Part 15 (1/2)
”That hotel always gets freaky this weekend.”
”Because of the holiday, I a.s.sume.”
”Partially, but mostly it's because of the strippers and p.o.r.n stars.”
A confused silence emanates from the backseat.
”You folks ARE aware the Adult Entertainment Expo is being held at your hotel, right?”
My father spends the next three days hiding from my mother. And, coincidentally, as she's barely left my side, Fletch also disappears. We catch glimpses of them occasionally in the hotel's restaurants and bars, whooping it up with their friends who got here early. I'm glad the men are having a good time. My mother's anxiety has reached dizzying new heights and we've squabbled nonstop about everything. (”Walking to Treasure Island will take an hour even if we do get on the people movers.” ”No, it won't.” ”YES, IT WILL.” ”Why aren't you using sunscreen?” ”I want to get really dark.” ”You'll get cancer.” ”I'm sure heart disease will kill me first.” ”Should you really be wasting all your money in the slot machines?” ”It was $5 worth of nickels!”) Fortunately, my brother arrived last night, and even though he's usually an a.s.s, he helps defuse the situation. He and Mom are off somewhere right now. I don't know or care what they're doing because I am finally, blissfully alone.
Because we're on a budget and I haven't gotten any presents yet, I can't take advantage of my precious downtime by doing my usual Vegas activities. Denied the opportunity to shop and gamble, I'm working on my tan. I love it here because Mandalay Bay's outside area is second to none. Scattered throughout the lush landscaping are scads of regular pools and hot tubs, although I prefer to lie on the gigantic natural sand beach by the wave pool.
However, I'm not having a good time today. Apparently I'm the only one poolside without an a.n.a.l Pirates II screen credit, and I am more than a little uncomfortable. I don't mean to stare, but I can't help it. Seriously, I've never seen so much plastic in my life! The sleeping gal to my right appears to be carrying flesh-colored watermelons under her eye patches, and on my left, the woman is wearing two thimbles attached by dental floss. Earlier, a gentleman smuggling a flotation device in his pants had a chat right next to me at eye level with Thimbleina regarding their most recent film. I feared one wrong move could put my eye out, so I didn't hear everything they talked about, although I believe it included something called a ”rim job.”99 Strained from too much stimulus, I close my eyes and keep them closed until a large shadow pa.s.ses over me. When I look up, instead of a seeing a puffy c.u.mulus cloud, I spy a hairy, fat, yet somehow comfortingly familiar belly.
”Hey, Peeg!” my brother calls cheerfully.
”Todd! What are you doing here?” His plane got in so late last night, I'd already gone to bed and hadn't yet seen him.
”Gimme $20.”
”For what?” My brother has plenty of money and wants for nothing. However, he takes great pleasure in attempting to squeeze cash out of me and has perfected his craft over the years.
”I kept Mom out of your hair all morning, and I just sent her off to lunch with Auntie Virginia so you won't see her until the rehearsal dinner tonight.” I told you he was good.
”Done,” I reply, grabbing my beach bag. I give him my last $20 bill. ”Thanks. I consider this money well spent.”
Thimbleina offers Todd her chair because she's off to her own lunch with the Astroglide people. I thank her, because, really, what else do you say? Todd eases into his chair with a Sports Ill.u.s.trated, a Sporting News, a Baseball Digest, a Golf Magazine, today's sports page, and a towel.
”I'm honestly surprised you made it out here. Don't you need to be writing about how some athlete threw some sort of projectile through some sort of apparatus?” My brother is the sports editor at his paper, and he works constantly. What his employers don't understand is he'd pay them to be able to write about sports all day.
”Nope, got an intern to cover my page for a few days, so I'm good. Hey, how do I get one of those foot-long strawberry margaritas?”
”You flip the flag up in the back like this.” I demonstrate on my own chair.
The waitress retrieves our drink order, and Todd is soon taking contented sips, alternating his glances between the Red Sox article and the p.o.r.n queens frolicking with one another in the surf.
”I hope they're using extra chlorine this weekend,” Todd snickers.
”No kidding. This convention is making me nuts. Last night Mom and I were waiting in line for a cab next to a woman in an outfit fabricated from a Mylar balloon. Her dress was short enough to be worn as a tank top. A couple of men behind us made a big fuss over how nice she smelled, and it made me mad. Excuse me, but I'm the one who showered, moisturized, and perfumed myself with J'Adore Dior minutes before. She smelled like crab dip.”
”When I called Jean last night, she wasn't pleased to hear about the strippers, either.” Hmm, Jean's at home managing three children under the age of six, and her husband's at a hotel full of adult entertainers. I can't imagine why she'd be upset.
”Did Mom tell you about the guy with the greasy tan and a ton of gold necklaces who asked me if I was here for the convention? I said to him, 'Pal, I'm wearing a pink Lacoste, green Capri pants, and a triple strand of pearls. Exactly what part of my countenance says, 'I have s.e.x with strangers on film' to you?”
”After a bunch of strippers got off the elevator this morning, Mom made the comment, 'I can't stop looking at b.o.o.bs.' I don't think she realized other the people in the elevator were listening,” Todd tells me with a laugh. My mother and I both lack the internal firewall that keeps us from saying almost everything we think.
”If I didn't know better, I'd guess you were enjoying yourself. How many times have I heard you say you hated Vegas and would never, ever come out here?”
He shrugs. ”I say a lot of things I don't mean in order to make you mad.”100 ”Once I'm married, will you'll finally start treating me like an adult? And quit writing mean articles about me? Maybe not try to extort money every time we see each other?”
”Can't see it happening, but because of your wedding, I'll make you a deal. If you give me $5, I'll be nice to you for the rest of the week.”
”You're truly a prince among men.”
”Yeah.”
I hand him five singles. ”Hey, Todd, how did you find me out here? The beach itself is something like eleven acres, not including the rest of the pool area.”
”I looked out the window up in Mom and Dad's room, and I tried to spot the fattest person. I saw a big blob, figured it was you, and here I am.”
I hold out my palm and demand he return my $5.
He complies. ”It was worth it.”
”Mom, come on. Our appointments start in a few minutes.” It's my wedding day, and I'm standing in the hallway outside my parents' room, banging on the door and trying to get my mother out of bed. I can't believe I have to rally her. As anxious and excited as she's been about today, I figured she'd have been up since dawn. ”If we don't get down to the spa now, we won't have time for coffee and m.u.f.fins.”
My mother opens the door and I'm taken aback at how green she is. ”Oh, my G.o.d! What happened to you?” I exclaim.
”Shh, sick. Very, very sick,” she whispers, leaning on my shoulder for support. ”I don't know why. I only had one gla.s.s of wine.”
”Mom? It's not considered one gla.s.s if the waiter keeps refilling it.”
She gasps. ”Jennifer, that's a lie! I don't drink! Besides, I only had one gla.s.s. I'm sure this is a bad reaction to the tannins because it was red wine.”
”You were sitting next to me at the table, and I saw the waiter top off your goblet at least fifteen times. Do the math: We had twenty guests at the rehearsal dinner, yet we went through fifty bottles of wine. That's an average of about ten gla.s.ses apiece.”
”I do not have a hangover! I'm sick! I ate too many rich foods last night, and they interacted with the tannins.”
”Really? If you're not hungover, you wouldn't mind if I talked about a fatty pork chop covered with fried onions, served in a dirty ash tray?”
”No!” she yells, das.h.i.+ng to the trash can by the elevator.
”Ready to change that one gla.s.s answer?”
”Well, maybe I had two gla.s.ses, but no more than that,” she claims. While our elevator descends to the spa level, my mother places both hands on the walls to steady herself.
”Oh, look, it's Julia, Queen of Denial! Mom, do you recall why Fletch and I left the rehearsal dinner so early last night?”
”Actually, no.”
”Remember when you and cousin Karla started singing 'Show Me the Way to Go Home,' and I begged you to stop? And you looked at me with your hair all disheveled and your blazer hanging off your shoulder and replied, 'Itsch my daaay, annnd I'll do whats I wantsss,' so I turned to Fletch and said, 'We're leaving.'”
”I would never say such a thing. And it was only one gla.s.s. Possibly two.”
”Tell yourself that enough and it will eventually begin to feel true.”
I check us into the spa. ”Hi, I'm here for a sugar glow and this radiant mother of the bride is here for a ma.s.sage.” I gesture toward my mother, who is practically gra.s.s green at this point. I collect our robes and keys, and we head to the locker room to change.
In the waiting area, I indulge in m.u.f.fins, fruit, and a mimosa while my mother clings to her bottle of water. I shake my gla.s.s at her. ”Care for a little hair of the dog?” She winces and places her head in her hands. When my esthetician comes to get me, I follow her to the treatment room, calling over my shoulder, ”Don't yack on the ma.s.sage table!”