Page 5 of Spiced!

We had a regular named Dennis. He came every Saturday, sat in the same spot, ordered the same IPA, and expressed enthusiasm through the mild, appreciative nod of a man who considered visible emotion a personal expense he wasn’t willing to incur. Dennis turned on his stool, looked at the bachelorette party, and then turned back to his beer.

Then turned around again.

Then turned forward.

Then turned around a third time, slowly, like a man making sure he’d seen what he thought he’d seen.

I found the beat, moved into it, and the room split into two distinct experiences of the same evening.

The bachelorette party entered a condition I could only describe as unhinged joy. Madison looked like she was receiving a religious vision. Courtney, who had spent the better part of the evening managing a laminated timeline, set her clipboard on the table, picked up her drink, and let go. It was honestly the most moving thing I’d witnessed all night.

The “Ride or Die” sash was filming.

The “Mrs. Always Right” sash was dancing in place like a woman who had taken one too many wine-and-paint classes and thought she had rhythm.

She did not have rhythm.

She was having the time of her life anyway.

The gay men watched all of this unfold with the collective expression of guys who were now watching a bonus show they hadn’t ordered and were still deciding whether or not they were okay with it.

Dennis’s neighbor leaned over and said something to him.

Dennis shrugged, his version of consent.

That was the moment the bar became one room.

Once Dennis allowed it, everyone else allowed it, because Dennis’s opinion carried weight among the Saturday regulars whether Dennis knew it or not. He was the Norm to our Cheers, the regular on whom many set their watches and ordered their refills. Within sixty seconds, the whole crowd had absorbed the bachelorette party into the general ecosystem of the evening. From there, the night found its stride.

The dollar bills started flowing with the second song.

The first twenty came from Madison. It was a crisp note that she’d clearly had ready in her hand since her arrival. I danced toward her end of the bar and did a thing with my hips that I knew would produce a reaction. The twenty made it into the money band that clung to my quad, a male version of a garter worn specifically to collect tips and keep groping fingers from traveling further north.

Madison squealed.

The bachelorettes squealed with her.

By this point, the gay men had started competing with the bachelorette party, because if there’s one thing that will motivate the Barbacks Saturday crowd into spending money, it’s the implication that someone else might be spending more.

By the third song, I had six different hands reaching for my money band simultaneously. Benji was watching from the well like a man witnessing a nature documentary in real time.

“You doing okay up there?” he called.

“Perfectly fine,” I said, spinning away from a particularly enthusiastic reach from the “Second in Command” sash.

“You’ve got a twenty dangling off your leg.”

“I’m aware.”

“And a ten about to slip free.”

“Also aware.”

“There’s a five on your—”

“Benji.”

He held up both hands and went back to his bottles.