Oh, yes, I remember that night well. That was the
night I took Hannah Montana home. Not the
Hannah Montana, of course, but the actress who played her on television, you
know, the guy who sang Achy Breaky Heart’s
daughter.
I was in Kansas City, Kansas—not to be mistaken with the much larger
and much more pretentious Kansas City, Missouri, just across the state line—enjoying
a drink at a bar called “The Hitching Post.” Or was it “The Hole in the Wall”? Either
way, it doesn’t really matter. I was on my third, or was it my fifth, bottle of
Schlitz when that son of a bitch walked through the door. I couldn’t believe my
eyes. I mean, what the hell was he doing in a place like this?
I
was hoping he wouldn’t recognize me. I mean, how could he? We were a thousand
or more miles from our hometown. I was twenty years older and a hundred pounds
lighter than the last time we had seen each other at our high school
graduation. There was no way he was going to recognize me. And then I heard
those words: “Pat Walcock? “Fat” Pat Walcock, is that you?”
I
turned my head to find Jordan Prescott saddled right up next to my stool. And
damn if he didn’t look great. He was the star quarterback/homecoming king/class
president/ prom king of our senior class, and somehow, in the two decades since
I’d seen him last, he had gotten taller, more muscular, his teeth whiter, his
skin tanner, and hair thicker. “Pat Walcock—that is you!”
“Jordan
Prescott,” I said as he clasped my hand firmly and gave it a good shake, “how’ve
you been.”
“Great,”
he replied. “No. Never mind. Better than great. How about you?”
“Never
been better.”
“I
can’t believe it’s really you,” he said. “Please, let me buy you a drink.”
“No.
Let me buy you a drink. I insist.”
“Thanks.”
He waved the bartender over. “I’ll have two fingers of Johnny Walker Blue Label,
neat, please.”
Fingers? Neat? I didn’t know what any of
that even meant, but I played along like I did. “Make that two,” I said.
The
bartender poured us our drinks and set them down in front of us. When he said, “That’ll
be a hundred dollars,” I nearly choked on my drink. I nonchalantly slid my
debit card across the bar, knowing that I had just spent one-fifth of all the
money I had.
“So
what the hell are you doing in Kansas City?” Jordan wanted to know.
I
couldn’t admit that I lived here now, with my mother, in a trailer park, so I
quickly turned the question on him. “I was about to ask you the same damn
question.”
“Business,”
he said. “My firm is buying up a bunch of small businesses, mostly to liquidate
inventory, layoff employees, and use the losses for tax write-off purposes.” I
had no idea what he was talking about. “And you?”
“Also
business,” I replied.
“Oh
yeah, what kind of business are you in?”
I
needed to come up with something quick. I shifted my eyes around the room until
they landed on an old television sitting in the corner. On it, an old movie
from the 90’s was playing: To Wong Fu,
Thanks for Everything, something something… “I’m in the film industry,” I
said. “I’m actually here scouting out locations for a new movie.”
“Really?
Wow! That’s absolutely fascinating. What’s the movie about? Who’s going to be
in it? Anybody I’ve heard of?”
I
couldn’t believe it! Jordan Prescott—the Jordan Prescott—was intrigued by me. “Ever heard of Mark Ruffalo?”
“Mark
Ruffalo? Of course I’ve heard of Mark Ruffalo.”
“Well,
he’s playing a down on his luck guy in Kansas City. Lives in a trailer park.
With his mother.”
“And?”
“And
what?”
“What
happens? What’s the plot?”
“He
runs into an old adversary at a bar and…well, I don’t want to give anything
away.”
“What’s
it called?”
“Ruffalo’s Revenge.”
“Wait
a second. Mark Ruffalo is starring in a movie called Ruffalo’s Revenge?”
“It’s
meta.”
A
confused, suspicious look took over Jordan’s face. “So, you know a lot of movie
stars, do you?”
“Don’t know if I would
use the words “a lot,” but yeah, I get around. Lifted weights with Lou Ferrigno
last week, if that tells you anything.”
Jordan’s look of suspicion
immediately morphed into a fierce look of competition. “So, dig this,” he said,
“I played golf with John Stamos a couple of months ago. He’s an old friend of
one of the firm’s partners. Shoots a seven handicap.”
“Oh
yeah,” I replied. “I sold weed to Patrick Duffy once.”
Suddenly,
it was on.
“I
had dinner with Maria Shriver.”
“I
did cocaine with Courtney Love.”
“Went
bowling with David Hasselhoff.”
“Played
euchre with Bob Ueker.”
By
this point it didn’t even matter who was saying what.
“Went
six rounds with Mickey Rourke.”
“Rode
on a rollercoaster next to Mark Paul Gosselaar.”
“Did
improve with Parker Posey.”
“Rode
a tandem bicycle with the bassist from Bel Biv DeVoe.”
“Roller-skated
with the guy who played “Bull” on Night
Court.”
“Roller-bladed
with Patrick Swayze’s brother, Don.”
“Went
skydiving with two-thirds of Tony Toni Tone.”
“Played
catch with Donovan McNabb.”
“Threw
a Frisbee with Don Cheadle.”
“Played
Twister with the Olsen Twins.”
“Oh
yeah, well, I fucked Hannah Montana!”
And
that was the one that left Jordan speechless. After finishing his two fingers of
Johnny Walker, he finally found some words. “You’re going to stand there and tell
me that you fucked Hannah Montana? The daughter of the guy who sang Achy Breaky
Heart?”
“That’s
what I said, isn’t it?”
“Prove
it.”
“Prove
it?” I laughed. “Now, how the hell can I prove it?”
“She
just walked through the door.”
I
turned my head and couldn’t believe my eyes: Hannah fucking Montana had just walked through the door. What
were the fucking chances? Well, I did the only thing a man could do in this
situation: I finished my two fingers of Johnny Walker, slammed the glass on the
bar, and walked across the room towards her. I did have a reputation to keep
after all. As I got within a few feet of her, I realized that she wasn’t Hannah
Montana after all, but rather just some buck toothed girl with a boy’s haircut.
I quickly recognized that from a distance, most of the girls in the bar— and
most of the girls in Kansas City, Kansas for that matter — looked strikingly similar
to Hannah Montana. “Excuse me,” I said to the Hannah Montana lookalike, “this
might seem like a strange request, but I will give you two-hundred dollars if
you simply smile, grab my hand, and walk out of this bar with me right now. After
we get outside, you can go wherever you want. You’ll never see me again.”
“Is
this a joke?”
“No
joke. Just trying to win a friendly bet with my friend across the room.” I
turned around and waved at Jordan.
“I’ll
do it for four-hundred.”
“There’s
an ATM next door,” I said as I led her out the front door.
I
withdrew the last four hundred dollars to my name and handed it to the girl
before she disappeared into the night. I was flat broke, but it didn’t matter,
because for the rest of his life, even though chances were that I’d never see
him again, Jordan Prescott would believe that “Fat” Pat Walcock was a better
man than he, and you can’t put a price tag on something like that.
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