And she walks in

The smell of cigarettes from outside lingers by the weathered door, the lights are low, the conversation is loud, and she walks in. Marching straight up to the karaoke DJ she says, "Listen honey, you got any Ice, Ice Baby for me? Because I'm about to blow this place up."

I walk in, forty-five seconds behind her, and instantly spot the loud group of guys taking up most of the bar space, one of whom is wearing a pirate costume. The black and white striped shirt is torn and his left nipple is out like Janet Jackson's. Plus hair. I am 85 miles from home, in a coastal town, and whom should I spot but a bachelor party consisting of guys from my high school? None of whom are actually my friends, because they graduated a year or two ahead of me, but all of whom I recognize. Of course I only know two of their names, but that's fine, because they don't know mine.

Shortly after the DJ has signed Natalie up for Ice, Ice Baby, he disappears, leaving her to spin the records. She sits in the chair behind the table and signs some people up for karaoke songs. Dee Jay Vanilla Brown is already smokin' the bar with her talent, and she hasn't even sung yet. It's during this time that unknown bachelor party goer #1 and I get to talking and discover that he went to high school with my cousin. The world just got 4 sizes smaller, like a pair of jeans from Abercrombie. The crew Natalie and I came with get a table, and before you know it, it's karaoke time.

N-B knows the song by heart, of course, and so she spends no time reading the screen but instead busts a move while rappin' her way into the hearts of the locals. Of course the crowd goes wild. By the last two measures of the song, people are practically rushing the floor to get to her. I hold them back with iron arms, and it's then that one of the guys from my high school finally recognizes me. I tell him Natalie will give him an autograph later, if he would please just stand back until after her last number.

Our star is all charisma, and later she talks sugar to the bartender. "Hey sweetheart, I need a drink for one of my friends. Something fruity and delicious." She watches, wide eyed, as he pours her a tall glass of something pink, mixing in a variety of alcohols. At five bucks, it's a steal.

Meanwhile, I'm talking rodeos, 4-H, and farms with the hometown boys. Every one they know, I know, but they don't know me. They know my last name, my family name, what we do. As far as my first name goes, though? That's as lost as a sailor at sea.

 Another member of our group is out on the floor, tearing it up. Singing Shania like it were an American Idol audition. Pretty soon the bachelor party crew starts to get a bit rowdy. Just as the floor starts to smoke and the beverage glasses start to spill  from the rush towards our rock stars, you hear a quiet thud to the floor. The microphone has been dropped. The five of us were out of there like your mom in a beauty pageant*. As I'm walking, I turn to get a glance of the bachelor party and the locals fighting over the floor, like players of a football team grasping for the pigskin. But it's a trick play. They don't know the precious ball's gone. N-B is in the car and we're on our way back to our hotel rooms. We've peaced out like a baby listening to Brahm's.




*No offense to your mother, I'm sure she's lovely. It's just an expression, don't take it personally.