Karaoke Night

While Tex, droned on about Madonna versus Gaga, I motioned to the waitress for another pitcher. Unfortunately the service was slower than the karaoke line up.

Judy, the best 60-something MC and occasional partaker was keeping a close watch on this weeks douche bag. A meat head, who recently picked up a copy of the City Pages and weaseled away from his college campus so he could get drunk in the city and sing another awful rendition of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” inspired by Glee.

“So what do you think, Kell?” Tex asks, snapping me back into the conversation.

“Long live her Madgesty” I dryly praise, telling him exactly what he wants to hear.

Johnny Ray, Tex’s newest, and mousy conquest uncomfortably twitches before butting in.

“What about Cher?” He asks.

Everyone at the table groans.

“She’s obsolete. I mean Madonna was part of a revolutionary generation. Cher was part of a duo.” Tex barks.

“Yeah, but she is still cutting edge.” Johnny points out.

“Was, cutting edge! What the fuck has she done lately, other than Burlesque? She’s got one trick up her sleeve and that’s Euro-beat, fag trash.”

At this point, the booth gets silent. Our waitress somehow manages to bring a new pitcher of beer, without even asking us and the rest of us fill our mugs to the brim.

“I’d say Madonna’s career is closely following Cher’s, just as Gaga’s will Madonna’s. It all comes down to the evolution of the generation, not the artist.” Johnny defends.

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that, babe.” Tex smugly snarks before finishing off his whiskey.

Johnny flashes Tex his middle finger before pushing his way out of the booth. “I’ve never meant it more than I do now, but you can go fuck yourself. Literally.”

With that, Johnny Ray is gone, while Tex orders one more whiskey. Jenny elbows Tex to follow him, but he shrugs it off.

“His loss.” Tex smirks.

“Can we forgo the Gaga, Madonna, debate for a while?” I ask.

“Only if you come home with me tonight.” Tex replies.

“Tex, Tex, you of all people should know, gentleman prefer blonde's.” I shoot back. It does the trick. For now, until he finishes his second whisky.

After a round of the so called classics and over done “Summer Nights” and “Love Shacks” I’m about ready to stumble out of the bar. Tex finishes up Madonna’s “Dress You Up” while the rest of us get our coats. We head for the exit, waiting for Tex, who purposely falls into me and asks for a lift. As we’re leaving, the bouncer barks at us to pay our bill, something we all try to avoid, so I pool everyone’s singles and head back inside. Thankfully Jenny persuades Tex to ride with her. He kisses me on the cheek and sways out the exit with the rest of the gang.

After paining through a Coyote Ugly cadets version of “One Way Or Another” the bartender hands me my credit card and the slips to sign. Judy announces the next act and I’m ready to fly out of here until the instrumental from “Just Be Good To Me” by the SOS Band hits the speakers. Everyone in the bar retreats back into their “I don’t know this song” mode and suddenly I’m completely overtaken by the sexiest rendition of this song. I try and catch a glance of the performer but she is blocked by some drunken frat boys hooting and hollering.

I try a side step, but two sorority sisters bounce toward the bar and spill their drinks on my shoes. Completely annihilated they continue past me, unaware of the accident and order two lemon drops. No one gives the singer props, but I’m completely and utterly in love trying my best to get toward the front.

The song is nearly over, as I make my way toward the performance and see her. My karaoke queen is a cross between Zoe Saldana and Rosario Dawson rocking the shit out of the song. Donned in skinny jeans, a plain white tee, covered in a Men’s red flannel and biker boots, she finishes strong with minimal applause. One asshole screams “Next!” while I make it a point to clap as loud as I can. She notices and gives me a quick wink before disappearing into a group of hipster friends.

I take one last look, knowing our paths will never cross again and exit.

Outside, I remove a Parliament from its silver cigarette case and dink around with my lighter. The flame ignites and immediately distinguishes as I place it against the tip of my cigarette. I try, try, again, but it just won’t light so I chuck it into a bush and start to unlock my bike. When I do, I notice some assholes banana seat bike, chained to mine.

“Need a light” a voice asks.

I turn and see my SOS goddess, now in a light jacket and cheap knit hat. She’s already smoking and throws me a lighter. It hits me square in the chest, then the ground. She laughs.

“I hope you’re not driving” she says.

“Safety ride.” I tell her, slapping the seat of my bike. I pick the lighter off the ground and light my cigarette, as she approaches and hovers over me.

“Mind if I get in there?” She asks.

I stare at her dumbfounded.

“That’s my bike” she says, pointing at the banana seat.

“Oh” is all I could escape before handing her back the lighter and letting her through. She grazes part of my body and smells like a cherry clove.

She releases the bike.

“It’s all yours” she states, walking off into the distance.

I watch, as this perfect woman escapes me once more. She turns, feeling my eyes on her backside.

She shouts across the parking lot “It was for you!”

“What?” I scream back.

“The song” she remarks before hopping on her bike and riding off.