The One Night(7)

Cozy is being kind. I’ve been here a few times, and there is nothing cozy about the place, besides the low ceilings and tight space. The maple wood floors are caked in grime, ranging from yesterday’s rainstorm to spilled drinks, and they offer a steadily sticky surface for any wobbly leg. The establishment lacks pretty much any character. The tables are generic four-person tops with metal chairs. The barstools’ black leather upholstery is cracked—some have busted open—and any free poster the owner has received from beer companies is plastered on the wall in a haphazard way, offering a kaleidoscope of bikini-clad models and dewy bottles as wallpaper. The Dirty Beaver holds true to its name.

Dad tucked their suitcase into the corner, so it’s out of the way. He said he didn’t want to draw attention—apparently, he didn’t remember his holiday-tastic outfit of red-and-green-plaid bell-bottom pants paired with a hideous red Christmas sweater that’s far too ugly to actually pass off as cool with its embroidered baby Jesus on the front. Baby Jesus that’s missing an eye . . .

“The table is quite a bit sticky,” Mom whispers. “Should I ask for a rag to clean it?”

“No,” I say before she can even attempt to get up. “That’s the ambiance here, Mom. Cozy with sticky tables.”

“I can’t see how that’s any way to run your business, but I guess to each their own. Now, who do we ask for a menu?”

This is painful, so painful, and we’ve been here for only one minute.

“There is no menu—it’s a bar. You just put your order in to the bartender.”

“Oh, right.” She chuckles, gripping my arm. “It’s been some time since I’ve been in one of these establishments. I’ve forgotten all protocol.”

“I can grab you a drink—what do you want?”

“Hmm.” Mom taps her chin. “Do you think they can make me a Shirley Temple?”

“Do they have root beer floats here?” Dad asks, glancing over toward the bar.

“No, Dad. They don’t—”

His arm flies across my chest. “Look, Cooper . . . a girl. Over there in the corner.”

“Where?” Mom says, head perked up, frantically looking around. “Is she pretty? Oh, it honestly doesn’t matter. We’ll take whatever we can get, right, honey?”

“Exactly,” Dad says, “we can’t possibly be picky. Not sure many women will walk into a bar like this.”

“Very true. But we do need to check for a ring—no son of mine will have an illicit affair.”

“Can you two please, for the love of God, keep your voices down?” I hiss. “I don’t need you drawing any more attention than you already are with those ridiculous outfits.”

“If you must know, Beverly, our Uber driver, thought my vest was quite fetching,” Mom says, tugging on the lapels of said vest.

She was being polite, but I keep that to myself.

“You should go talk to the girl,” Dad says, his eyes still focused on the bar. “She has black hair. Black hair means she’s probably coy and mysterious.”

“Where the hell did you come up with that? Coy and mysterious? Never met anyone with black hair who’s like that,” I say.

“Probably wasn’t natural,” Mom chimes in. “I heard black is the new blonde. But I agree with your father—you should go talk to her. If you’re nervous, we can swoop in, talk you up, and then you can join the conversation. Is that what you were hoping to happen?”

“I was hoping for none of this to happen.”

“You know, with an attitude like that, you’re never going to meet anyone,” Dad says. “Now tell us how we can help you meet this nice girl.”

“How do you know she’s a nice girl?” I ask. “For all you know, she could be a real psycho.”

“He’s right,” Mom says. “I really think we should do some scouting.” She stands from her chair, the legs squeaking along the predictably sticky floor. My stomach plummets.

I tug on her hand. “Sit down. What are you doing?” Dad stands as well, and my worst fears become a reality. “Dad, stop. Sit down.”

Mom pats me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, honey. We got this.”

“Got what? What are you going to do?”

“Shhh.” She presses her finger to her lips. “Let Mommy and Daddy take care of this.”

“I never call you that. Why are you acting like this?” Panic sears through me. This was a really bad idea. I let this get too far. I should have never left the house with them.

“Son,” Dad announces, tucking his holiday sweater into his pants, “there comes a time in a parent’s life when they need to intervene. This is that moment. Sit back, relax, and let us do our work.” Dad bends his fingers back, cracking them, and takes my mom’s hand. Together they walk toward the bar, and in that very moment, as they approach the lady in the corner, I can feel my actual scrotum shrivel up into nothing.

In horror, I watch Dad walk right up to the woman, tap her on the shoulder—actually tap her—and then hold his arms out and hug her when she turns around.

Wait . . . hug her?

Why is he hugging her?

There should be no hugging. We don’t hug strangers. Am I really at that point in my life where the child becomes the parent and I have to teach my parents how to be normal human beings again?