On their after work Thursday TGIT happy hour (Friday was too crowded to bother), Ginny and Tina sat at their regular places in the Fiasco and conjured their regular theme: perfect lives. The Fiasco reigned as their perfect bar, and for several reasons. The barstools had backs. The peanuts were free. The bartender, Maribel, was strong. 

She began working the Fiasco’s happy hour shift almost the same week Ginny and Tina showed up on their search for a perfect bar, two years earlier. Now, without being asked, she brought their usual first drinks, Bloody Mary for Ginny, club soda for Tina. 

“Priming the pump,” said Tina every time. 

By their second sip, the two friends started on what Tina called their “topic de jour,” a specific category that would contribute to perfect lives. This week was Ginny’s choice. “High end motels,” she announced. Or better than ones she had experienced, she added. “Where the fitted sheet, you know, the bottom one….”

“I know the fitted sheet goes on the bottom,” interrupted Tina, getting ready for her stronger order.

“… where management ordered the right size, not too small, so a top corner doesn’t creep off the mattress in the middle of the night and whack you in the mouth.”

Tina nodded. “I hate when that happens.”

Ginny smiled wanly. Tina and her clichés.

“Once,” said Tina, “I encountered someone’s sock.”

“Ewww,” they said in unison, drawing the attention of Maribel, who walked over and put out a second bowl of salted peanuts. “The theme tonight is perfect what?”

“Motels,” said Ginny. 

Maribel, nodding, leaned on the bar briefly, stretching her Achilles tendons, first her left, then right “What’s with fluorescent lights by the bed?” she asked. “I’m all for lowering my carbon footprint, but can anything make you look uglier?”

The two women shook their heads. 

“My least favorite kind of motel,” said Tina, “has the outside hallway by your door and the window, the only window, next to it. So if you open the crappy curtains an inch, anyone can see in.”

Ginny announced, “Perfect motels have windows, plural, overlooking a real view. That is,” she added with some passion, “a window that opens.”

“Bliss,” said Tina. “Bel, when you get a chance? Bloody M now for moi?”

  Tina was using bliss often these days, thought Ginny, rattling her ice cubes in irritation and watching the drink disintegrate into an unattractive color. A perfect world would have Bloody Marys made with frozen tomato juice cubes. 

As Maribel prepared Tina’s drink, Ginny whispered, “We could ask Bel about her new tattoo, back of her neck, looks like. But that would be off topic.”

“Agreed,” whispered Tina. “And would a perfect world have tattoos?” 

Maribel returned. Placing Tina’s Bloody Mary down, she said, “How about, if the motel advertises `continental breakfast,’ it’s not the phony kind.” 

This prompted Tina to part with another cliché that annoyed Ginny. “Tell me about it.”

“Fake orange juice, bleh,” said Maribel, “Brown liquid labeled coffee.”

Ginny, wishing to escape the imperfect for her weekly dose of perfection, spoke up. “The perfect motel, let’s even say hotel, has fresh squeezed o.j., real coffee, and a great carb whatever. Not one of those pop tart things.” 

“Under duress,” asserted Tina, boldly, “They do the trick.” She returned to her drink. “Actually, this motel one is even more challenging than last week’s.”

Ginny winced, remembering. A perfect world meant that the things you pick at get better. “I liked the one a month ago,” she said. “Non-medical behavior by doctors in a perfect world.” 

Tina swirled her drink briskly, quoting the clincher. “Doctors who do not pat us on the head.”

“If only,” said Ginny. “Like employers who don’t make you feel all affirmative actiony.”

“Amen.”

“Affirmative actiony. Cool phrase,” said Maribel smiling, as she moved off to open someone a beer.

By the time Tina finished her second happy hour Bloody Mary, a virgin for Ginny on round two, and Tina paid and tipped their agreed upon 50 percent, for it was her turn, the two friends had conjured a perfect world’s motel. Its wide entrance door opened automatically, real plants, even if they were ficus, lived in the lobby a perfect continental breakfast was available as room service, the room’s carpets were not too dense and very clean, the bathroom, like the room, had a wide door and lots of space. Good soaps were provided and the motel’s notepads had more than two pages left on them. 

The fractionated piece of a perfect world complete, Ginny and Tina clinked their empty glasses in accord, and said, “Done!”

At the familiar signal, Maribel excused herself from other customers, came around the bar, and unfolded both women’s wheelchairs. With practiced motions, she helped Ginny and Tina descend from their stools and land upright, as earlier she had helped them ascend.

“Thanks, doll,” they chorused.

“Decided next week’s topic?” she asked, leaning down to adjust their footrests. 

“You give us one, Bel,” said Ginny. 

“How about,” said Maribel dreamily, standing back up, “in a perfect world men have a sense of humor about themselves?”

“Be still my heart,” shrieked Tina, as she rolled toward the door, which opened automatically, another positive feature of the Fiasco.

Ginny shook her head, hearing echoes of Be still my heart, I hate when that happens, Bliss, Tell me about it. Tina also had taken to saying, “It is what it is.” In a perfect world, thought Ginny, people would invent their own expressions.    ###