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“Thinking about what song I’m going to sing.”
“Mariah. My vote’s Mariah.”
“You don’t get a vote,” I tell him, as I get up off my seat. I book it over toward the stage, because if I don’t get there soon I might chicken out.
I reach the karaoke machine just as the portly guy holding the mic, Frankie, belts out the last few words of his song.
When he looks over at me, I wave. “Can I have a go at it?”
Assuming he’ll say yes, I study the machine’s screen. There are a couple different genres of music listed, and I tap the ‘popular music’ option. Better stick with something I know by heart, and that means pop.
But when Frankie doesn’t turn up beside me to hand over the mic, I have to look back over my shoulder at him.
He frowns at me. “I still got a bunch of songs left before my turn’s up.”
“Says who?”
“That’s how it works. Amateurs go first. Then Annie. Then me. We’re the seasoned musicians. We know how to keep the crowd happy.”
“I’d really like to do just one song, and then you can get back to it. Please?”
“No. Maybe later, but not right now.”
No?I put my hands on my hips. “Come on, please? I just drank sixteen ounces of liquid courage, and I’m not going to be up for embarrassing myself later. It’s now or never, I think. Just one song?”
“I’ll arm wrestle you for it.”
“For… the mic?”
He nods.
I survey his arms… which are beefy and thick. I’m not one to set myself up for failure.
“I don’t think so. You’d crush me. How about a thumb war, instead?” I spent enough years in grade-school lunch rooms to know that while arm wrestling takes actual strength, thumb wrestling is more about strategy and speed.
He cocks a bushy, gray eyebrow at me as he considers my proposition. “You been practicin’ or somethin’?”
I giggle. “No, I haven’t been practicing thumb wrestling, on the off chance that I have to challenge a stranger at a bar. Believe me, this is not a part of my daily routine.”
“You on vacation or something?”
I did mow through my to-do list today. I’m taking tomorrow off. “Yeah, I guess I am. And vacations are for doing things you don't usually do, right? And right now, for some crazy reason, I feel like singing. Maybe dancing, too.”
He grins. “You got spunk, you know that? Okay, how about a duet. Classic country, I’ll find us a good, old one. We’ll share the mic.”
Victory. I’ve always loved a good victory.
`I remind myself that I fought for this as he joins me by the machine to select a song, and gushes about how he’s always wanted to sing with a cowgirl.
“Oh, I’m not a cowgirl,” I tell him. “Nowhere close. I’m from the suburbs of Boston. “
“Ah, well.” He’s disappointed, for a moment. Then his face lights up. “Got an idea. Wear this.” He tugs off his suede cowboy hat and hands it to me.
If I’m really doing this vacation thing, I might as well go all in.
I yank my pony-tail holder free and then jam the hat on my head, low over my brow just in time to take the mic from him.
I’m up first, so there’s no time to feel self-conscious.
