“I guess blasphemous young ladies like us weren’t their target audience.”
“My poor mother nearly died of shame every time we were sent to the chapel to atone for our sins.”
“Poor Mama Sue! Could we help it, though, that we had inquisitive minds and craved actual discussion and discovery in theology class?”
“No. No, we could not. But Mama Sue has never really been up for healthy debate when it comes to her boy J.C., either. Do you remember the day when Sister Marta nunsplained that the entire universe, including humans and dinosaurs, was created a mere six thousand years ago and in the span of a week?”
“How could I forget?”
“That was the day I lost all respect.”
“That was also the day you lost your damn mind and delivered your ‘God Meant for You to Use Your Mind’ Manifesto over the loudspeaker when you were supposed to be making dismissal announcements.”
“I wrote that beauty during a single study hall that afternoon, and to this day, I still stand by it. The title needed some work, but the contents? Solid.”
“How is your secret writing project going?”
“Secret.”
“Come on, shady. You ever going to tell me what it is?”
“Uhhhhhhhhhhh…” I sing about an octave too high.
“Whatever, it’s fine. I’m not going to push you.”
“Thank you.”
“You know, I gave up on Sister Marta too, but it was the day she proclaimed that my past life as a sheepherder in Australia was preposterous and an assault on the faith. You know what I have faith in, Marta? My affinity for Aussie accents and my deep love of the bloomin’ onion! You and me, Lopey? We’ve always known what’s up!”
“Damn straight, we have! And don’t call me Lopey.”
“Alright, alright.”
We clink our glasses again and knock back some more brew. Surprisingly, I actually start to feel relaxed in my bubbly barrel. I take a moment to breathe in the scents wafting around me. “So what is this hop treatment supposed to do to me?”
“Beer baths are hardly a new concept. They date all the way back to ancient Egypt and China. They’re huge right now in Prague and Iceland. Portland too. You know how Portland can be. Oregon, not Maine, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I’m psyched Philly seems to be upping its bouge cred lately.”
“Bouge cred?”
“Hell, yeah! Don’t fear the bouge, Calliope.”
“What? I don’t fear the bouge.”
“You totally fear the bouge. You know why?”
“No. Why?”
“Oh, I’m gonna tell you.”
“You always do.”
“So much of the bouge involves treating yourself to sweet and unnecessary indulgences. You resist those sorts of things because you think they’re girly. And you equate being girly with being weak.”
“Thanks for that analysis, doctor.”
“You’re very welcome.”
I sniff my arm.
“Do you imagine we’re going to smell like a frat party for the foreseeable future?”
“I expect so, yes. And to answer your earlier question: ‘Beer baths are known to normalize blood pressure, heighten the immune system, regulate sweat production, improve digestion, hydrate the skin, shine your hair, reduce visible cellulite and generally remove harmful toxins from your body.’”
I’m staring at my friend, who is suddenly speaking like a human Wikipedia page.
“What?” she says. “I had time to study the brochure while I was waiting for you. You’re the only person I know who would find a way to work overtime on day one of orientation.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. I was trying to salvage my already besmirched reputation.”
“Besmirched. Good one.”
“Thanks.”
“So? What the hell happened? I’m dying for the deets.”
“Well, I spent the first part of my morning locked all alone in an elevator.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Because I thought it would be fun, Sasha.”
“Oh. Well, was it?”
“Are you being for real right now?”
“Yes, I am. I’m trying to train you off sarcasm, Calliope. Sarcasm is unattractive and joyless, and you, my dear, are neither one of those things, so I’m not going to indulge you in it anymore.”
“Whatever. I get trapped in an elevator, and some sexy-voiced mystery dude keeps me company from the other side of the door. He calms my panic until the firemen arrive to rescue me—ugh, you know I hate to be rescued—promises to meet me in the Hall of Mammals by the dead deer once I get free, then… promptly ditches me. After that, I finally make it to my orientation, where the very first person I meet on the team treats me like a moronic twelve-year-old cutie pie. So of course I give him an epic piece of my mind, at which point I’m sure he labels me a twenty-two-year-old shrew. I drop some strudel-inspired F-bombs at him and get caught at the height of my rant by my new boss who is, you know, basically the only person on earth I care about impressing, after which I’m pretty sure she now sees me as a terrible team player and an even worse person. So needless to say, I stuck around at the end of the day and asked what grunt work I could do to atone for my sins. I ended up stuffing and sealing gala invitations like an entry-level punk.”
“A sexy-voiced mystery dude, huh?”
“That’s your takeaway from all that?”
“Well, it’s clearly the most pressing matter we need to tackle first.”
“Clearly.”
“Sarcasm…” she says with a warning tone.
“Yeah, it’s not going anywhere anytime soon.”
“We’ll see about that. But first, here. Choose your brow path.”
She hands me a damp brochure, saturated in beer.
“Choose my what?”
“Your brow path. Our gal is going to come over soon for our shaping.”
I scan the pamphlet that reads “Hop in the Barrel: Philly’s Local HOP-Spot for Brows and Brews” and see the many choices I have for brow shaping while sipping and soaking in beer. I can’t help but roll my eyes.
“See, Sasha, this is the kind of silly shit I’m talking about.”