Page 43 of Tusk & Puck
Unless you have to…The whisper of a thought tickles the back of my mind, and I instinctively grab the back of my neck. When did it get so hot in here?
“So…” I start, trailing off because I realize exactly who I sound like right now. Well, two people actually. Melody and the one and only Coach Verog Hill, currently crunching on a few pieces of ice from his large cup of cola.
How doI frame the question without sounding like the cutest nurse and bluntest best friend in the history of ever? Larry, a dark-haired and stout dad whose breath smells like Skittles and popcorn, plops down next to Verog and me.
“So what?”
His slurred speech would be funny if I weren’t worried about those Skittles and popcorn ending up on the floor of my car. Talk about a nightmare drive home. I shake off the image of Larry drunkenly trying to clean up his own mess while the rest of the packed car fights to keep their own dinners down. It’s not my favorite imaginary but probable scenario.
“So who’s seeing everyone home tonight?” I ask, careful not to look at Verog, whose brow I can see lifting from my periphery.
I shrug in response and set my own drink down, a surprisingly satisfying blend of what I think is raspberry iced tea, 7-up, and a splash of cherry lemonade. Tina was right. The best drinks do look the ugliest. I should get her opinion on dipping sauces. I have a feeling the little one with the big ideas could teach me a thing or five on the subject.
“Huh?” Donald and Fred say in unison.
“Got this,” Larry says, waving his phone in the air at me.
“Hey, that’s mine!” Fred articulates through a mouthful of his son’s pizza crust. He pushes himself up and leans over Donald to snatch his phone. “I’ve been looking for that.”
I wipe a large spill off the table with a napkin and nearly bite my tongue when the liquid seeps through the two-ply sheet and onto my hand. I purse my lips together and snatch a few more napkins from the dispenser closest to me.
“So we’re doing cabs? Ubers?” I check my watch and look at the arcade section. Melody is currently standing in the middle doing a headcount. I feel the right side of my lips curl into a smile. She’s doing the grunt work no one wants to do. What a team player.
“Hell, no. Those things'll kill ya,” Donald slurs.
So will driving drunk,I think, but keep the thought to myself. I’ve been on the receiving end of such a comment, and it never goes over well from drunk Jaromir’s perspective. I’m trying to get this guy to listen, not feel cornered.
“Ubers?” Verog asks, his voice dripping with, surprisingly, playful curiosity. “Only if you run in front of them maybe. We won’t let you do something like that, Don. Don’t worry.”
“No.” He burps and mimics driving with both hands. “The drivers. Heard it on a podcast.” He wags his phone in the air again, then frowns as he looks at it more carefully. “Wait, this isn’t my phone.”
I smile even though my teeth are clenching. We’ve got maybe another forty-five minutes left of dinner before the kids start crashing. That’s not going to be enough to sober this guy up.
“Thank you.” Fred belches the words and then snorts with laughter.
I’m only laughing because the rest of the guys are. Except for Verog, who’s too busy drenching his last slice of pizza with hot sauce.
“To winning!” I hear a dad yell as he comes out of the bathroom.
I don’t even know if his declaration has anything to do with his kids or not. He wobbles back to the table, arms raised in victory as if what he’d just accomplished in Great Cheese Nation’s restrooms will be remembered as a feat of the ages.
“To winning!” Everyone at the table but Verog and I cheer.
“So about your rides?” I try again, waiting for the loud clinking of half-empty beer mugs to subside. If I have to order a car or two, so be it. “Where can I tell them to drop you all off?”
Fred scoffs, then points to the gold band on his pale and chubby ring finger. “You know who to call.” He smiles and reaches for a slice of deep dish.
I watch a mess of sausage, onion, and olives fall into a nearby pitcher and drop my shoulders at the loud groan escaping each of the dads.
“My turn!” Fred stands and reaches for the pitcher. “I can tell them it came like this.”
“I got it, buddy,” Verog takes the pitcher and heads to the bar. If he’s smart, which he is, he’ll come back empty-handed and hope the guys don’t notice.
These dudes aren’t built for drinking.
“To wives!” Don yells. “May they always pick up!”
“But never call!” Fred slaps the table at his own joke, then sits up straight as a sober expression spreads across his face. “Don’t tell Sheila I just said that. She can’t take a joke.”