~~Fragments of my life transpire on the corner of Boundary and Piedmont Avenue.
I drive to Sue’s house on Friday and Saturday nights & we get ready to go to the clubs: Cove. Brass Phoenix. Mr. Jays. Reef. Brass Rail. (yeah, we made the rounds with our dreadful, fake ids.)
We crank Madonna and Prince to maximum capacity while we paint our faces pretty and smear Bonny Bell ruby-red on our lips.
In the 80’s, nothing is too bright, too bold, too big, or too much.
We lit a match underneath our cosmetic pencil until the crème melts into tiny black beads. Afterwards, we outline our eyes even darker, smudgier, gothier, cleopatra-ier. Sort of like the girl, Alison, from The Breakfast Club.
Didn’t you just love her?
–Alison’s best line: “Well, if you say you haven’t (had sex), you’re a prude. If you say you have, you’re a slut. It’s a trap. You want to, but you can’t, and when you do, you wish you didn’t, right?”
Sorry, I’m rambling.
Um, back to the story…
Anyhow, I loathe Sue, because I hear she’s dating the same guy as me.
When we meet for the first time somewhere, I can’t remember where, I ask this outrageously stunning blonde, whom smells of Halston Perfume, “Are you seeing a guy named Mike Lombardi?”
And she’s like, “Yeah, what’s it to you?”
And I’m like, “Well I’m seeing him, too.”
I remember we just sort of nod at one another knowingly as if to say, yep, he’s a two-timing sonofabitch.
To make a long story short, we dump the dude for each other!
Girl Power. Love. Best Friends Forever.
So, here we are on Boundary and Piedmont glossing and glamming like Gaga.
Sue is straitening her hair.
I’m twirling on the shag carpeting listening to Purple Rain.
“How much money do you have?” She asks.
“Five bucks.” I say.
“Not a single cent.” She smiles.
And it doesn’t matter a damn.
Because sweet, pink, fancy drinks with adorable umbrellas are bought for us all night long.
( After note: after I published this, several other women contacted me on Facebook confessing that they were seeing Mike Lombardi, too. I just had to laugh! )