When Friday nights finally came, mom walked into my room, asking if I was ready to go. I threw on my nicest outfit, and begged to try on a pair of her heels that I thought would never fit me. At last I uncomfortably forced an overused, rubber thong between my toes that was barely attached to my favorite pair of matches-anything flip flips. I threw fake makeup in my feathered purse, with a few of mom’s least prized makeup possessions, too, for the “real” effect. We exited the front door feeling classier than we really were.
Mom always took us to the same place, the same bar and restaurant. I never knew if the restaurant part really existed, because it was hidden behind bar stools and tall adult legs and my vision was clouded by puffs of cigarette smoke. As soon as we stepped out the door of the car I could tell from the rowdiness and cacophony of voices that this night would be like any other, mingling with the same ole’ crowd, the regulars.
My mother was so admired here; she walked into the bar tonight with the same wild cooing greetings she always is complimented with, the same wolf whistles from the same men who will later fight over who can drive us home. She waves with that kind of attitude that she knows she is popular. She makes eye contact with a couple lucky fellas, a few hopefuls she plans on spending the duration of the evening with. And I return the hand gesture to them all, as if they were really waving at me. Maybe some of them were; I heard my name cooed amongst the jeers, as if they were only really welcoming me, not anyone else.
Mom spent the night downing shots of alcohol too strong to handle and flirting with every guy she can touch on the cheek or neck. She dances with one arm swaying freely above her head in the air, making a snapping motion to keep the rhythm of the song matching with her steps, and the other arm at chest height, attempting not to splash a drop of whiskey. Her hips moved at the same pace and in the same direction of whateverguyshewasdancingwithnow’s hands, as if they were two refrigerator magnets stuck together, impossible to get unstuck.
I spent my evening sitting atop the highest bar stool, slurping every last drop of fruity smoothies out of glasses that didn’t need to be that tall for smoothies, and then I slurped some more, making that hollow, I loved every sip of it, sound. After mom was done dancing with a guy, he came over and paid for my next smoothie and made small talk. How do I like school? Who’s my best friend? Did I finish my homework? Of course they never really care for the truth, so I lied and make up silly answers on purpose to keep their attention on me.
When mom was too tired to dance, she sat down at a stool next to me and slumped her face into pooled remnants of liquor from the now-emptied glasses that sat on the counter top too long. She moaned No,JustLeaveMeAlone’s to polite, caring men who claimed they wouldn’t take advantage of her after driving her daughter safely home. And one of them was lucky enough, after eighteen tries, to convince her to say yes, but only because she was getting delirious and had forgotten the meaning to the questions.
I fell asleep as we were driven home. For some reason, this time I woke up when Jimorwhateverhisnameis jerked the car to a stop outside of our trailer. First, he wrist-grabbed my mother’s raised arms and walked her like a marionette into the unlocked front door. And then he came back for me, and I pretended to be asleep. He gently picked me up, throwing my lifeless body over his shoulders like a Marine coming to rescue a wounded soldier, so that he couldn’t see my open eyes. But I heard him take heavy steps and heave a great sigh. I heard him muttering about trailer trash and the night not being worth it because he didn’t get laid and how the poor little girl is going to grow up to be just like her poor mother.
And although my eyes and ears were watching and listening, I didn’t understand what he meant.
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At age eighteen, I walked into that bar on Friday nights with every style my mother taught me: the outfit trimmed just right, the shoes I crammed my feet into, even though they didn't really fit, the manner or air in which I stepped out of the trailer from and the way I carried that air all the way to the bar. I returned familiar waves hello, knowing this time, that the waves were directed to me. And I gave a few winks out to the new, good looking men, to improve my chances of getting home safely.
I drank big-girl drinks now, shots of clear liquid that tasted like yesterdays sorrys were being forgotten, and eight ounce glasses of ice cubed, flavored whiskey, trying to numb tomorrow's problems away. I danced to the greatest hits, and I found myself glancing at the empty bar stools, from time to time, wondering why a non existent daughter wasn't slurping fruity beverages. And the reminiscing made me want to drink more; I lost count of how many men I hugged and touched and sang and flirted with, I lost count of time. And when some lucky man was driving me home, I was too groggy to comprehend the words he muttered to himself. He walked me back to my trailer door, a puppet at best, still fidgeting for words. I think I heard something about a hot body being such a waste, something about being a fool for falling for someone so careless, something about taxi fares being too expensive. I was too lost to even try to form words to reply with, to form sentences or meaning of it all.
sorta. 
Silver trophy winner
Adding your comment:
!!! My mouth just hit the floor 
rather, I find you a talented poet : )
