Scot on the Rocks

“Yes, Scotch!” Mrs. Martin cried as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Of course! Bartender, four glasses of Scotch on the rocks, please!” We all lined up at the bar as the bartender set down our drinks.

“The water of life,” Jack said as he grabbed his glass.

“To Scotland!” Mr. Martin cried out.

“To your mum!” Mrs. Martin said, tipping her glass to Jack.

“God save the queen,” Jack said, downing his Scotch. Not knowing what else to do, I downed mine, too. It burned my throat, but I was careful to stay cool, as if I downed Scotch all the time with my handsome Scottish fiancé. “Now, if you good people would excuse me, I should be spending some quality time with my fiancée now.”

“Well, yes, you should,” Mr. Martin said. “Lucky girl.”

Jack turned to leave and, like the gentleman he was pretending to be, put out his arm for me to take.

“Close call,” I whispered to Jack, just as we were approached by a waiter.

“My fellow countryman!” the waiter called out in an accent I couldn’t quite place.

“Excuse me?” Jack asked in his American accent.

“I don’t meet too many fellow Scotsmen out here in La La Land. This is a real treat for me!” the waiter told Jack. Jack nodded his head, clearly doing his best not to speak, for fear of the real Scotsman hearing that his accent was a fake. “Do you run into many Scots in New York City?” the waiter asked Jack. Jack nodded again and used some hand gestures as if to say so-so. “That is where I heard you were from, isn’t it?” he asked, looking at Jack’s kilt. Jack vigorously nodded yes.

“May I please borrow my date?” I interjected. I felt it best to get the fake Scotsman away from the real Scotsman.

“Why, of course,” the waiter said. “Right then. I’ll see you later.” Jack and I both nodded and smiled and walked away.

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” Jack said to me, once we were safely out of the Scotsman’s earshot.

“Oh, my God,” I said. “I had to get you away from that guy. He’s Scottish.”

“I’m aware,” Jack said.

“But you’re not,” I whispered back.

“Again, duly noted,” Jack said.

“But you’re pretending to be,” I whispered.

“Okay, Brooke, where are we going with this?”

“So, I just wanted to get you away from him. You obviously don’t want to be speaking in front of him.”

“That’s why I was nodding a lot in lieu of speaking.”

“Good move,” I affirmed, adding a thumbs-up signal for emphasis.

“So, what’s our plan?” he whispered, brushing his shaggy brown hair from his eyes.

“Plan?” I asked. Didn’t he just see me deftly get him away from the real Scotsman? How much more of a plan can a girl be expected to have?

“Yes, plan. I mean, I can’t keep nodding all night and you certainly can’t keep excusing us every time he comes by.”

“That was my plan,” I said.

“Oh. Works for me.”

“I really had no idea that all of these guests would be so well traveled and educated,” I said. “I mean, I thought that Americans were supposed to be ignorant about other cultures.”

“Well, I think that it’s clear that you and I are the only ones who are ignorant about other cultures.”

“True,” I said. “Okay, I think that it’s safe to say that we should drop the whole title thing. I mean, if we can’t even handle the basics of being a Scotsman, we certainly can’t take the pressure of pretending that you have a title.”

“Agreed. Okay, do you know where Edinburgh is in relation to Perth?” he asked me. I looked back at him blankly. “Well, then, did you bring the outline?” he asked me, eliciting yet another blank stare. My outline was fifteen pages long. Did he really think that it would fit into my tiny evening purse that could barely fit my lipstick and gloss?

“How long did you date this freaking guy that you have no idea where he is from?”

“I know where he’s from,” I said. “He’s from Perth.”

“Yes, I’ve got that part.”

“Well, I’m sorry that I didn’t spend more of the relationship brushing up on my Scottish geography!”

“I just can’t believe that you know nothing about where this guy is from,” he said.

“Where was Penny from?” I asked.

“Penny?”

“Yes, remember her? The woman you were dating that summer I met you?” I was quite certain that he couldn’t have forgotten Penny. No man could forget Penny. All long legs and pouty lips, even I couldn’t forget Penny. All she ever wanted to talk about was her so-called love of sports and how much she hated shopping. As if she could fool me. Please! I made up that whole “I love sports” trick! Not like I was jealous of her or anything.

“Yes, I remember her,” he said. “Cleveland.”

“Cleveland, Ohio?” I asked.

“Yes,” Jack answered, as if I had just asked him if the capital of the United States was Washington, D.C., or something equally as obvious to a big-time lawyer like him.

“Cleveland, huh? And, how close is that to Columbus, Ohio?” I asked. Didn’t I tell you that sometimes it’s annoying when all of your friends are litigators? My razor-sharp wit and amazing sense of irony was completely lost on Jack.

“Are we at a wedding pretending that you are from Ohio?” he asked me.

“Aberdeen is where Paris ought to be,” I said through clenched teeth. “Aberdeen!”

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“You said Edinburgh,” I said, “but the quote is Aberdeen! The quote is ‘Aberdeen is where Paris ought to be!’ I told you to study your cards!” Jack looked back at me and began to laugh. It made me begin to laugh, too.

“Well, I didn’t attribute it to Stevenson, so maybe the Martins just think that I feel very strongly about Edinburgh,” he said, still with a chuckle in his voice. “Anyway, how did you know that I needed rescuing?” he asked.

“You looked a little squirmy in that skirt of yours,” I said. He shot back a look. “More so than before,” I clarified.

“This was much easier last night with the girls, you know,” he told me.

“Brooke, my dear!” I heard calling from just a few feet away. I could practically hear the theme song to Jaws as the voice got closer. “Why, hello, Brooke.”

“Hi, Aunt Muffin,” I said, putting on my fake country-club smile that I reserved strictly for my opposing parties in tough litigation and members of Trip’s family. It was Trip’s aunt and uncle. Decked out in South Sea pearls the size of golf balls and a ball gown the circumference of which rivaled any Southern debutante’s, Trip’s aunt very much looked every bit like you would imagine a “Muffin” would look. Blond hair arranged like a football helmet and heavily made up so that you could barely tell whether or not there was an actual face underneath, she matched Trip’s uncle perfectly, with his capped teeth and cheeks that were red from one too many prewedding martinis. I used to joke with Trip that the only reason they called her Muffin was that Buffy had already been taken.

I could barely lean over and air kiss her because of the massive amount of floor space her dress was taking up. Uncle John, clearly drunk since picture taking earlier that afternoon, had his crisp white dinner jacket already wrinkled and looked as if he was mere minutes away from being ready for a nap.

“John, you remember Brooke, don’t you?” Aunt Muffin said to Uncle John. “The one who dated Trip during law school?” She was speaking very loud, as if he couldn’t hear her.

“The Jewish girl?” he asked Aunt Muffin. I wondered if he thought that I couldn’t hear him, or if like his sister, Trip’s mother, he simply didn’t care.

“Shalom,” I said, which gave Jack a bit of a laugh.

“Oh, yes, Brenda!” Uncle John said. “You were the funny one, weren’t you? You were very funny, right? This