Late to the Party ✔

22. Church is out

He was ready to throw in the towel. After twenty minutes of circling the block and damn near crashing into a lamppost trying to drive and navigate at the same time, his map spread out on the passenger's seat, he'd decided to leave his truck in a thrift store parking lot and test his luck on foot. That was when he'd finally discovered the number 2014 on the peeling facade of a dusty-windowed laundromat. 2016, though, remained as elusive as a greased pig. Georgie must've given him a false address as payback—or perhaps his dumb son had just screwed up copying the details.

He looked up and down the street, shielding his eyes against the watery January sun. Little simple-hearted of him to think he'd locate the place just like that, as if he'd expected to find a tacked-up sign casually announcing gays over yonder. He wiped his brow with his sleeve, clammy after all the walking he'd put himself through, and decided to continue his search for ten more minutes. If it didn't bear fruit, he'd call Georgie from the motel and ask for some markers.

He set off again, past the grimy alley mainly blocked off by a faded green dumpster, checking for a number on the next building. Try as he might, not in a month of Sundays could he envision Mary living in this city, bicycles zooming down steep hills, the same coffee shops in different fonts on every corner selling all types of lattes and whatnots but not a simple cup of joe, more tie-dye, piercings, and funky hair colors than in his daughter's magazines—not to mention that damn fog chilling up his back. How did a former Bible study hosting mother of three ever fit in here?

Across the street, a bunch of men came strolling down the pavement, springy and loud, as if it was business as usual to walk all the way to your destination. He halted, wondering if they would beat his ass if he asked for directions to a lesbian bar, when a tall, skinny one with a mop of curls called, in a girly high voice: "That's the ladies' side, handsome. Gents are over here!" He pointed behind him, his friends guffawing like a pack of donkeys.

George lifted his hand in acknowledgment, continued straight on, then doubled back once the group's noises had died out and the oncoming evening was resting again, no people in sight. He checked for bystanders and treaded into the alley, which turned out to extend to the left, ending in what was finally the number 2016 he'd been after.

Above the door, pink neon formed the name Missy's, a glowing stab in the gut. A fool he might be, still, it wasn't rocket science: his wife's sweet request to call their wrinkly prune of a baby daughter "Missy" was steeped in the memories of an ex-girlfriend, more on her mind than she'd probably ever confess. Another way she'd cheated on him. He had half a mind to storm in and demand an apology, have her admit she wronged him, when he spotted the note with closed for private event stuck to the door, surrounded by hand-drawn balloons and many-candled cakes, and stayed put. He'd done his kids enough damage. Wouldn't do any good to ruin their birthday too.

The windows were completely covered in newspaper and tabloid pages to ward off prying eyes like his. He pushed his face to the door, but couldn't see anything aside from vague blurs of light. He could hear them, though, a mishmash of women's voices, the vibrating boom of music. If he could just find a gap in the defenses, he would be able to see Missy again, maybe Sheldon too. Towards the top, he noticed a sizable hole where the pages had started peeling off, and spotting fire escape clinging to the building on the left, he climbed it, taking care to keep quiet on the metal.

His heart, damn treacherous lately, leaped up. He had the perfect view from up here: through the windows, he saw right into the bar to a long table seated with two dozen women, his girl sitting in the middle, shining like a new penny with bold eyeshadow matching her fuzzy blue sweater, her hair bedecked with plastic flowers. He gripped the guardrail, gritting his teeth. Should've been him bending past her to light the candles on that giant frosted cake, her father, not Jean, the one who'd unlawfully received a piece of his daughter fifteen years ago. Missy said something to her, smiling, and Jean smiled back, squeezing her arm like a claim. He smothered his anger. Wouldn't do him any good now. If anything, the couple of close calls in the past few weeks had taught him life was too damn short to hold onto this spitting spite.