"Does your dad have a girlfriend?" James asked, just before he took another drink of his scotch.
"Dunno. He doesn't talk too much about his personal life. Ok," I replied with a heavy sigh, "he doesn't talk about his personal life at all. My dad's not your typical Hallmark daddy."
"The good old, 'If they don't know who I am, they can't use it against me' routine." He laughed slightly, and I could see that the alcohol was getting to him, despite the fact he'd only had a little bit. Perhaps he had drunk more before I met up with on the dance floor. I couldn't be sure. "A lot of people are like that today," he said, referring to my dad's closed lips.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"You just don't know who you can trust anymore," he replied quietly and turned away from me, facing the glittering glass bottles behind the sleazy bartender. James' eyes were far away and he was thinking about something. Something that was untouchable to everyone he met, but ate away daily at him. I observed him for a moment, wondering when I should bring James back to the real world. His face was placid, but his eyes were fixed. I gently touched his bare arm.
"James?" I whispered, even though the bar was incredibly noisy. He probably wouldn't be able to hear me over the music and the screams of the dancers.
Yet, surprisingly, he turned back to me, coming slowly out of his seemingly drugged state. "Sorry," he apologized.
I shrugged. "No big deal."
"I just go off into these funks sometimes…y'know…where you mind's on cruise control?"
"Don't worry about it."
We lapsed back into silence, both of us watching the drunken dancers. Most of them could barely stand, they were so smashed, and the ones who could stand were just plain pathetic to watch anyhow. I was surprised at how many people were drunk. It was a Sunday night, early on too, and that's not usually the big drinking hour. Hmm. Must be some frat party I was unaware about.
"Y'know," I began, breaking the silence so abruptly that James glanced back, slightly startled, at me. "I've always wanted to be a dancer…like on Broadway."
"Really?" James asked, starting to turn around more fully on his barstool.
"Really."
"You'd be good at it," he replied, now facing me.
"Thanks."
"No big deal," he answered, mocking my voice when I had said it to him. We both smiled.
"James?"
"Yeah?"
"What's your last name?"
"Gonna check out my prison record?" he asked with a raised eyebrow and a crooked grin.
"No, just your rehab visits."
"Ah, well, then be sure to check under Wilson."
"James Wilson?"
"Yeah," he replied, taking another swig of his drink.
"Sounds distinguished."
"Thanks…I guess," he answered uncertainly. "So, now that you know mine, what's yours?"
"Guevara"
"Alanza Guevara…has a ring to it. Makes you sound Hispanic."
"Blame it on my mom."
"Could be worse," he said.
I was about to say something else when a voice yelled my name from across the room. I looked up, followed by James to see Max coming across the dance floor, pushing her way through the nearly dead drunks.
"Hey, girl, what's up?" she asked me.
"Nothing much, glad you showed."
"You doubted me?" She laughed. "You don't know me as well as I thought you did." She then noticed James and their eyes met. "Haven't we met before?"
