Riding In Cars You Don't Belong In: The One About St. Louis
One time I got into the backseat of the Mercedes sedan belonging to the lady who owned the bar I worked at in St. Louis. Yes, I lived in St. Louis, briefly. It was a strange time in my life that probably deserves its own post, or memoir chapter, or therapy appointment. I was in my early twenties and bartending at a sports bar/night club owned by a local professional athlete and his wife (the owner of the sedan). Most nights the boss lady was prancing around in a skintight dress, her wild curly hair perfectly disheveled, and too drunk to care if we took a little too long closing up while drinking her booze. She always had friends around, other fabulously tortured women in their party flair or big beefy dudes I presumed were ex-hockey players or cops-all part of their regular crew. They were loud. They laughed SO loud. They demanded all the attention in the building whenever they arrived and everyone obliged.
Some nights she’d get up in the DJ booth and grab the mic, screaming at the crowd to “turn the fuck up!” She loved the party. She seemed to party for a living. I guess she did. She always had this sort of daze about her. I could never tell what kind of drugs she was on or how much she’d had to drink. I’m not sure if I ever saw her sober. She scared me, not because she was mean or rude (she was actually quite lovely and generous), but because she seemed to live a life that had no limitations. She did whatever she wanted whenever she wanted and in my 22 year old mind had a thrilling and perfect life.
One night, after she complimented my outfit and taste in music, she invited me to go out with her and her entourage. It all happened so quickly that I didn’t have time to ask questions, she simply told me that I was coming along. I remember feeling so awkward and out of place getting in the backseat of that car. I don’t think I’d ever ridden in a Mercedes before and these people were Mercedes people. I was squished up against the door, one of her loud friends next to me shouting over the rap music blaring from the speakers, “You’re one of us now!” As if I’d won some kind of contest.
As we drove downtown they were all yapping like lap dogs, gossiping about someone’s husband and someone’s girlfriend and who was sleeping with who. I tried to keep up, letting out a few forced chuckles when it seemed appropriate, all the while regretting my decision to join. Who was I kidding? I didn’t belong with this crowd. Did I want to? Where did I belong?
The truth is that I had absolutely no idea where I belonged because I had absolutely no idea who I was. I trusted other people to tell me that. They seemed certain that I belonged in that car, barreling down the freeway towards some bar with walls made of ice and complimentary fur coats-so I tried believing that too. The entire night was a mess. Everyone got ten shades of sideways, including me, and I ended up standing off to the side by myself most of the night, swaying back and forth trying to look cool. I am not sure of much about that evening but I am sure I did not look cool.
Thankfully, I made it home in one piece and never really hung out with the boss lady and her friends again. I left St. Louis shortly after that. I heard some time later that she had gotten a divorce and the bar closed down. I wonder where she’s at and what she’s doing sometimes. Maybe she got sober and found a new passion, like horseback riding or pottery. Maybe she started a family with a new, loving partner. Maybe she moved to Mexico and opened a little cafe on la playa.
I’m not sure why I felt like sharing this story tonight, as I sat down to write I had a million other directions I wanted to go. Yet, here we are. Doesn’t it happen like that sometimes? We look up to find ourselves in a place we didn’t consciously choose, unsure of why we ended up there. We say yes to invitations to parties that are too loud with people who sit too close. We put on fake smiles (or fake fur coats) and worry that we aren’t standing the right way. We lose sight of ourselves at the slightest glimmer of hope that someone else can see us. We stand from the outside looking in on people’s lives, assuming they have some of the answers we don’t, letting them rate our worthiness on a scale of “1-chosen.” All the while, we keep forgetting that we have a say in the matter.
I imagine my current self meeting a woman like boss lady today. I’d be polite, compliment her hair and boots, and casually drop my sobriety into the conversation. I’d probably genuinely laugh at her antics, find her outrageousness amusing. I would wish her well and be on my way. I wouldn’t be looking to her for some sort of golden ticket of approval or wishing her pixie dust would land on my shoulder. I definitely wouldn’t get in the backseat of her Mercedes (turns out I don’t really care for Mercedes) and I’d never step foot into that shitty bar in St. Louis.
