The O. Henry Prize Stories 2011 by Laura Furman Page B

my throat. You’re a good kid, he says. He pulls me aside. You’re not a cockblocker are you?
    I shake my head. Me? I’m thinking.
    No one likes a cockblocker, Clyde says. He’s patting me hard on the back, like he’s burping a baby.
    …
    The women are waiting. They’ve laid out a happy-hour spread. There’s a green ceramic serving dish with pretzels and Ritz crackers. The dish has a built-in bowl that they have filled with some kind of white creamy dip. There’s another plate of cheese and grapes and a can of roasted peanuts. I start attacking the snacks, standing over the low table, raining down crumbs.
    Horace says, Easy, Stanley.
    The women laugh. Someone’s hungry!
    They say, You boys should take a seat, waving us over to the long, avocado-colored couch. I sit down with a handful of crackers and line up cubes of cheese on my leg and start the assembly line. As I cram it all in my mouth, I take in my surroundings. The colors are green and yellow. A massive organ sits in the corner, its wooden pedals like a rib cage on the floor. There are plastic plants in the corners and hook rugs on the wall—shag tapestries of trees with red leaves, clouds over an island, an owl with furry eyes clutching a real piece of driftwood. There are shelves lined with little owl statues made from glass and clay. Someone likes owls. This is an owl house.
    The women gather up and introduce themselves. They have cotton-candy hair and foggy eyes. There’s more than one brooch and bracelets all around, so they jangle when they move. Shiny pants and small knitted vests; clown collars, nurse shoes. I have to say, these are some good-looking old ladies. The Jazzmen really scored. The ladies smell nice, too. I can smell them from across the room: it’s all baby powder and flowers. They deliver their names like they’re performing a song. Ruth and Ethel and Nancy are sisters, we learn, and Betty is an old friend from the neighborhood. Great names, I say. Some cracker crumbs fly from my mouth and Clyde gives me a look.
    The women tell us how much they loved the music.
    Ethel says her fingers are sore from snapping. The guys chuckle at this.
    I hit the peanuts, throwing a handful in my mouth. I watch their lips move through the grinding in my head. When I swallow, I hear Betty say, So many of the summer concerts are such disappointments.
    Ruth recalls a terrible rap act and they all shudder.
    Wally says, That’s not poetry, what they’re doing. I don’t buy it.
    They look to me, expecting an opinion, I guess. Rap sucks, I say as I reach for some more cheese.
    You have the most unusual eyebrows, Nancy says.
    I don’t understand, then I remember that I had bleached them.
    Goes better with the mustache, I say.
    Everyone laughs because, at the moment, my mustache is curled up on the dashboard of my car.
    How’s that for commitment? Clyde says. The kid lands a gig and he goes the extra mile to fit in. You didn’t tattoo our name on your backside, did you?
    I shake my head, because my mouth is full.
    Stan the man can swing, Clyde says, reminding me of my new name. His smile has something like pride in it. They all look at me, smiling warmly.
    I feel like I’m eight years old—a little kid with a whole army of grandparents. I never knew my real grandparents. My dad was already old when I was born and my mom never told her parents about me. One day she told me her father had finally died. That was all I had ever heard about them.
    Wally slaps his thighs. Say, how about some drinks?
    Clyde says to Chet, You bring in your kit?
    Chet says, Get yours.
    The way he says it is kind of harsh. Clyde looks at him and there’s a quiet little stare-down before Clyde whistles through his teeth and heads out.
    When Clyde comes back he has a small black box with a handle. It’s like a square suitcase. He puts it on the dining room table andopens it up. I go over to check it out and he tells me not to get crumbs all over the place. I peer inside the case