Mess by Molly

Donning aviator sunglasses and a mustache, Uncle Casey waits for us near the swaying palm trees outside Orlando’s baggage claim in his Red Mazda Miata convertible.  We run, greeting him excitedly.

“Uncle Casey, this is my best friend Emily, you two are going to love each other,” I say as we squeeze into the tiny car.

“I consider you my niece already,” says Casey, “we’re going to have the best week. My friend Megan lives in a mansion and she is out of town, so we have the whole place to ourselves.  I’ll drive her Lexus so you two can take this Miata if you want.  WOO HOO!”

Emily and I glance at each other with wide-eyed excitement as we speed away, with SaltnPepa’s Let’s Talk about Sex Baby, blaring from the speakers.   I’m 15 and she’s 14, neither of us have licenses. 

 “I told you he’s cool,” I whisper.

She nods vigorously, I know how to drive; my dad lets me when I visit him.”

Emily’s parents are divorced. Her dad is an alcoholic and lives in Colorado. We have been best friends since we were twelve when she watched me beat her 16-year-old brother Ryan in tennis.  He slammed his racket in anger on the court yelling, “I can’t believe I just lost to a 12-year-old girl.”  To be fair, I was an exceptionally good 12-year-old girl, who could already beat most men. Emily decided right then that I was a keeper and we’ve been inseparable ever since.  Tiny, her rebellious and extroverted personality, is bigger than she is.   That along with her wild mane of long blond hair, big blue eyes and easy smile gets her out of MOST of the trouble she gets into.

Our moms let us visit Casey this summer so he can train us in tennis.  A tennis prodigy growing up, he recently started a real job.  Uncle Casey is the youngest of my mom’s 12 siblings and according to him, my grandmother’s favorite.  My mom is 18 years older than Casey, so at 25, he is just 10 years older than me.   He thrives under the spotlight and his current mission is to be recognized as best uncle by all my cousins.  Family lore has it that upon retiring in Mexico and enrolling him in first grade, my grandparents checked in to find little buzz cut, blue-eyed Casey flourishing in front of the class teaching everyone, including his teacher, English – since he didn’t understand Spanish. 

It’s our second day in Orlando and after a sweaty humid early morning tennis session, we have the entire day to ourselves while Casey works. Emily is rebellious, a risk taker. I’m much more cautious but her antics make me laugh so much that I agree it would be fun to take the Miata and find Disneyworld.  No way I’m driving though.

With the convertible down, I’m currently kneeling backwards in the passenger seat waving frantically at the two cars behind us on the freeway offramp yelling, “Back up, back up.   She doesn’t know how to drive stick.”  I put my hand into a sideways fist, mimicking gear shifting .    

When Emily told me she knew how to drive she did not mean stick shift.  We barely managed to reverse out of Megan’s driveway, jerking, starting, and stopping out of the neighborhood.  The Miata is currently stalled and rolling in reverse down the offramp, and Emily can’t get it into first gear.  My initial enthusiasm for this adventure turns to panic.   When we finally get going, no longer having fun, I insist we head home. 

The liquor cabinet it is.  We discover a bartending book and various bottles.  We think the proper names are hilarious:  Tom Collins, Captain Morgan and Jack Daniels, but the sweeter stuff tastes better.  Tipsy from peppermint schnapps, we take out the Orlando white pages and are psyched to see there are eight Tom Collins in the greater area.  We prank call them one-by-one. 

Our script goes something like this, “Is Tom there?   Tom?  Tom Collins?  Hey buddy.   It’s Morgan.  Captain Morgan.   Remember me?  How are you?  We’re drinking to you right now.  Cheers!” Emily is a pro at this and doesn’t bust up laughing until the end.  I silently laugh which devolves into a snort, my stomach muscles heaving up and down.  We exhaust all the Tom Collins and Jack Daniels in the phone book.  Quite a few of them are entertained by our antics and engage in the back and forth.

Our last night is the highlight of the trip.  Uncle Casey asks us if we want to go clubbing.  We are thrilled.  He says the age to get in is 18 but don’t worry, he knows the bouncers.  Casey is gay which I wasn’t aware of until a few years ago as there are no secrets on my mom’s side of the family.  Three of my mom’s 13 siblings are gay which I thought might be a high percentage. When I asked about this, mom said it is statistically correct if everyone is being truthful, which is basically a requirement in our family because everyone plays telephone.   

At Southern Nights, Orlando’s hottest gay bar, security does indeed pushback against letting us in since we aren’t even 16.   Undeniably handsome and charming, Casey explains we are his nieces, that it’s important for him to give us this experience and that he will keep a close eye on us all night.  Surprisingly, the bouncer agrees and clasps purple bracelets on our arms indicating we’re 18 – so no drinking.   

Dance music pulsates inside the club and male couples abound, grooving in sexy outfits.  Senses on overload, we hit the dance floor whooping it up with enthusiastic gorgeous men.  Casey buys us commemorative t-shirts to celebrate our experience.    He gives Emily money and invites her to buy him an Amstel Light.  The bartender doubles over laughing when she orders a Hamster Light and despite her age, he gives it to her.  

We end the night the way we started our adventure, speeding back to Megan’s in Casey’s Red Mazda Miata. We three agree, Casey wins best uncle ever.