“Hey lady,” which is what Steve called Amanda, “let me take that.” The red hairs on his shoulders shimmered in the light of the lava lamp. Amanda passed him the roach clip. They’d been laying in the back of his Chevy Custom Van for a while now. The prattle of the other concert goers died down just after Steve carried Amanda across the threshold of “Vantasy Island” to the whoops and cheers of the crazy butterflies and bearded sticks.
Amanda’s knit shawl bunched up beneath her side. She could smell Steve’s sandals, or maybe it was hers. It didn’t matter. Tonight, the opening act for Jimmy Buffet, Rupert Holmes, crawled deep into the private parts of her mind and were already altering her recollection of events. In the future, the night was drug free, happy and under the oozy light, Steve’s Nordic-red beard was down right Kris Kristoffersonian.
Steve took one last hit off the roach, turned it and, in quick, tiny gasps, caught the last twists of smoke. Nine months later, you were born.
Sixteen years would pass before you’d eye roll and gag when mom and her girls got together for ladies night. She wore too much perfume. Her jewelry dangled in turquoise jumbles beneath her ears and between her oven-baked cleavage. The International Court of your Taste and Standards did not allow moms to show cleavage or smell like a paper bag of lemony spray paint.
When she returned she’d be super friendly, and want to dance. “Come ON. It’s fuuuun. Don’t you want to dance with your mother?” After a surprisingly good pirouette, she quickly found Escape by Rupert Holmes. That cassette was never far from the stereo.
“DO YOU LIKE PIÑA COLADAS!!!!”
She stomped around, forcing you to dance and making you laugh against everything you valued. Finally, thankfully, the song would end and she let you loose.
“What a son of a bitch…” she mumbled under her breath, staring off at the image of Kris Kristofferson’s beard in the August moon.
That night, you swore to your journal and the ghost of Kurt Cobain that you would always hate Piña Coladas.
…
They’ve Been Lying To You
Most of the Piña Coladas on Earth are blended rum and mixer abominations. I’ve had better Piña Colada flavored Lifesavers than what I’ve been served in the past. I always figured that they belonged in the exclusive domain of trophy wives, imagining that the drink is at least part of the secret to their powers of leisure.
A few weeks ago, I’m in the grocery store and spot Naked Coconut Water, new on the shelves. I acquired a taste for it in Haiti but remained skeptical that it would satisfy the same way it did on the island. On pure impulse, I also grabbed a pineapple. I haven’t grabbed a pineapple since Adventure Island. After a little bit of experimentation, I came up with this:
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