown off all the clocks and pissed off untold billions of people.
I stared at Jeri.
Earl quit haring and stared at her.
The rest of the Shriner pack stared at her, including Barry, as the world held its collective breath—
—which makes this a perfect time to mention that in late August, when I was finally up to it, Jeri decided she wanted to meet my mom, Dori Angel, a lady so rich she sometimes finds hundred-dollar bills in her hair. She also shacks up with guys half her age as long as they’re “pretty,” which means tan, over six feet tall, well-muscled, and dumb—dumb evidently being an attractive feature in a sex object. She goes through three or four a year. My father has been out of the picture for quite a while, having died in a golfing accident of his own making.
The trip was a huge success. I got a tan, and Dori and Jeri bonded, possibly because their names both end in the letter “i.” At least that was my theory. No other way to explain it.
Okay, back to the wrestling match.
“Let’s do ’er,” Earl said.
Jeri rolled her shoulders and shook out her arms, which might have told Earl something, but he was too busy chuckling as he finished off a Kamikaze: Smirnoff Red Label vodka, triple sec, and lime juice. The drink had been ordered for him by one of the other guys, Gill, which indicated that this was not a Mensa convention.
I stood next to Barry.
“This probably isn’t a good idea,” he said.
“It just popped out,” I offered by way of explanation.
“Uh-huh.”
“My mouth says things when my back is turned.”
He looked at me. “That right? I got a cousin used to do that. He’s in prison now.” He turned his attention back to Earl and his Kamikaze. “Earl ain’t a bad guy. Just kind of a sloppy drunk, you know what I mean.”
“Yup. Been there.”
We watched Jeri and Earl a moment longer, then my mouth had its second bright idea of the evening.
“Side bets, anyone?” I said, loud enough to cut through the chatter.
All eyes turned to me. Jeri gave me a look. “Might’s well pick up a little extra traveling money,” I told her.
That got another round of baritone “hars” out of Earl. Not knowing how dangerous it was, he patted the top of Jeri’s head. “Whatdda you weigh, sweetheart? One-ten?”
In his defense, he hadn’t seen her in gym shorts and a halter top. First ten seconds I’d seen her, in a loose cotton shirt and sultan pants, I had her pegged at one-fifteen and I wasn’t drunk off my ass at the time.
Jeri gave him a smile with a lot of teeth in it.
About that time, Shriner Jim-Bob was waving a
