Chapter 5
I finish putting everything in place just in time to get ready for karaoke night.
Considering it was at a karaoke party that Mila and Robbie shared their first kiss (and, to this day, it still blows my mind, had their first date), it was the chosen event for the opening night of a week-long wedding celebration, because that’s just the kind of person Mila is.
It took her ten years to finally get married; there was no world in which she wouldn’t turn her own wedding party into some Olympic-style festival with an opening ceremony, a full week’s itinerary, and the grand finale.
As I head upstairs, feeling like I’ve accomplished my mission for the day, all I want is a hot shower and a bed.
But the loud voices and laughs coming from downstairs make me gather enough strength to dig through my suitcase for tonight’s dress.
Of course, as the maid of honor, I’ve had the full itinerary for months, so I had plenty of time to plan the perfect outfit for every occasion.
And I’ve known for a very long time how important it is to follow the bride’s instructions regarding attire.
“Sexy, beautiful and slutty”, that’s what Mila told me.
Which is basically what I was wearing at that first karaoke night anyway, so it wasn’t that hard.
It’s a red dress with a deep neckline that leaves half my back bare.
And because the bar sits right on the beach, I pair it with flat lace-up sandals.
My original dress on that first karaoke night was white, but now anything white or beige is reserved for the bride, and my only job is to stay within the pink-and-red palette along with the other bridesmaids.
Mila’s parents rented a pickup truck for hauling stuff and a minivan for hauling people, but Mila, of course, went above and beyond and booked a limousine for the night. Actually, she booked the same limo for the entire week, including our girls-only bachelorette and the wedding itself.
Even so, there are twenty of us in total, which means we had to split up between the three cars, forming some sort of convoy like we’re celebrities heading to the Oscars.
Except that the reality is far less glamorous, and the karaoke bar is almost as shitty as the bar where Mila and Robbie first kissed.
It’s a typical beach bar, with wooden tables scattered across an open deck that leads right onto the sand, fishing nets hanging from the ceiling, and old surfboards decorating the walls.
The waiters walk around barefoot with dish rags over their shoulders, and the crowd here, well, let’s just say they look very, very sketchy.
The karaoke stage has two faded red curtains, one on each side of a neon sign shaped like a giant Margarita, and I take that as a sign that at least the drinks here are good.
Well, that and the fact that there’s a group of half-naked cougars, already fully drunk, singing When I Think About You I Touch Myself in the middle of the room.
The instant our group walks in, the singing fades until only the background music is left, and it’s painfully obvious that the cougars are eyeing the groomsmen. And Uncle Henry. And if Mila isn’t careful, maybe even the groom.
I inhale deeply. I don’t even want to imagine how tonight is gonna go. You’d think rich people are elegant, sophisticated, people who can maintain class anywhere, right?
Wrong. Completely, utterly wrong.
I’ve seen some truly unhinged things go down at the Carnegie mansion during the holidays.
So I don’t know if a Mexican karaoke bar, where a guy wearing nothing but a speedo and a Panama hat is currently fighting over the microphone with a blonde in leopard-print is gonna do much to keep them on their best behavior.
The whole place reeks of tequila, and, with the way the floor keeps sticking to my sandals every time I take a step, I’m pretty sure part of that tequila is on the ground. Maybe on the seat cushions too, which immediately glue themselves to my butt.
The speedo guy starts singing Shakira, and now he and the cougars are doing the choreography together. Well, apparently they’ve already figured out a way to kiss and make up!
I’m here analyzing the menu, trying to decide between a Margarita, a Daiquiri, or a Sex on the Beach depending on how drunk I’m willing to get tonight.
Tony and Connor are already walking out of the bar with a full bottle of tequila and a bunch of cactus-shaped shot glasses, so I know everyone’s goal is to hit a solid twelve on a one-to-ten drunk scale.
But my phone starts vibrating before I can even assess the consequences this might have for me tomorrow.
I glance at the screen and come face-to-face with the tiny photo of my boss. It’s 8 p.m. 8 p.m. on a Saturday.
In the six years I’ve worked at the All-Star Chronicles, this has never happened. Not even after that massive brawl between two college football teams at a championship final that started because the mascots got into a fistfight on the field.
Someone must have died.
I excuse myself and step away from the table to answer, because a group of German soldiers has taken over the stage, and, between their tone-deaf rendition of “Mr. Brightside” and the synchronized jumping that’s making the walls vibrate along with the floor, I can barely hear myself think.
“Mr. Kyle, is everything okay?” is the first thing I ask. Because I genuinely believe someone must be dead.
Or at least in a very bad condition.
“Julie! Ju-lie!” he sings, his voice loud over a background noise almost as chaotic as the one I’m standing in.
Is he drunk?
“Where are you, Miss Sawyer?”
Oh, he’s definitely drunk.
“I’m in Mexico, Mr. Kyle,” I reply slowly, hoping he’ll finally process the information. Silence. “For my best friend’s wedding.” More silence. “I asked for a week off, remember?” Silence again. “So I could come to Cancún?”
I’m out of ideas. My heart suddenly starts pounding, and I start to wonder if I messed up and didn’t actually submit my time-off request like I thought I did.
My last word triggers something, because he bursts out laughing and repeats, “Cancún! Told you, Mark! She’s in Cancún!”
Who the hell is Mark?
And why does he want to know where I am?
Mark says something and they both laugh amid the loud chatter and music.
“I’m in Tribeca, Julie!” Mr. Kyle announces, as if that clarifies anything. “And I just ran into Mark.” It’s my turn to stay silent because, well, we’ve already established I have no idea who Mark is. “And Mark is Brock Magnus’s agent.”
“Brock Magnus?” I blink in confusion. “The crazy dude from pro wrestling?”
“He’s not the crazy dude from pro wrestling, Miss Sawyer! He’s Brock the Destroyer, the greatest WWE champion of all time.”
At this point, I don’t know if I should argue and tell him I know absolutely nothing about wrestling or the WWE, or pretend I understand his nonsense and let him continue.
“And guess what!” Mr. Kyle yells. Mark says something I can’t make out, and they start laughing again. “Guess who’s in Cancún just like you, Sawyer?”
“Brock the Destroyer, the greatest WWE champion of all time?” I reply, as flat and emotionless as I can be.
“And I just convinced Mark to schedule an exclusive interview for the Chronicles tomorrow. In Cancún!”
Tomorrow. In Cancún. He’s not serious, is he?
I swallow hard. I want to tell him to fuck all the way off. But I can’t. He’s my boss. If I do that, I’ll return to New York broke and unemployed.
Well… broke I already am, so we’d just be adding unemployed to the list.
“Mr. Kyle,” I begin, forcing patience into my voice so he won’t hear how sharp my words really want to sound, “I’m the maid of honor. I have a Bible-length list of things to organize. I don’t have time for interviews in the middle of this.”
And more importantly, I forget to mention, I know nothing about pro wrestling.
“It’s a short interview, Miss Sawyer. Quick and easy. You can meet him during your lunch break. The interview can be during lunch break, right, Mark?”
I massage the bridge of my nose in slow circles while Mark responds on the other end. I don’t even need Mr. Kyle to say it; I can already imagine that, in their current state of drunkenness, the answer will be yes.
As predicted, Mr. Kyle confirms, “Mark says you can meet for lunch.”
I nod in defeat, even though he can’t see me. My silence only gives him more time to guilt me into accepting it.
“I knew I could count on you, Sawyer! This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, you know.”
No, I don’t know, Mr. Kyle.
“I actually know nothing about wrestling!” I blurt out, forced to use this argument even though it hurts to admit my ignorance to my own boss.
“You don’t need to know much! Just remember Brock Magnus is basically the Tom Brady of the WWE and you’ll be fine.”
I will not be fine. Mr. Kyle has absolutely no idea what a journalist needs to conduct an interview worth reading. Especially nowadays, when every celebrity’s entire life is plastered across social media.
A good journalist has to get information the interviewee wouldn’t even tell their own mother. And I’m not going to accomplish that knowing nothing but the fact that Brock Magnus is the Tom Brady of the WWE, whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.
I end the call in pure depression, and instead of diving into tequila with Tony, I walk to the bar to order a Red Bull, my plans of getting drunk tonight going down the drain as I speak.
And that’s a big problem, let me tell you. Staying sober in a place like this… drinks flying left and right, waiters serving extremely questionable nachos that probably won’t give you explosive diarrhea only because the alcohol kills the bacteria first.
Uncle Henry starts singing Sweet Caroline and is fully committed to the performance, dramatizing every line while the whole bar bursts into laughter.
And I just watch while the bartender prepares another round of Margaritas, spinning the tequila bottle in the air like he’s doing a juggling act before decorating the glasses with tiny paper umbrellas and lime slices.