Finally getting the coughing under control, she took another slower and smaller swallow. Cathy looked at the bottle and considered another drink and instead pulled out a little red metal tin and selected two Percocets, which she washed down with another chug of vodka.
Cathy closed her eyes and sat on the floor for a few minutes until she felt better. When she finally stood, the shaking was gone and her skin felt like it belonged to her. She pulled a small toothbrush and paste out of her purse and brushed the smell of vodka away. Can’t have those nosey know-it-alls in her business.
Justin knew about her increasing fondness for alcohol, but she didn’t think he knew about the pills. Besides he had promised to keep everything a secret until it was over. Until it’s too late for him to do anything about it, Cathy chuckled at her own cleverness.
She put everything back in her purse and walked out of the bathroom feeling better than she had since getting in the van for the Road Trip from Hell that morning. She didn’t see Martha in the lobby.
“They went ahead and started unloading,” said the receptionist. “Said to go on up to Room 409.”
“Thank you very much,” said Cathy walking out the door.
“My pleasure, hon,” came the reply from the closing door.
Cathy realized the hon didn’t bother her nearly as much as it had before. Getting out of that van and away from all those silly women even for a few minutes certainly improved her disposition.
By the time she got up to Room 409, they had already unloaded the van and Martha was busy putting everything away. The other ladies knew better than to try to help; Martha intuitively and mysteriously knew the proper place for every item. No one else possessed this secret power and would only get in the way, or worse, stop the Earth’s rotation by putting the paper towels somewhere other than where they were predestined to reside from before the dawn of time.
By unspoken agreement, the other women congregated on the balcony overlooking the vast expanse of ocean. Martha joined them and they all stood silently as their troubles and worries blew away on the wind.
“Wow,” said Stephanie at last.
“Sure is a whole lot of water,” commented Ruby.
Dolores cracked from her wheelchair, “Yeah, and you’re only seeing the top part.”
There was a moment of silence before the ladies, one at a time, snorted and began laughing. Soon they were all chuckling and smiling. Cathy found herself carried along with their joy and thought that maybe this weekend wouldn’t be so bad after all.
“So what do we want to do now?” asked Ruby.
“Should we go eat?” asked Trish.
“No,” groaned Martha. “We just ate a few hours ago.”
“Okay, what then?” asked Stephanie.
Everyone unconsciously turned to Dolores. They didn’t want to do anything without her, but also didn’t want to push her too far. She had been off the chemo for months, but her strength ebbed and flowed like the tides. Pulled not by the gravity of the moon, but by the inoperable softball sized tumor wrapped around her aorta and left lung.
The old lady pushed the bandana back off her shriveled and near hairless scalp and smiled up at them. “I think it’s time we go have some fun.”
“You sure, mom?” asked Trish.
“I’m sure,” nodded Dolores.
“All right then,” said Ruby. “Where to?”
Martha smiled, “No sense in wasting time. We might as well get serious right out of the gate. Let’s go to the Florabama.”
The Florabama was the closest thing you could find anymore to a real roadhouse. It sat squarely on the Florida Alabama border and thus its name. It had suffered fires and hurricanes and floods but always sprung back again like a stubborn stand of bamboo.
It was a Friday night and around dinner time, but even so Gulf Shores never really had much of a rush hour. Compared to the major beach and resort destinations to the east, the Redneck Riviera was calm and tranquil even during peak tourist months.
The drive from the Oasis Condo to the Florabama took only about ten minutes and they arrived to find a sizable crowd at the establishment. The women unloaded from the van, placing Dolores carefully in her wheelchair before making their way with some difficulty across the white seashell and gravel parking lot.
The Florabama itself was a sprawling mishmash of timber, sheet metal, and neon lights. One would have been hard-pressed to pick out the main entrance from the half dozen or so options presented. There were about a dozen different bar areas to buy drinks both outside and inside loosely connected by open rooms, winding passageways, and wooden stairwells. The Florabama was less a building than a giant tree house resting on the sand, seemingly designed by hyperactive and imaginative toddlers.
Despite this, or possibly because of its idiosyncrasies, the Florabama had lasted where other bars and roadhouses had come and gone and it boasted a large and loyal customer base of both locals and seasonal tourists. The sprawling complex of driftwood and plastic screamed carefree enjoyment and relaxation where nothing was expected of a patron other than to relax and not take anything seriously.
Martha deftly guided them to the wheelchair ramp which led up to what could have been equally and correctly termed the second, third, or second-and-a-half floor, depending on the vantage point.
“What can I do for you ladies,” asked a perky diminutive girl behind the bar.
“Any specials?” asked Ruby.
The girl smiled and pointed to a chalkboard to their right, “Bushwhackers are two for five dollars the next hour. After that we got three dollar shots and domestic beer the rest of the night.”
“What’s a bushwhacker?” asked Trish and the bartender started to explain, but Dolores cut her off.
“What the hell does it matter?” she said with a wave of a hand. “I bet it’s good and will wash the road right off of us nicely. Give us a round of those, little lady.”
“Coming up,” she said with a smile and began pulling out glasses and several bottles of liquor.
They all stood and looked around at the graffiti, dollar bills, and bras adorning the walls and ceilings. A gentle wind carried the sounds of slowly crashing waves and unhurried seagulls.
“Here you go,” said the bartender, finally placing the drinks on the counter. “Do you want to run a tab?”
Everyone reached into their purses for money at the same time, but Dolores was prepared and beat them all handing over a credit card. “Tab please, keep those drinks coming until we cry uncle and then bring ‘em twice as fast.”
“Sis’,” protested Ruby, “you don’t have to do that. You’re retired, let the rest of us get this.”
Dolores chuckled, “What else am I going to do with my social security? Besides, the government is going to cut it off the minute I’m not around to collect. Might as well enjoy it while I can. Now drink up before I get pissed and have to go find someone who is willing to have fun with me.”
“All right then,” said Martha handing out the large drinks and then holding up her own glass ceremonially. “Here’s to ladies weekend.”
“To ladies weekend,” they all echoed and clicked their drinks together before taking tentative sips from the straws.
Stephanie made an appreciative noise around her straw. “Man, these are good!”
“I bet they sneak up on you too,” commented Cathy already halfway through her drink. “Drinks like this carry a kick that knocks you on your ass.”
“Sounds like you have some experience with that,” commented Ruby with a wicked smile.
“Haven’t we all?” answered Trish before Cathy could answer and the ladies all nodded knowingly.