So, the whole fiasco at Possum Pub was actually meant to be a warm-up for tonight. For the first time since our son was born (5 years ago) we went out singing. Never mind that I am just getting over laryngitis. Never mind that there are presents to be bought and wrapped and a holiday dinner to prepare. I wanted to go, and damn it, we went.
We landed, pretty much by chance, at the Lost Acre bar in Romeoville. It was sort of brightly lit, and didn’t look too promising at first, I must admit. At first we couldn’t locate the karaoke area because it was just on one end of the bar, with some tables pushed aside to make room for the singers.
But . . . what the hell. We sat down and ordered a beer. The “stage” such as it was, featured a decently-voiced Elvis impersonator in a white t-shirt, singing “Love Me Tender.”
No sooner has my butt hit the chair, than Elvis wanders over and starts singing to me. I am with my husband, mind you, who has removed my coat for me, brought me a drink, and in all other respects acted like he is with me, as opposed to having shared a ride with me. Elvis takes my hand, leads me to the stage area, and shoves his mike in my face. Remember the old Stick-Ups air freshener commercials where the lady opens the closet and a giant smelly gym sock comes out? When this guy opened his mouth, giant mugs of beer should have been coming out. Gag! But here we are, at the front of the room, in front of this guy’s friends. I will be singing in front of these people in a few minutes; I don’t want to alienate my audience at first sight. The lyrics for the next verse are coming up; well I need to warm up anyway, so I take a deep breath, get my bearings and belt it out!
As the last notes of “Love me tender” die away, Drunken Elvis tries to plant a juicy one on my lips. I duck and make my way back to my table, where my beloved is laughing hysterically.
My first song is Reba McIntyre’s “Fancy.” It’s a good song, right in the middle of my range, and I do it well. Big, big applause. As I walk to the bathroom, I am nearly accosted by my new fans. I should have brought some business cards to hand out! One man grabs me and tells me how much he liked my singing. A couple more grab me and ask my name, where I am from, etc., and how come they never saw me here before. By the time I make it back to my seat, Ted was laughing at me even more and asking whether he was going to have to fight somebody for my honor.
At this moment, another man gets up to sing. He looks a little bit and sounds a lot like Barry White. Drunken Elvis appears at my side and asks me to dance. I turn to Mr. O’Reilly for help. “Go on,” he tells me, “Have your fun.” I shoot him one last frustrated glance as I am pulled to the makeshift dance floor. Someday, I vow, he will pay for this.” –> –> –>[if gte vml 1]> –>[endif]–> –> –> –>[if !vml]–> –> –> –>[endif]–>
Drunken Elvis Pulls me close against him—too close. I am struggling to breathe. I pull back, only to have him blow some more beer-sodden breath in my face. I glare over Drunken Elvis’s shoulder at my husband, who can’t stop laughing. Drunken Elvis does a pelvic thrust and attempts to grind with me as he is ostensibly slow dancing with me. I am backing away while trying not to humiliate anyone, least of all me. He is thrusting, I am backing. What a sight we must make.
When I get back to my seat, I punch Ted in the arm. “You know what, Romeo?” I hiss in his ear. “That kind of thing wouldn’t happen to me if you would ask me to dance sometimes!” “Oh, you want to dance?” He replies, all innocence.” –> –> –>[if gte vml 1]> –>[endif]–> –> –> –>[if !vml]–> –> –> –>[endif]–>
And the night goes on. We take our turns singing with the dozen or so other singers in the bar. I am just getting over some laryngitis, but still I want to sing. I actually sing until I am hoarse. “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” does me in. I croak the last few notes. Drunken Elvis approaches me again and insists on another dance.
There is no deterring this man. While he is attempting to discretely grind on me (as if I wouldn’t notice) he starts telling me, “You know, you are a very beautiful woman. Very beautiful . . . .” I point out, “And I am also very married!” Did he really think I would bring one man to a bar and then attempt to pick up another one? Dude! What are you thinking?
Apologies ensue. When the song ends, he walks me back to my seat and thanks Mr. O’Reilly for allowing me to dance with him. “Hey, man,: he replies, “She’s her own woman.” Not helping my cause, I think. For once, I do want to look as if I am under somebody’s thumb.
Later, Drunken Elvis will corner my other half at the urinal and tell him all the stuff he already knows, how lucky he is, blah, blah. But now Ted’s song is coming up. He has put in a doors tune, “Break on Through (To the Other Side)” I am watching him sing when a long instrumental break interrupts him. And I mean LOOOOONG—like maybe 16 or 20 measures long. As I watch is face, I can see him start to snicker. When I look to the lyrics screen I see why. I begin to blush, and scrunch down in my chair while the words hang, in large white letters, in front of the bar for all to see. My honey can hardly contain himself with laughing as he belts out:
EVERYBODY LOVES MY BABY!
EVERYBODY LOVES MY BABY!
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