once hit a tree, and the only reason the cops managed to trace her car to the scene of the crime was that they followed the trail of car parts to her house. I decided I would be the designated driver on our way home later tonight.
She jammed the key into the ignition and let the car beep incessantly, adjusted the rearview mirror to make a last-minute check of her makeup, turned the mirror back into a more useful position, started the car, and Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance” exploded from the speakers, scaring the bejesus out of me in the process. Obviously, Regina was out last night and forgot to turn the volume down. I know. I heard her pull in at 2:30 last night.
She clapped her hands like a mad scientist.
“So what’s on the menu tonight?” she asked, throwing the car into reverse and steering the land leviathan down the driveway. I watched her mailbox pass a mere three inches from my window, but at least she missed it. “How about Aqua? The night has cooled down. I think a drink outside would be just perfect tonight.”
Because Palm Springs is surrounded by towering mountains and is, well, a desert, the nights in October can be quite pleasant. So, as a result, many of the bars in town are outside. Or most of them have an inside and an outside component. Aqua had a huge outdoor bar. In fact, almost all of Aqua was outside.
As Regina crossed Alejo Road and steered the Queen Mary down Palm Canyon Drive, I realized that although I’ve lived next to Regina for a few years, I’ve never been out on the town with her. I’ve gone to dinner, parties, fundraisers, the movies, and numerous gay bars. But never out looking for straight men.
Regina made a right into the parking lot next to Aqua, slowed to a crawl as she scanned the crowd outside at the bar, then drove on.
“No cute guys in there tonight. Plus, the crowd is a little thin,” she commented. She was the Zagat guide to dating in Palm Springs.
I was amazed. “Regina, you just saved me hours of time wasted sitting in a bar waiting to meet someone. I would have gone inside, sat there for several drinks, and left completely deflated an hour later. You just summed up the place in five seconds and moved on.”
“Amanda, honey, I’ve been going to bars a lot longer than you have. You have to know how to work them so you don’t waste time . . . and when you’re my age, you don’t have a lot of time to waste.”
We drove by several bars until we settled on Mercury. Safely inside, I felt the need to pry Regina’s barhopping secrets from her.
“First off, Amanda, check out the parking lot. An empty lot means a slow night. Certain bars are always good: Mercury, Tropicana, Chi-Chi’s, and Drink Here Now. But remember, certain nights are better than others. Sit at the bar, but avoid bars that you can’t walk around completely . . . you don’t want to get stuck in a cul-de-sac at the end of a bar. Most men will turn around, figuring the fishing’s no good at the end of the bay. Choose bars with good bartenders, and I don’t mean those who pour without a spout. You want to sit at the bar where the bartender will chat you up when things are slow. A good one will know that and keep you entertained if you don’t have a good prospect at that moment. Also, a good bartender will clue you in if a patron is horny or lonely. Enough about me. So how’s the show shaping up?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“What do you mean okay? Honey, you should be excited. Surrounded by gorgeous men.”
“Regina, they’re gay. I’m just the token fag hag.”
“That’s why you’re on the show? As a beard?”
“These guys don’t need beards, Regina. They’re so out, you could spot them from the Space Station.”
“So what’s the deal with the hesitation? Stage fright?”
“A little.”
“So spill it. What’s holding you back from having a good time on the show . . . and making some big money?”
“I wouldn’t be counting on big money. It’s good, though.”
“Spill.”
“I don’t know, Regina. It’s not the fact that I’m going to be on TV. It’s . . . it’s . . .”
“Yes . . . ?”
“I have a bad feeling about it—the show. Right here,” I said, pointing to my gut.
“I had that too.