Last Friday night I was invited to a manicures and martinis party at the Canyons. I walked into the joint to see a line of Scandinavian-looking manicurists dressed in plain uniforms and behind them, a hard-scrabble looking singer with a guitar. He'd seen more than a few Friday nights.
I leaned on the bar, smiled at the bartender and said, "I think I'm going to be difficult."
"Dealing with difficult is my job description," he winked.
"I want a drink that doesn't have any alcohol," I said.
"How about cranberry and pineapple juice? " he offered.
And when that glass was empty, he made me another one.
I slid into the seat in front of the manicurist. Her blonde ponytail was tied neatly and her smile revealed braces. "Mesa, AZ" read her tag (of course it did.) She gently took my hand and removed the lingering polish. I leaned over and smiled at the guitar player, "Johnny Cash?" I asked.
"Any particular one?" he asked back, with a grin for a girl half his age and gravel in his voice.
"Folsom Prison Blues," I answered, and took another sip.
Meg the Manicurist painted silver onto my nails as I sang to myself, "But I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die."
Was there anything else I could possibly sing?