After work, Mary and I meet at Chilli's out on the Northwest Highway. It is our regular first stop. Mary and I, being single mothers, always drive our own cars. In part because our cars are a big part of our persona. Mary drives a neon yellow Corvette of classic fame. I drive an arrow body style, silver Celica. Mostly we drive our own cars because it puts us in control. We can come and go as we please.
Mary is fond of saying that she' looks around a room and sees me in the middle of whatever-from, getting naked and dancing on the bar to hot and heavy necking... Then moments later, she looks up and my face indicates I am envisioning my picture on the front page of the OKC Times. Above the headline "Mother of Three found..." I'm gone.
Chilli's always provides a good start to an evening out. We know the bartenders intimately. We can always count on finding Sharon and Lynne there. Sharon and Lynne are extensions of our ladies' night out crew. They seldom make it past Chilli's, unless we are headed to a concert or the like. Sharon is married and she and Lynne always come and go together.
Chilli's is the air traffic control school attendee's haunt. They are here for a few months for training. While they are in OKC, they give credence to the stereotype of "wild and crazy guys." They put quite a bit of effort into gaining our attention and keep us in drinks. It never goes past the bar. Most of them are married or looking to get serious. Not sure about Mary's position on the latter, but I'm not up for either. I did that once, no more. That goes for both fucking a married man and marriage.
I'm fond of saying in answer to marriage proposals, "We can have the party. We can buy the cake and the Champagne at Piggly Wiggly. We are already "doing the deed. Who needs the piece of paper?"
Some nights we' have dinner at Chilli's to soak up the excess tequila before heading home or moving on. Some nights we close the place down, leaving with a bartender in tow. Tonight, we are heading for Norman to stop in on B.S., who is currently the Sooners' Coach. Mary garnered his attention several months ago and periodically she likes to hit the little sports bar dive in Norman he frequents. To "stir the shit," so to speak.
B.S., to this day, is one of my least favorite men. I've never liked him, not even when he was coaching the Dallas Cowboys. He is one of those mindless, insecure, braggarts that are so full of themselves they make me want to barf. I am neither a B.S. fan nor a football fan. I tag along at Mary's request often enough that my Celiac and I are recognized in this small piece of Norman.
When we enter, B.S. is holding court with a table full of women. The women are buying the drinks. There is one tall, skinny brunette, wearing way too much eye shadow, who seems to consider herself 'with' him. Paying her no mind, Mary approaches B.S., bends over and kisses him on the cheek. He responds by grabbing her and pulling her in for a bit more.
As I'm watching from the end table closest to the bar, Mary straightens continuing to hold B.S.'s full attention. Suddenly, the brunette grabs Mary by the hair and pins her head against the table. I can't hear what is being said over the jukebox. Mary breaks the brunette's hold and grabs her hair pulling her to the ground. They are wrestling in the narrow isle, on the sticky bar floor, entangling themselves in the metal chair legs.
B.S. backs his chair up a bit to keep from being in the middle of the action and just keeps drinking. I move in to pull the brunette off of Mary. The two other women closest to the action move in to pull me off. A beer bottle hits the table and breaks. I scream for the bartender to break it up. He doesn't immediately respond. I back away from the brawl and keep yelling for help.
