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Susie is drunk as fuck. Midge is drunk as fuck. This Detroit-or possibly Chicago, Susie had stopped caring what city they were in six drinks ago-couch is nice as fuck. The world is great.
“What about Cool Aunt Susie?” Midge says, her chin over Susie’s shoulder, the hand that’s not wrapped a cocktail glass radiating casual ownership from it’s place on Susie’s thigh. “Caunt Susie”
“Won’t work, sounds too much like cunt. Aren’t moms supposed to be good at figuring out what words can be turned into expletives?”
“You’re doing a fine job all on your own.” Midge attempts to turn away, fake-haughty. She ends up puddled on the floor, surrounded by the ocean of her dress.
“And you’re collapsing, what did you put in your drink?”
“It’s blue,” Midge announces cheerfully.
“Nah, your dress is blue, that’s tequila.” Midge’s dress really his miraculous, this vivid electric blue that makes her eyes go wow. Susie loves it. Susie loves her.
“How are you not fucking soused?”
“I am. This is why I’m remaining seated. Only my head knows I’m drunk. If I don’t stand up, the rest of me doesn’t find out, and I don’t join you on the floor.”
“The floor is nice.”
“And, to my earlier point, if I can fool you into thinking I’m sober, I can fool anyone.”
“Because I know you best. Wife. Mrs. Myerson. Should I change my stage name?”
There is almost certainly a series of events that led to Susie being married in the backroom of a lounge, right next to this very comfortable couch, by a rabbi who happened to be attending the show at—oh shit that’s it. Susie had booked Midge a queer club without knowing. That’s why they were drunk and married right now. Susie, you are a king among managers. With much gravitas, she informs Midge of this, then remembers that Midge had asked her a question.
“It’d be a marketing nightmare. Also,” Susie takes another sip of vodka. “Extremely illegal.”
“The rabbi is right there and said it’s fine, we’re fine.”
“The rabbi is chill. We’re still queer. And I ain’t your kids’ momma number two. Ain’t made for that shit. Esther still stares at me weird.”
“She’s fifteen, teenagers are like that.”
“Still.”
“Stepmom.”
“Miriam I will divorce you.”
Someone hears Susie from across the room and laughs. There’s a party going on around their drunken honeymoon bubble and Susie barely fucking cares because fuck all of you, she’s got a wife.
“Aunt is okay,” Midge backtracks.
“That makes this incestuous.”
“You’re vulgar. What if we pass it off as a joke. Drunk marrying best friend. I could do some great bits about it.”
“One, we were sober when we got married, and two, arrested for indecency. Don’t worry about it, I’ll still buy you presents.”
“To Mrs. Myerson from Mrs. Myerson.”
“Confusing.”
“I’ll get you hats.”
“What’s wrong with this hat, I like this hat.”
“Ladies.”
“Rabbi,” Midge stands up with surprising grace.
“Sir,” Susie blurts, still unsure how she’s supposed to address him. Probably should just say rabbi. But you don’t call a priest a priest you call him a father. He’s talking.
“We’ll keep this to ourselves?”
“Absolutely.”
“Yup.”
“Miriam, you understand this isn’t binding under Halakha?”
“Yeah, she won’t convert for me.”
“Heh, your wife is a goy.”
Midge groans. “More wine!”
“No!” What seems like half the room shouts, having become acquainted with Drunk Midge.
“Bracha, Parnasa and Hatzlacha,” the rabbi says as he walks away. Susie is unsure of his name or what this means but Midge seems content with it.
“Thank you!” she calls after him as Susie pulls on the back of her dress.
“I love this dress on you, you know?”
“Oh you are drunk. I never get compliments.”
Someone across the room-- right, they’re in a backroom of a real nice Detroit-maybe-Chicago lounge, Susie should care more that she can’t remember where she is-- shouts “Manager’s coming! Scatter!”
“Susie I got paid to be here I shouldn’t have to leave.”
“I also got paid to be here, stay put.”
A general cry of relief comes up from the rest of the party. “Oh! It’s just the band!”
Midge pops up immediately. “Play something for us? We’re celebrating.” She starts pulling on Susie’s cuffs, finishing off Susie’s vodka then throwing the shot glass to the side.
“Shit. Miriam I don’t know if I can stand. Midge, Midge, don’t you dare. Standing will ruin my veneer of respectability, oh. We’re standing.” They’re standing, and Midge is absolutely the only thing holding Susie up. If Midge trips in her too-tall matching blue heels they are both going down. Susie Myerson, died age 48. Beloved Manager. Survived by her client-wife, Midge. She gives this eulogy in Midge’s ear, which gets a laugh.
It’s always a good feeling to get Midge to laugh.
They less dance than continue to stand, rotating very slowly while the band plucks out drunken notes. Susie’s got her arms on Midge’s shoulders. Midge has her face in Susie’s hair and her hands on Susie’s waist.
“First dance as a married couple is important,” she Midge insists.
“I don’t dance, Miriam.”
“But you are.”
“Only for you.”
And that about sums it up, doesn’t it?