Bright Lights, Big Ass: A Self-Indulgent, Surly, Ex-Sorority Girl's Guide to Why It Often Sucks in the City, or Who Are These Idiots and Why Do They All Live Next Door to Me? (38 page)

I wonder if I’m the only one disturbed by their display of affection when I notice that Paul’s been quietly closing up the boat, even though it’s hours before we’d all planned to leave. We stand—one of us rather unsteadily—so Paul can clip the coverings over our seats, and we help him police up the empty cans.

The couple detach themselves long enough to exit the boat. We’re saying our good-byes when the girl says, “Hey, do you mind if we, um, just hang out here and finish our drinks?”

Paul thinks about it for a moment. “Well, you’re welcome to stay on the dock, but I absolutely can’t have you on board the boat for liability reasons, okay?” He continues to talk in fine print about his insurance policy until they agree, and the three of us start down the long path to the gate.

I raise my eyebrows at Fletch—is he kidding? The boat is still wide open—they could reboard in five seconds. All we did was cover the seats and the electronics, and something tells me these two aren’t going to need access to the boat’s sonar for what they have in mind.
7

As I stagger to the gate, I turn and look back through the wan dock lighting to see them watching us. Half in the bag and full of bravado, I tell Paul, “Better bring some paper towels for tomorrow.”

“Why’s that?” he asks.

“Because those two are about to have sex on your boat.”

He stops in his tracks and grimaces. “No. No, no. They wouldn’t do that. I specifically told them they couldn’t get back on.”

“Two bucks says you find evidence tomorrow that they totally did.”

He begins to fidget with his wedding ring. “They aren’t going to do anything.”

“Please allow me to quote what I heard ten minutes ago. ‘I can’t wait to kiss your boobies.’ Does that sound like a friendly drink on an exposed dock, or does it sound like you’re going to need to be swabbing your deck tomorrow? Two bucks says you’re swabbing.”

“Not happening.”

“Afraid you’re going to lose? Are you a big chicken about losing?” I start clucking and notice Fletch is giving me the stink-eye. “What? Don’t glare at me.
I’m
not the one about to have sex on Paul’s boat.”

“They aren’t going to do it.”

“Just ’cause you say it’s not true doesn’t make it not true.”

“Unless it’s actually not true.”

“Bock, bock, bock.” I flap my imaginary wings and bob my neck.

“They aren’t getting on my boat because I told them not to. Besides, I think he’s married and not to the girl who’s with him.”

Fletch begins to throw me all sorts of high signs.

“You mean to tell me you believe he’d have no problem violating his marriage vows to his wife and possibly his Lord, and yet would respect your request to not climb aboard? Riiiight.” I laugh. “Ow, who kicked me?” Fletch’s eyes are the size of saucers. “What’s your problem?” I return my attention to Paul. “Seriously. You. Me. A black light like they use on
20/20
when they do a hotel exposé. Two dollars.”

Paul’s lips are set in a thin white line.

I start to tell him, “I’m right, you know I’m right, and you know I know you know I’m right, yet you refuse to admit it because you’re afraid of losing two—” when I find myself being yanked into a cab by the back of my collar.

“Thanks for everything, see you Monday!” Fletch calls as we pull away.

“What, wait, where are we going?” I ask.

“Master thinks it’s time for Jeannie to get back in her bottle.”

A week later, we’re on our way to the boat again.

Yeah, I can’t believe I was asked back, either.

When Paul called earlier to invite us, I specifically asked Fletch if he was sure I was supposed to come. Fletch said yes, although this is likely only because we were actually taking the boat out and no one would be able to hear me over the roar of the three outboard engines. Also, if I brought up the two-dollar business, I would be summarily tossed overboard without a life jacket.

When we arrive at the boat, I turn down cocktails, opting instead for a soda. A few of Fletch’s coworkers are there, too, and I’m surprised and pleased at Fletch’s skill and grace when acting as first mate. He and Paul easily detach the boat from the dock and soon we’re headed for the underpass that separates the harbor from the lake.

It is the perfect night to be out on the water. Paul says we have maybe ten days like this a year when the lake turns to glass. There’s not a single wave except those we create.

I always thought I was someone who preferred the gentle choreography of sailing to the obvious power of a motor boat. But something strange happens when Paul opens up the engines. As someone with a lifelong fear of motion, I figured I’d be screaming and looking for a seat belt and helmet. But the faster we go, the more exhilarated I am. The wind in my hair is empowering, not terrifying, and the noise coming out of my mouth is laughter.

We head out a couple of miles and the evening is so clear I can see the city all the way south to Indiana and north to where the suburbs begin. The sunset reflects pink and gold off all the skyscrapers and the horizon is iridescent in the fading light. We roar down the coastline, following the path of Lake Shore Drive, taking in all the sights that make this city so spectacular—the Hancock Center, Buckingham Fountain, Navy Pier, the Sears Tower, the Shedd Aquarium, the Adler Planetarium, and the Field Museum, among others maybe not quite so famous, but still special and unique.

As we roar past, I fall in love with my city all over again. Yes, it’s crowded and expensive and full of people who annoy me, but at this shining moment, I’ve never seen anything more gorgeous. I realize Chicago’s a great city not because it’s glamorous, but because it’s real. It’s full of places where you can be fat and over thirty and still be allowed inside the velvet ropes. People come from all over the world to live here, and each of them fits right in without missing a step. The beauty of this city is not that it’s
ex
clusive, but that it’s
in
clusive. And I finally get that when Carl Sandburg calls Chicago the “hog butcher to the world,” it’s meant as a tribute, not a criticism.

We’re out on the water for hours but it’s such sensory overload that I don’t even realize it’s after ten p.m. when we pull back into the slip. I’ve been a perfectly behaved girl all night and Fletch’s boss has finally let his guard down around me again.

As we exit and softly say our good-byes, I realize with the quiet and the audience, now’s the perfect opportunity to shake Paul down for my two dollars.

But I don’t.

Because I’m not always a big ass.

from the desk of Miss Jennifer A. Lancaster

Dear Carrie Bradshaw,

To grasp the enormity of what I’m going to tell you, I’ve got to give you the background. Were you to come into my office right now, you’d see a garbage can overflowing with candy wrappers and Pringles tubes. I haven’t been to the gym in a month and am but a Mars Bar away from Muumuu City, all because I’ve been too involved with writing another book.

My roots are an inch long, my manicure is completely trashed from digging in my garden, and my arms are raked with fresh claw marks from where one of my cats dug in for traction when the alarm clock scared him.

My left side is bruised because I slipped and fell at the grocery store since I’m the kind of dumbass who forgets you shouldn’t wear slick flip-flops when it rains, no matter how nicely the plaid ties your pants and shirt together. (My Keebler Mint Crème cookies and pint of heavy cream survived the fall nicely, thank you.)

For the pièce de résistance, I had a small bump at the top of my cheekbone and I couldn’t leave it alone. A little poke here, a little prod there, lather, rinse, repeat to the point that I’ve not only gouged a hole in my face, but have also given myself a black eye.

In short, I look like I just stepped off the set of
Fat Girl Fight Club
.

So naturally I heard from British
Cosmopolitan
today, wanting to set up a photo shoot to get a picture of me to go along with the article they commissioned from me last month.

When?

The very next day, of course.

The end result is almost exactly what happened to your character in the “They Shoot Single People, Don’t They?” episode of
Sex and the City
—looking my very worst in the one place I really wanted to be pretty.

Touché, Miss Bradshaw.

You win this round.

Best,

Jen Lancaster