Note to self: When your mom hands you a new dress, a bus pass, and a bikini wax certificate, be afraid. Very afraid.
“What can I get ya, sugar?” I ask the young twenty-one year old college student across the bar. He’s been staring at my girls for the past fifteen seconds solid. Like tongue dangling out on your chin and drooling all over yourself kind of staring. At this point, I don’t even think he knows I have eyes, let alone what color they may be.
“Corona with lime and your phone number, baby,” he says with a huge grin. Great. Just what I need tonight. Another winner with a stellar pick-up line. It’s not like I haven’t heard that one before. Shit, I’ve already heard it more times tonight than I can count on one hand.
“All out of phone numbers, but I’d be happy to grab that beer for ya,” I say as I reach down into the chest cooler under the bar. “Three seventy-five,” I tell him with a friendly smile as I pop the top and slide it in front of him with a napkin. As much as I want to accidentally drop the beer in his lap, I have to be nice to the customers. It’s guys like him who make bartending so lucrative. Show just a little skin and flash a pearly white smile and the tips are usually pretty decent.
The pick-up lines? Not so much.
“Keep the change, baby doll,” the awkward college kid says as he slides four bucks across the bar at me.
Instead of throwing the smart-assed comment that is hanging dangerously close to the tip of my tongue, I give him a forced smile and drop my shiny quarter in the tip jar. Tight ass.
Saturday Nights are always hopping, but throw in karaoke on the first Saturday of the month, and the bar is packed. I’ve worked at Chaser’s Bar on Madison Street on the lower South side of Chicago for almost three years. There’s a ton of regulars that tip well, and a crap-ton of college kids that don’t. Chaser’s is a great place to relax, watch a game on one of the big screen televisions, and have a good drink. The burly bouncers rarely have to get in the middle of a scuffle, but when they do? It’s always on karaoke night.
“The crowd is thickening early tonight,” Tiffany says as she sets a case of Bud Light down on the floor.
“It’s the first nice weekend of spring. I think everyone’s been a little stir crazy after the frigid winter,” I tell my boss. Winter in Chicago can be very unforgiving, and this past one wasn’t any different. You know, Windy City and all. It definitely holds up to its name. As much as I love Chicago, I’m just thankful that I’m not along Lake Michigan.
“That just means they’ll be starting crap early and causing trouble. Watch yourself,” she says over her shoulder as she continues to stock the chest cooler with popular bottles of beer.
Tiffany opened Chaser’s seven years ago after her ex-husband left her for a younger model. And I mean that–a model. Tiffany is only thirty-five now which made her twenty-eight when the jerkwad took off. Nikki (AKA Slutbag Model) wasn’t the only dirty little secret he kept, either. After a little digging, Tiffany discovered that Gordo had a nice little nest egg worth half a million dollars tucked away in an off-shore account in the Caymans. I guess if you want to hide your extra cash from your soon-to-be-ex-wife, then you better make sure you take all of the bank paperwork with you when you leave.
And don’t have your password be: Tiffany.
Note to self: Stay away from guys who go by Gordo.
After her lawyer annihilated the assbag in court, Tiffany was awarded a quarter of a million dollars and their small colonial home in a decent suburban subdivision. The first thing she did with her half of the divorce? Tiff purchased this old, rundown bar for a steal, along with a nice pair of Double D’s, and she has been content and happy ever since. It’s amazing what fake boobs do for a girl’s trashed confidence.
“Keep your eyes open tonight. I’ve already had enough crap-tastic pick-up lines to keep me warm for a long time,” Tiffany says sarcastically as she tears down the empty boxes.
It’s kind of our thing. We share those incredibly annoying pick-ups at the end of each shift. You wouldn’t believe some of the things young guys say when they think they can get a free beer and a piece of ass. Of course, it never happens. Tiffany has been anti-men since her divorce. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t engage in extracurricular bedroom activities, she just doesn’t take home anyone from her bar. And I don’t need to get into my past drama. We don’t have enough time for that right now.
“I hear ya. I’ve had the same phone number line already six times,” I say as a group of guys saddle up to the bar in front of me. Their laughing and carrying on reminds me more of high school boys at a pep rally than of college and young twenty-year-olds. Tonight’s going to be interesting to say the least.
“What can I get you guys?” I ask, dropping napkins on the bar.
“How about a Miller Light draft,” the first one says with a huge grin. The other three throw their orders at me as I pour drinks.
“Fourteen dollars,” I say as they each throw a few bucks onto the smooth, refinished wood top. I watch as they grab their respective drinks before the taller blond turns around.
And here we go…
“So, I’m new in town,” he says with a sideways grin. “I was wondering if you could give me directions to your place.”
I refrain from the dramatic eye roll that I’m so close to doing. Really? Do they teach Lame Pick-Up Lines 101 in school now?
“Wow, that’s a new one for me. Sorry, but I don’t think that’s going to happen,” I tell him with a wink and smile.
“I could be the love of your life, you know,” he adds with another huge smile.
That makes me laugh out loud. “It’s a risk I’m just going to have to take,” I say before turning towards the next customer. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as he rejoins his friends a few feet away from the bar. He actually isn’t a bad looking guy. Okay, fine. He’s hot. His blond hair is a little on the shaggy side, but styled to perfection. Combine that with his high cheekbones, blue eyes, and his handsome smile, he’s a pretty hot specimen of the male species.
Unfortunately, I’m just not interested. Not now. Not ever.
“How’s your mom, Layne?” I hear over my shoulder. Lee Shore sits down at his usual stool at the very end of the bar. Lee has been a regular for two years, and I frequently find myself chatting it up with him during slow times.
Lee is in his late forties and recently divorced. He started coming in here when they separated as a way to avoid the solitude of his quiet house. Since the divorce, he’s turned into one of the regulars at Chaser’s. His stool is always left open for him by other frequent patrons, and he never makes a scene. Furthermore, he’s probably the only person who knows my story outside of Tiffany and my mom. Lee is easy to talk to and offers sound advice without leaving you feeling like he’s imposing.
“She’s good. Working like crazy still,” I tell the man before me. I’ve watched the lines around his eyes become more defined and his caramel brown hair slowly fade to gray over the recent months. Even then, aging is graceful on Lee. He’s definitely what I’d classify a handsome man.
“Tell her I said hello,” he says before taking a sip of the Heineken I just deposited automatically in front of him. Lee and my mom have only met once, probably more than a year ago, but it was enough to leave an impression on him. He asks about her every time he’s here. Mom on the other hand isn’t looking for love and has avoided my encouragements at giving the divorcee a call.
“You gonna sing tonight?” Lee asks as I mix a Jack and Coke for a young male with a preppy button down shirt and khaki pants. Even his haircut screams country club.
“I don’t know.” It’s my standard response to his regular karaoke night question. The fact is, I need to sing. I need it like I need air. Singing calms me and allows me to take a breath for what feels like the first time in days. It’s my solace. My drug.
“You know she will, Lee. If she doesn’t kick off karaoke night, you know we’ll have a revolt on our hands. And since I’m running low on martini glasses, we can’t have that,” Tiffany says as she pulls bottles out of the cooler.
And she’s right. I will sing. I sing the first song every karaoke night. It’s great PR for the bar and has the customers lined up three deep when I’m done, or so Tiffany says. It also gets the natives all primed for the night’s singing. Everyone thinks they can sing better than the person before them, right? Plus, no one really likes going first. So, Tiffany and I agreed that I’d start it off every night.
“Do you know what you’re singing tonight?” she asks with a knowing look.
Tiffany is one of only two people who know my dreams. My aspirations and desires. She also knows that those dreams aren’t obtainable anymore. I walked away from them years ago, so she encourages me by singing karaoke the first Saturday of the month as the only way I can still quench that thirst that still pulls from within.
“I thought I’d do Bob Seger tonight,” I say as I blend a margarita.
“‘Turn the Page’?” she asks, eyes sparkling with excitement.
“No, I thought I’d do ‘Still the Same,’” I tell her with a knowing look. “Turn the Page” became her anthem after her divorce, and I sing it for her regularly. But tonight, I’m feeling like drowning in my own sorrows and misery. So I choose one of my favorites that remind me that people don’t change, as much as you want, pray, and beg them to. A person is who they are; good or bad, take it or leave it.
“Good choice,” she says before we both turn back to the bar, which is already two deep.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I grab it quickly to check the message that I’ve been expecting. It’s from my mom.
Mom: And he’s out for the night. Be safe coming home.
I smile a soft grin as I look at the message. My fingers fly over the keypad and I send a quick reply. When my message is sent, I grab the washcloth and wash down the bar just as the next round of customers takes the few available seats. Yep, it’s going to be a busy night.
At nine o’clock, our resident DJ, Doc MZ, cues up the selection that I already shared with him earlier in the night. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Chaser’s Karaoke Night,” he says into the microphone attached to his earpiece. A huge round of applause erupts from the audience. “Let’s give it up for our first singer of the night, Layne.”
The crowd explodes again into cheers and catcalls. Tiffany says that half the people here come to hear me sing, but I’m pretty sure it’s because her perky breasts are always on display for the masses to fawn over. That and the mean mixed drinks we offer at cheaper rates than the sports bar down the block.
I weave through the standing crowd towards the stage. The lights have warmed the inside of the bar several degrees in the past half hour as Doc played upbeat dance hits to get them pumped up and energized. Tonight, I’m wearing our standard Chaser’s logo tee, which is form fitting and accentuates all of the female assets you want accentuated. Plus, it hits right at the top of the pants and occasionally will give a shot of fleshy belly. Add my favorite pair of skinny jeans and comfy black knee-high riding boots, and you have a stylish, yet comfortable outfit for a night on your feet.
“Hey, everyone. Are you ready to have a good time tonight?” I ask the masses and throw them a dazzling smile. Tips. It’s for the tips. More cheers and catcalls erupt, ensuring that the alcohol is doing what it’s supposed to do.
I pull the mic out of the stand as the familiar intro is piped through the speakers. I give Doc a wink before I start singing the lines I know by heart. I haven’t needed to look at the words on the television monitors in years. Calm washes over me as I belt each line out by memory. The faces in the crowd may change, but the music never does. It centers me and brings me more peace than I’ve ever experienced. It washes over me like a spring rain, cleansing my soul and rejuvenating my spirit.
The song is over just a few short minutes later. I open my eyes when the applause pulls me back from being lost in the melody and notice that I’m on the opposite end of the stage. When the music takes hold, I lose myself so completely that sometimes I don’t even realize I’m moving. The music moves me.
I replace the microphone on the stand, throw a wave at the crowd, and start to make my way back to the bar. As I push through the thrones of bodies, Mr. New In Town steps in front of me, blocking my path with broad shoulders. The smile he throws is sinful, and it’s hard for my body not to react.
“So, about that address,” he says with another award-winning smile. I laugh despite myself. He’s determined; I’ll give him that.
“Sorry,” I say with a firm shake of my head as I steer myself around him and head back to the bar. Tiffany is slinging beer bottles and grabbing crumpled bills when I finally make my way up front. It’s time to work.
Four hours pass in a blur of mixed drinks, spilled beer, and decent renditions of popular karaoke hits. Jay and Zane start to clear out the crowd as Doc begins to play some classic Aerosmith. It is part of our nightly ritual that we play and sing along with some of our favorite classic hits as we close up the bar.
We were lucky that only two fights broke out tonight. The first was a couple of guys both vying for the same woman’s attention. Typical. Fists started to fly just as Jay arrived to break-up the scuffle before it escalated into a brawl. Of course, it doesn’t help when everyone has liquid courage flowing through their veins and you have the encouragements of your friends in your ears, making you feel invincible and bulletproof. Both were kicked out of the bar for the night, along with their friends, and their beloved woman went home with the next guy in line. How’s that for a kicker?
The second fight was a chick fight, and those are actually worse. Women are vicious, catty creatures who pull hair and claw with their long, fake nails. Zane was the unfortunate one who was closer to this catfight, and had to pull the women apart while they kicked and screamed at each other in ear-piercing levels. I’m pretty sure only dogs could hear them. A few deep scratches that drew blood and a throbbing headache later, Zane was able to break apart the fight and escort the ladies each to the door. The cause? Someone said the other’s best friend’s butt was Kardashian sized. Apparently, a Kardashian sized rump isn’t a compliment anymore. Figures.
When the last of the patrons are ushered out, Zane throws the lock on the front door and we get to work disassembling the bar. The guys lift the chairs and place them on the tabletops, while the bar stools stand tall on the top of the bar. I move my body to the beat of the music when Aerosmith quickly turns to AC/DC. As I fill the deep tub with sudsy, hot water, Tiffany delivers trays of dirty glasses, stacking them on the counter around me.
“We made decent tips tonight,” she says with a hip-bump that moves me out of her way so she can dip her fresh towel in the hot water.
“That’s good,” I reply noting that my checking account could us an influx of cash.
When the glasses are all washed, dried, and put away on the shelves for tomorrow, I turn to find Tiffany dumping out the tip jar on the countertop. Tips are split three ways. The two bartenders each get an equal third, and then the remaining third is split between the guys. Since it is karaoke night, the tips are generally higher and it’s only fitting that Doc gets a cut, too.
After helping Doc load up his van with equipment, Jay and Zane walk Tiffany and me out to our cars. The early March night is still brisk and damp as we make our way to the small parking lot between our bar and the drycleaner next door.
“Drive safely, sweetie,” Tiffany says with a hug before slipping into her new Chevy Tahoe.
I follow at a very close distance behind Jay as he leads me to my ten-year-old Honda Civic. It’s rusty and sometimes doesn’t start right away, but it has been dependable at getting me to where I need to go. As long as I keep my fingers crossed, hold my tongue just right, and do a “please start” chant as you crank over the engine.
“Thanks, guys,” I holler as I get inside and turn up the heat. Jay and Zane slide into Zane’s black Silverado and patiently wait for me to pull out of the parking lot. Always the gentlemen.
It takes me fifteen minutes to get to the small apartment I’ve shared for many years with my mom. Parking in the wee early hours isn’t usually an easy feat in our neighborhood, and tonight, I’m fortunate to find a spot only half a block down. Afternoons are the worst. Our apartment only comes with one designated spot, which we use for Mom’s car, so I’m left to find whatever, wherever I can.
Making my way up the sidewalk, I revel in the quiet and stillness of the early morning hours. Most of Chicago is winding down for the night and traffic is as usual–light. Few lights are on inside of the buildings around me, and I thankfully don’t pass anyone as I approach the front of our building.
After a quick shower to scrub the stale beer from my skin, lime from my fingertips, and my face free of make-up, I slip into warm flannel lounge pants and an old concert tee. I’m exhausted and rung out and am instantly lulled to sleep by the soft, gentle snores of Eli. He sleeps peacefully in the toddler bed on the opposite wall of the twin bed I’ve had since I was a teenager.
As I close my eyes, I slowly relax into my pillow and can’t help but to run through the night’s events. Singing on stage. The corny pick-up lines. The good looking, blue eyed stranger looking for my address. Dividing up the tip jars so that I could replenish my checking account for food, heat, and other necessities.
Just a typical night in the life of Layne Carter.
*****
“So, I have something for you,” my mom says as she places a large garment box on the kitchen table in front of me.
Grace Carter is the spitting image of the woman I look at in the mirror every day. Though she stands a few inches shorter than me, her caramel colored hair that she keeps cut at shoulder length and deep green eyes are identical. She’s been accused on more than one occasion of being my sister. She was only nineteen when I was born twenty-four years ago and doesn’t look anywhere near her forty-three years of age. In fact, she could easily pass for mid-thirties. She always shocks people when she mentions that she’s a grandma.
“Why does that scare me just a little when you say that?” I ask as I take a sip of my sugary coffee.
“Don’t be mad,” she says with bright, consuming eyes. I can already tell that I’m not going to like whatever is in that box.
Eli eats a pancake from his booster seat next to me as I rip open the lid to the white box. Inside is a beautiful black and gold dress. It looks like a vintage as I pull it out, revealing a deep scoop neck and high waist. The dress is sleeveless and hits at the knees. It’s retro, gorgeous and just my style.
“Ummm?” I ask, stumped as to why my mom is giving me this beautiful dress. It’s not my birthday and I don’t recall having any upcoming engagements that would require such a lovely dress.
“There’s more.” She gathers up her to-go coffee mug and purse from the counter, refusing to make eye contact.
Mom works as a personal assistant at a large accounting firm a few miles away. She’s been there for thirteen years, working her way up from a fill-in secretary to being the woman solely responsible for one man’s schedule and office. She loves her job, and they love her. Plus, she’s fortunate enough that they’ve been flexible with her schedule where Eli and I are concerned.
I reach into the box and pull out two envelopes. The first one contains a certificate for the salon Mom uses. It’s not the amount on the certificate that draws my attention, but the item listed. Bikini wax? Is she serious?
But as I glance over at her as she stands in the kitchen doorway, ready to go to work, I can tell by the way she still won’t make eye contact that she is, in fact, dead serious.
“Uh, Mom, I know we’re close, but I don’t think the state of my bikini line is anything for us to be concerned about right now,” I tell her, shocked that she has chosen this moment to give such a personal and private gift.
Mom says nothing as I pull out the other envelope. Dread starts to set in as the quiet of the room takes hold. Hell, even Eli isn’t saying anything right now which makes the walls feel like they’re closing in on me. Mom remains mum as I remove the eight and a half by eleven sheet of copy paper revealing the date and time for an upcoming flight to Los Angeles.
My eyebrows shoot straight towards the heavens as I look up at her. “What’s this?” I finally ask.
Mom clears her throat before answering, “That’s your ticket to your audition to Rising Star.”
I peel my eyes off the sheet of paper that is suddenly shaking in my hand and stare at the woman in front of me. I wait for her to yell, “Gotcha!” but it never comes. She appears nervous, yet excited as she stares down at me. I, on the other hand, am ready to pee down my leg, and it isn’t from excitement.
“What did you do?” I whisper hoarsely as I look back down at the piece of paper. According to the document that I’m trying to strangle in my hands, I’m boarding a flight in less than one week and heading to The Golden State to audition for the hit new singing competition, Rising Star.
“I’m giving you the little nudge you need–and deserve. This is your chance, Layne. I sent in an audition video of you singing last month at Chaser’s and they called. They want you to be on their audition show in California next week. I’ve already booked your flight, and with the network’s help, your hotel room and a car are arranged for you.”
I stare up at the woman who has been my sole provider since I was six years old. “I can’t do this,” I mumble, my mind swarming with dread and fear. “I have Eli,” I state matter-of-factly.
“Yes, you do have Eli and I’ve already talked to Jane next door who is going to help me for a few days. Tiffany has already arranged for Callie and Kyle to handle your shifts at the bar.”
I blink up at my mom because it’s the only thing I can do. My mind is running a million miles a second in every direction imaginable as I try to process what she’s saying–and what it means for me.
“This is your time, Layne. I won’t let you sit here and dwell on the crap-hand that life dealt you. Eli and I will be fine for a few days. Go. Give this a try. If you are invited to the show, then we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. But, at least try. At least go and sing the way I know you can. Go and show the world that Layne Carter is as good as all those other guys and girls. Show them you’ve got it,” she says with a motherly smile and a hug.
But that’s the thing. I don’t know if I’ve got it. I used to think I could do anything, sing any song and perform in front of a few hundred. But, now? Confidence has long ago been replaced with fear and self-doubt. Performing at Chaser’s is one thing. This? This is something completely different. This is terrifying.
“Why the bikini wax? I don’t think the judges are going to be looking that closely,” I say with a sassy smile.
Mom laughs. “Nothing helps improve your mood and self-confidence like smooth lady parts,” Mom says with a wink.
I’ll have to take her word for it. Self-grooming in the lady part region hasn’t exactly been high on my to-do list for quite some time. You know, with working full time at the bar and raising a toddler. I haven’t found the time to add regular visits to the salon to my to-do list.
Note to self: Check into regular self-grooming waxing.
“You’ve got this, Layne. I don’t want you to worry about anything at home. I’ve got Eli. Besides, a record contract and one hundred grand? Can you imagine what that grand prize can do for you and Eli? What kind of life it will give you both?” she asks as we both look over at my three-year-old son sitting at the table next to me. His green eyes are the same as mine, but his hair is lighter, almost blond. Like his father’s was.
I look back down at the paper in my hand. Trepidation and uncertainty still churn in my stomach like bad eggs, but so does exhilaration. Excitement.
Am I really going to do this?
Apparently, the answer is yes.