Page 11 of The No Try Zone
“It doesn’t,” I grumble.
She cackles. “Okay, okay, it’snotmiddle-aged. Yet.”
I toss her a playful glare.
Her smile widens. “We need another drink.”
“I thought we were being judged on our gifts?”
“We are. In there.” She turns into a nondescript building, and I follow suit. It’s smoky and dimly lit, and I already hate it, but whatever the woman wants.
We order two beers. When the bartender returns with them, Sam drops her bag onto the bar. “We need a judge.”
The woman crosses her arms. “Depends on how much you’re tipping.” I lift a twenty in silent answer, and she nods. “Go on.”
“You decide who’s purchased the best worst gift.”
The bartender smiles. “Deal.”
We each pull our gifts out. I’ve bought a keychain with a tiny stuffed sloth on a motorcycle with the word SPEEDY written on his pleather vest. Sam pulls out a set of stick-on mustaches.
The bartender laughs. “They’re both terrible.”
Sam and I high-five, then drink.
“But she’s the winner,” the bartender says, pointing to Sam.
Sam raises her arms in victory while I protest.
“Unfair!” I pout. “Her gift is boring.”
“It’sinspired,” Sam says.
“It’s terrible, but it prolongs the agony,” the bartender agrees.
I hold up Speedy. “It’s asloth.On amotorcycle.And his name isSpeedy. Come on. I win.”
“Give her the tip and quit being a sore loser,” Sam admonishes.
“Just the tip,” the bartender quips.
I laugh and slide the bill toward her. “Thanks for nothing.”
Sam opens the mustaches and studies them. “Which one?”
“For you or for me?” I gesture at my beard. “Because I’m already sporting the real thing.”
“Guess you’re going with the blond one, then,” she laughs, then peels off the handlebar-shaped sticker and holds it up. “Look at me.”
I turn and lean down a bit to give her better access. She reaches up with zero hesitation, pressing the fuzzy abomination onto my existing mustache with unmitigated glee. My watch slides down her arm as she works, and I take the moment to study her face. She’s lived a life in the sun, the tiniest of laugh lines beginning to show around her mouth and eyes. “Do you surf?”
She finishes, eyeing the placement as critically as one would a high-priced piece of art in a gallery. “I do. My whole family does. Put this on me,” she instructs, pointing at one that looks like a badly dyed Burt Reynolds number.
I obey, quickly catching onto the fact that she has no interest in talking about herself. This is a strictly surface-level situation. But I can work with that.
Focusing on my task, I position the mustache in its proper place. “Looks amazing.”
She snickers. “Pull out your phone. We need a picture of this.”
