Page 11 of Worst in Show

SingerQueen Saturday 01:45 PM

Who says “henceforth”? Wait, are you actually an old-timey ghost?

AlCaponesGhost25 Saturday 02:02 PM

*zips lips*

SingerQueen Saturday at 02:10 PM

*shocked face emoji*

We’re going out tonight,” Jaz announces when Micki and I get home from work Saturday. “I finished another scene for my play this morning so it’s celebration time!”

I share a look with Micki that tells me she, too, wants to argue with this logic, but then again, why shouldn’t we let loose a little? O’Connor’s on Main Street has six-dollar pints until seven on the weekends, something even I can afford.

We get ready, elbow to elbow in the small bathroom, while Jaz explains the scene she wrote and why it’s necessary for the story. This play has changed directions more times than I can count, but she’s fired up today until Micki asks for clarification on a plot point, and she struggles to give one.

“Shoot. I’ll need to figure that out tomorrow,” she says. “Oh well.”

And so the story goes with her. At least she doesn’t allow the challenges to weigh her down. I should be more like that. Be the duck with the water down its back or what have you.

I apply my reddest lipstick and fluff my hair in the mirror.

“I wish I could pull off color like you do,” Jaz says, pulling her ash-brown waves into a high ponytail before leaning forward to tweak her signature cat-eye liner in the mirror.

Both she and Micki are in black jeans and dark tops, while I’m wearing my high-waisted red jeans and a long-sleeved yellow crop top. If I had a dollar for every time someone’s described my style as quirky or boho, Happy Paws wouldn’t be in such dire straits.

“There’s nothing to it. You simply look at your black clothes and say ‘no thank you.’” I wink at her, and she tightens her lips around a smile that’s reminiscent of her sister’s. They don’t share many family traits, but this one they do.

“You ready?” Micki asks, reaching for her purse. “I could kill for some fish and chips right about now.”

“Ready.” I pull on my boots and open the door. “Let’s go. No manslaughter tonight, please.”

O’Connor’s is your average suburban Irish pub complete with dark wood paneling, framed pictures of the Emerald Isle on the walls, shamrocks on the bathroom doors, two dart boards in the corner, and an endless supply of beer in thick glasses. It fills up nightly, but especially on weekends, and the only reason we snag a table is because another party decides to move to the bar.

We order two rounds of drinks and a sharable plate of food for the table. Jaz is on her phone, typing frenetically. Micki and I ignore her while we stuff ourselves with beer-battered cod, but all of a sudden, Jaz lets out a loud “Well that’s fucking great!” and slams the phone down onto the table.

Micki jumps at the outburst, lager splashing onto her chin. She wipes it off with the back of her hand.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I got fired.” Jaz pouts.

“You had a job?” Micki asks.

“Yeah.” Jaz tips her head back and sighs. “Well, sort of. I was helping out at Javier’s café part-time.”

“Javier who you just broke up with?” Micki takes another, more careful, sip from her glass.

“Right. And now he says I don’t have to bother coming back.”

“Well, yeah…” Micki looks at her sister like she’s an alien. “Because you broke up with him.”

“I can still do the job.”

Micki faces me. “I swear, sometimes I have no idea how we’re related.”

“Come on.” I tut. “Sorry about that,” I tell Jaz. “But it’s probably for the best. Clean break, etcetera.”

---