OYM Day 92: Sierra — Pt. 2
I’m just noticing that as I scroll through past posts and stories… I mean… a lot of it is cringeworthy. The only things I’ve ever looked back on and actually liked are journal entries. I guess I really dislike revisiting old versions of myself, even a few weeks old. At the time, what I wrote felt profound. And now…well, you get the idea. I’m sure I’ll look back and wince at this, too.
I swallowed a wintergreen mint, whole, out of anxiety and leaned forward in my car as I parked, turning the wheel with one hand and pounding my chest with the other. I’d had a few mints already and I don’t know why I was preparing for this all-girl hangout like a very serious first date.
I was still confused why such a “high-society” hangout would be taking place at a bowling alley, but maybe I just wasn’t high-society enough to know any better. The bowling alley was built into a casino and it was crowded with people coming and going, heading to dinner reservations, poker tables, shows, and apparently a bowling alley. Could they guess where I was going? I hoped I looked like I was meeting someone for dinner and not a giant lady-date. Maybe they’d think I was just hanging out with a huge group of girlfriends, because that’s the type of person I am: someone with a huge group of friends. Friends that go bowling.
I headed through the doors into the dim lights. The busy carpet pattern lit up under the black phosphorus bulbs, along with the fabric softener stain running clear up my jeans and into my crotch. Perfect. I swung my purse over the past murder that had clearly happened down the front of my pants and scanned the room. The sudden bursts of ball hitting pins made my fight or flight response tap me on the shoulder every so often, but then I saw them. There was a group of about 15 women saddled up by the bar, drinking martinis and clear liquids. I was immediately put off by the fashion I saw, the hair, the facial expressions. I was blinded by Louis Vouitton bags, smooth foreheads, gel manicures, and soft color palettes. Was she wearing sunglasses inside? I had to check myself. I was being one of them. One of those women that scans a group and thinks she’s better than everyone.
I was grateful that the overhead lights of the bar seemed to lessen the glowing stain on my jeans and I walked up to the bar.
“Hey…is this the Somerset Meetup?”
“Yes, it is,” she said, holding up a pale, dainty hand to cup the side of her mouth and call in the other direction. “Sierra! Someone is here for the group.” She turned back to her drink.
Sierra was down the bar a ways, but her piercing green eyes still hit like daggers, point blank. Her hair was perfect. Her hands were frantic as she spoke. She was thin in a way that people are when they just forget to eat. She had an air about her that I can only describe as how I felt as a young teen walking into The Limited and not being good enough to shop there. She wore white jeans and gold sandals, a teal, sleeveless top that draped over her jutting collar bone, and a giant, blinding rock on her finger.
“Why yes, hello, I’m Sierra. Casey, right?”
“Yep, that’s right.” I never correct people.
“We’re all meeting by the bar, waiting for a few lanes to open up for us. We’re all having vodka sodas. Well, I’m having a martini, but it’s vodka.”
I ordered a vodka on the rocks, as a primal instinct, as to not get clawed to death by a pack of calorie conscious hyenas.
She was about to turn away from me to tend to someone else, but before she did, she looked me up and down.
“I like your nail polish. Cute.”
I opened my mouth to say thanks, but she was already gone and I felt the urge to throw myself down the bowling lane, head first into the pins. What was I doing here? Why did I feel like an undercover agent infiltrating the mob? How could she see my nail polish in this dark bar? How could she not have noticed these spectacular boots? She was the worst, yet so was I. I took a sip of my drink and recoiled. Vodka on the rocks?? Who am I??
Before I could sit at the bar for too long, holding my breath as I tend to do when I’m waiting for an uncomfortable conversation to ensue, one of the women shouted that our lane had opened up and we all headed over to bowl.
I sat down next to a beautiful Filipino woman in a wide brimmed hat and large Gucci glasses. She said her name was Wee and that her husband was at home with her dogs. Her English was broken and she bowled like a 5 year old, but she seemed relaxed and I thought she might rub off on me. She asked me where I lived.
“Oh, I live off of Town Circle, near the golf course.”
Before I could ask her where she lived, I heard Sierra’s voice.
“Is that a gated community?”
She was standing straight as a pole, holding the bowling ball up to her chin. She stared at the pins down the alley and squinted her eyes, never turning in my direction.
I wondered why this mattered, but I responded.
“Um, I think so. There’s a gate out front.”
“But is it guard gated? It’s not really gated if there’s no guard.”
She took a single step and gently released her arm, almost as if she were underwater, and the ball barely made a sound as it rolled it’s way to the rack of gleaming pins.
Strike.
She turned and walked towards me, staring at her hands, checking her manicure.
“No, there’s no guard. Just a gate with a code,” I said.
She didn’t say anything, but I saw a subtle smile. Wee began to tell me about what side of town she lived on and I had no idea where it was, because I barely left my neighborhood except to go hiking, and the rage in my chest started billowing up to my very sharp mouth. I wasn’t in High School anymore and I didn’t have to feel less-than in front of a woman drinking vodka martinis drier than the desert she was named after.
Damnit, Cassie. You are just as bad, if not worse.
“I mean, even if there is a guard, what does it matter? If someone wants to rob you, they’re going to rob you. Or murder you. A gate, a guard…none of that will stop someone, really.”
And just like that I had mentioned murder within 15 minutes of meeting a new person. I hated myself for being so…so…typical of myself.
I bowled and made small talk with the other women. A real estate agent, a few trophy wives, and I was pretty sure Wee’s husband sold drugs. My skin was itching and I was picking off my cute nail polish, bit by bit. The night finally came to a close and I thought I might skip to the parking lot and rejoice in the solitude of my car.
Instead, I did one better. I dipped out on the goodbyes, excusing myself to the bathroom for a quick second, and I all but ran to my car and took the long way home. I opened the windows and let the cool desert air whip my daintily curled hair into a frenzy. I took deep breaths and talked aloud to myself.
“Man, I’m never doing that again! Those women are snakes! That ring leader, I’m pretty sure she’s evil! Maybe even possessed! I don’t need friends here! Definitely not! WHEW!”
When I got home, I threw open the door and went straight to the kitchen. I spoke in a whirlwind of hands and exhaustive sentences. I poured myself a drink as I spoke and lit up a joint. My husband stared at me, wide eyed. My phone buzzed and I stopped my retelling to read the text on the screen.
Sierra:
Welcome to the popular table. We’re getting dinner tomorrow at 8. Can you make it?
Part 3- tomorrow
