Finding Fraser(8)

I fished around in my bag for my wallet, but a large hand came down on my own before I could pull it out. “It’s on me, honey,” she said, using her talented right elbow to lever Howie off the stool he’d been sitting on.

“Sharan Stone,” she bellowed, and held out her giant hand for me to shake. “Not the movie star,” she clarified, and guffawed loudly. “Though Howie thinks I am, dontcha, How?”

The little man crinkled his eyes at her and nodded, burying his moustache in his beer.

“I’d better be going,“ I said, standing up. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Aw, honey, the party’s just starting,” Sharan Stone said. “And you shore look like you could use some cheering up. But never fear—you’re with the Belles, now, and whatever’s got you down is gonna be history fer sure. Check this out.”

She stood up so forcefully the stool she’d usurped from Howie flew backwards and took out the busboy.

I was standing by this point, too, but one of those big hands clapped onto my shoulder and my knees gave out. I collapsed back down onto my stool, shocked into sobriety by sheer terror.

Sharan Stone put a finger and thumb into her mouth and blew the most piercing whistle I’d heard since grade school. The bar fell instantly silent.

“Belles!” she cried, and a cheer went up around me. I began to feel that I’d fallen into some bizarro-dream scenario, so I took a big gulp of the martini.

“BELLES,” repeated Sharan Stone, “I do believe we’ve waited long enough.”

Her voice, which likely had some decent staying power even at regular conversational levels, rose to a crescendo. “It’s time for Ja-a-a-a-A-A-A-A-MIE!”

I clapped my hands over my ears as everyone around me took up the chant.

“Jaaa-MIE, Jaaa-MIE, JAAA-MIE!!!”

I say everyone, but in the sea of women chanting Jamie’s name, Howie sat placidly, still sipping his beer with a gentle smile on his face.

“Jaaa-MIE, Jaaa-MIE, JAAA-MIE!!!” the crowd roared.

And in he came.





Over the previous week there had been many moments when the folly of my quest threatened to sink in and send me sensibly back to Chicago. Losing my shit on the bus. The fourteenth block of the walk from the hostel, when a massive truck splashed my legs with a wave of salty sleet from Philadelphia’s biggest pothole. But let me tell you, NOTHING was as discouraging as seeing the buff guy in the kilt coming toward me along the top of that hotel bar.

His skin was spray-tanned to a shade of orange that matched the leather of his sporran. He’d leapt onto the bar like it was nothing, and strode the full length in a cloud of baby oil scent so thick it even cut through the smell of beer in the air. He wore nothing but a tiny kilt that I’m quite sure no self-respecting Scotsman would blow his nose into, and a plaid tam atop a vivid orange wig.

I think my heart broke a little at the sight of that wig.

The stripper pranced down the bar, jig-stepping over glasses to the sound of an electro-bagpipe drone. And the crowd?

The crowd went wild.

Even Howie was screaming as the Faux-Jamie gyrated and coyly lifted the hem of his kilt.

“Show us yer COCK, Jamie,” screamed Sharan Stone out of one side of her mouth.

She was standing on her stool matching his every gyration, dancing along with him in her sock feet. Women scrambled over each other to jam money into his socks, his sporran, whatever they could reach. “SHOW US YER COCK!!!!”

I was pinned to my stool as the crowd of women surged toward the bar in a shining-eyed, sweaty wave. I dropped to my hands and knees and crawled for my life.

After what seemed an eternity of dodging legs of both the human and table variety, I accidentally smashed my face into an overturned chair, which knocked me back a little. But I realized I’d cleared the stampede, and somehow managed to escape alive. The knees of my jeans were soaked with beer, and I couldn’t even bear to look at the palms of my hands, but I was still hammered enough to not really care. Someone reached a hand down to help me to my feet, and I found myself looking into a pair of calm, and clearly sober, blue eyes.

“Thank you,” I gasped. “Sorry about the stickiness.”

“No’ a problem.” He pulled a packet of antiseptic wipes from his pocket and cleaned his hands off. Then he won my heart completely by offering me one, too.

My rescuer stood about six feet tall, his rusty brown hair with a thread or two of gray at the temples. He had a messenger bag slung over one shoulder, and was in the process of winding a long woolen scarf around his face and neck.

“I’ve never seen anything quite like tha’,” he said, nodding back at the melee.