Under The Sun

Podcast: Download

This is the outfit Aaron wore on his night out. (Photo courtesy of Aaron Curtis)

Aaron Curtis read his story Shorts at a live event produced by Under the Sun and Lip Service at the Actors’ Playhouse at the Miracle Theatre in Coral Gables. The sold-out event featured true stories about life in South Florida. Aaron is a book buyer at Books & Books and lives in Coral Gables.

By Aaron Curtis

5 p.m. It’s Friday after work, I’m nursing a Guinness at a bar called The Bar. My marriage ended six weeks ago. To help me get over it, my friend Maria offers to take me out drinking. Maria took me to the Cheesecake Factory on the first birthday without my wife. In my world, this is equivalent to guys taking me to a strip joint.

6 p.m. Maria arrives just in time to drink free for happy hour. She’s wearing heels and low-cut dress. I’m worried about my outfit. It’s August in Miami and I drive a bicycle. My short-sleeved button-down shirt, checkered shorts, and flip-flops pass at my job at an independent bookstore. Doesn’t exactly say, “Friday night out.”

Maria tells me I’ll be fine. Just a casual dinner at one restaurant, then drinks at another. I decide to trust her. We both know if I go home to the apartment I still share with my soon-to-be-ex-wife, I’ll end up wallowing in self-pity all weekend.

8 p.m. Maria takes me to Coconut Grove. Inside Jaguar, she points to every pair of shorts we see. My relief lasts for two minutes, which is how long it takes to get to our table and meet the women we’ll be sharing our evening with: Maria’s sorority sisters. Flowing dresses, perfect blonde hair, toned bodies. It was like walking straight into a Ralph Lauren ad. Their names are Amber, Annie, Carrie, Christine, and Christa.

After dinner, we raise our glasses in a toast. The waitress snaps pictures. I imagine my ex logging on to Facebook and finding pictures of me surrounded by six beautiful women. I smile for the camera, and for the mean satisfaction this mental image gives me.

When I hear we’ll be having drinks in Brickell, my stomach clenches. In Brickell, men wear tailored suits, Italian shoes, and sixty-dollar haircuts. I’ll be wearing shorts and flip flops.

To make matters worse, we’re going to this place called: My Name is Dolores but You Can Call Me Lolita. Dolores is the restaurant upstairs; we’re going to Lolita, the club downstairs.

Maria, Amber, Annie, Carrie, Christine, and Christa assure me I look okay.

Maria waves her hand at the low-cut dresses. “Besides, no one’s gonna be looking at your flip flops.”

I can’t refute that kind of logic. There’s cleavage everywhere.

11 p.m. Dolores-Lolita is nearly empty. Maria gets us inside.

Dark-skinned girls barely-dressed offer us free scotch. The more I drink the less I care about what I have on.

Maria leads me through the white-draped dining room, the upstairs balcony. The club is pounding with music. She introduces me to a bartender with curves like a smile from God. I shake the bartender’s hand and Maria whispers in my ear.

“She’ll totally fuck you, if you work it a little bit.”

Somehow, Maria makes vulgarity sweet. She knows I’ve been with the same woman since I was nineteen; she’s just trying to help me move on.

Before I can decide whether to flirt with a sure thing, my cell phone rings. It’s my best friend. Dolores-Lolita is getting crowded, so I leave to take the call.

12 a.m. The bouncer won’t let me back inside.

“But I was just in here.” I show him my promo cup of scotch. “See? How did I get this, if I wasn’t inside?”

“You ain’t dressed right, man.”

I walk away, wondering how I’ll get home. Then I see Maria in the outside seating area. Maybe I’ve had enough of rejection, or maybe it’s the scotch, but I push through the bushes and potted plants to reach her. People stare but I’ve stopped caring.

When I tell Maria what happened, she can’t stop laughing.

1 a.m. I’m drinking promotional scotch with the sorority sisters. They want to know why I’m still wearing my wedding ring.

I say “Hey, this thing’s a chick magnet.” I’ve been getting laughs with this line for weeks, but none of the Sisters even crack a smile.

“It’s a chick magnet until you start talking about your ex,” Christa says, “Then it’s like, ‘Hi, I’m not over my wife.’” Their advice: ask questions, then shut the hell up.

3 a.m. Maria tells me being single is the best, and anyone who says otherwise is a liar.

I doubt being single is the best. Still, at that moment, surrounded by bare skin and free booze, it doesn’t feel like the worst.

4 a.m. I take off my wedding ring.