The Spy, the Stage Manager, the Swan, and the Stay-At-Home-Mom…

...And Then There's Me

“One of us is going to get lucky tonight!” Jenny pronounced from the passenger seat, as we motored down M-52 towards Manchester.

“What do you mean?” Kristi asked, alarmed.

“I mean one of us is going to end up making out with a guy! At the Manchester Chicken Broil.” Jenny continued in the confident tone of a woman who knows of what she speaks. “What goes on at the Manchester Chicken Broil, stayyys at the Manchester Chicken Broil!”

“Do you really think one of US is going to end up playing tongue hockey?” I piped up from the back seat, imagining that I’m the most likely candidate since I’m single. And wondering just how drunk I’d have to be. And glad that I wasn’t doing the driving.

“Tongue hockey?” Jenny repeated the words, rolling them around for effect. “Tongue. Hockey. Toooonguue Hockey. I’ve never even SAID those two words together before! I love it!”

“If you had a sixteen-year-old daughter who has a boyfriend, you’d use those words on a regular basis,” I pointed out.

Manchester, Michigan Hot Spot

My friends Jenny (the Stage Manager) and Allison (the Spy) flew into Michigan this week, and along with locals Kristi (the Swan) and Beth (the Stay-At-Home-Mom) we all went to the Manchester Chicken Broil on Thursday night. Allison’s family still live in Manchester, and her aunt owns the Village Tap. Amazingly enough, I’ve never been to the Broil, so was really looking forward to it, and to catching up with the girls.
The first thing you need to know (and I realize this may ruffle a lot of feathers) - don’t go to the Broil for the food. Because it sucks. Awful. Eat before you head out there. The chicken was pale and rubbery, the “famous” cole slaw was only notable by the large portion flopped onto your paper plate, and nothing seems to be seasoned enough. Honestly, a little marinade and about five extra minutes on the grill would have done wonders for the chicken.

But, ohhhh, the people-watching opportunities.

I grew up in a small town, and the Manchester Chicken Broil is exactly the kind of gathering that brings back fond memories. The cloggers (photo below). The trio of 50-something guys in Hawaiian shirts performing from the flat bed of a truck. The 85-year-old man on the loudspeaker keeping a running commentary of the various home states of visitors. (At one point, when he announced Alaska and then “Romania!” I surmised that somebody had gotten the bright idea to pull his leg, and that one of us should go up and say we’re from “American Samoa.”)

And just as it should be in a small town, Allison still seemed to know everybody. A steady stream of old family friends wandered in and out of our space at the end of one of the rectangular rental tables, and I have to admit I was a little jealous. Last summer I went back to my hometown for the county fair, the social highlight of the season in that rural area. And didn’t see a soul I knew. Not a single one. Allison’s lucky she still has those roots that are sunk deep.

You Can’t Beat $3.50 Chablis In A Plastic Cup

After doing the best we could to wipe down with the wet naps provided, we walked up the hill from the Broil back to town and the Village Tap. The Tap hosts “Roosterpalooza” to coincide with the Broil, and Allison’s cousin’s band, “Star 69” (photo below. And I really don’t want to have to explain that name to the Button), was playing in the roped-off parking lot.

What a great setting! A cool, beautiful night, cheap bag-wine from the bar, and music from the sort of workman like band that you might hear any night down on Bourbon Street, playing Eagles tunes for all the 30 and 40 somethings to sing along with.

Shouting over the music, the five of us caught up. We all went to the U of M together, and became friends through working on various extracurricular stage activities. Jenny is a stage manager and does festival work in Williamstown, Vermont. Beth used to teach math and computer science here in Ann Arbor at Greenhills and is now the stay-at-home-mom. Kristi is a retired Radio City Rockette who now does drama therapy. And Allison is a spy. No, really. A spy.

Code Name: “Mustang Sally”

Allison isn’t even her real name. Cause I’m kind of afraid to even use it, just like I’m kind of afraid to even pass on the things we talked about.

Allison works in counter-terrorism and directs a department of over 200 people. She speaks four languages, attended the Naval War College, has spent time in the Middle East, and gives regular briefings to General McChrystal, the new commander in Afghanistan. And that's just the stuff she can tell us about. I can picture her rolling her eyes at this, but I imagine that her job is like that of the director up in the glass office on the TV show “24.” Deploying analysts, agents, and resources like chess pieces in a deadly, serious game.

“It’s NOTHING like TV or the movies, ” Allison laughed, shaking her head, “satellites cannot take pictures of your license plate.”

“What about track me via my cell phone?” I persisted.

“Nope.”

“What about shoe phones?!” Jenny interjected.

“Nope.”

I feigned distrust, piercing Allison with my laser-like expression. “Ha! You’re just saying that! I bet you’ve been sent to the heartland to sow misinformation!”

“Yeah. Whatever.” she said, with exactly the same tone she would have used 20 years ago when I said something stupid. Ah, another fond memory. And then, plastic cup of Budweiser in hand, Allison got up to dance along with her aunt.

How many super spies do you know who can shimmy and sing along with “Mustang Sally?” Our nation’s security is in good hands.


PS: Almost forgot. Though there seemed to be dozens of age-appropriate guys (THAT'S where they're all hiding - out in Manchester!), disappointingly no tongue hockey occurred. At least that I can remember.