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“Hey!…hey! I’m here!” Chris said, panting. “I made it.”

They reached the door where Jannie Turnkey was handing out branded ponchos.

“They’re for the ladies only,” Jannie said when Chris tried to reach for one. She looked at Maye.

Maye pulled the poncho over her head. “Sorry. It’s his first Dyngus Day celebration.”

“You’re gonna want to go in first,” Maye said to Chris as they reached the door.

“What? No. Ladies first. I insist.” He took a step back making space.

Tracy placed a hand on Maye’s shoulder. “He has to learn, Maye. This is the only way.”

Maye nodded and pulled the hood tight around her head, then she and Tracy stepped forward and crossed the threshold together to face the dousing.

As soon as Maye and Tracy were inside the bar, they were showered with water from cups, stines, pitchers, and buckets. Some patrons brought squirt guns and Super Soakers from home.

“Incoming!” the bartenders shouted as they launched water balloon from behind the bar.

After twenty seconds of nonstop bombardment, cheers erupted around the bar and the polka music started playing again.

“What the heck was that?” Chris sputtered, wiping water from his face.

“It’s a Dyngus Day tradition to splash the women with water,” Maye said, pulling her poncho off over her head.

“That was not a splash,” Chris exclaimed. “That was a flash flood, a typhoon, a tsunami, even. I’m like Johnny Tsunami over here, I’m drenched!”

“Here you go, ladies,” Blair said, handing Maye and Tracy a raffle ticket. “These are good for one round of Fitzy’s traditional mimoski at the bar. And for you?” she looked Chris up and down, “looks like you could use this.” Blair handed him the towel off her shoulder.

Maye spotted the Lunch Ladies in one of the half-circle booths along the wall. When Maye, Chris, and Tracy sat down, Sandra, Laura, Margery, and Estelle were transfixed by someone behind the bar.

“What’s happening over here?” Tracy asked. “Did we interrupt the annual meeting of the Septuagenarian Stalker Club?”

“I’m still a sexagenarian,” Laura said without taking her eyes off the bar.

“Hey, what you do in the privacy of your home is your business,” Tracy said.

“There’s a new bartender,” Sandra said. “Whoever he makes eye contact with first gets dibs.”

“I don’t love the sound of that,” Maye said.

“Oooh! Here he comes!” Sandra said. “Act natural, ladies.”

The bartender set a tray of drinks on the table. “Three tankinis and one lemon spritzer,” he said. His voice was deep and gruff.

“The spritzer is mine,” Estelle said, batting her eyelashes. “I like how you say that. ‘Sprit-zah.’ Do I detect a wee bit of Scottish in your accent?”

“That’s probably the Trenton, New Jersey you’re picking up on there,” he said with a half-smile.

“Oh, I haven’t been. Is Trenton nice?” Estelle asked.

“Don’t bore him with those silly questions, Estelle,” Laura said. “Tell us about your tattoos. Were you in the navy?”

“Gosh, Laura, what if he has PSTD?” Sandra scolded. “Have a little consideration.”

Maye considering correcting her but preferred to just stay out of the way.

“So, tell us,” Sandra continued. “What kind of name is Rigg? Is it a nickname? Is it short for something?”