The Feet of God

100 - I ENDED UP IN A BAR…AGAIN

So out to the roadside I went.  Traffic passed as I looked around, and damn, there was palm trees and palm bushes and palm shrubs everywhere.  But except for the road and the motels and the shops, the land was all flat, flat, flat, as far as the eye could see.  The sky was brilliant blue, and the air was sweet if you could get past the smell of truck exhaust.

But looking wasn’t moving.  I wanted to get away from the cop and the crazy old man who wanted pie more’n life, it seemed, so as fast as I could I walked away along a road with my back to the traffic, arm uplifted, thumb extended.

A battered Toyota pulled in front of me.  I wasn’t sure if this slob was stopping for me or what.  I didn’t dwell on the matter.  I run up and pulled open the rusty dented door.

“Hey, sorry, I wasn’t sure you’d stopped for me or just to stop,” I apologized, and snapped the seatbelt across my chest.

He asked, “Where ya headed?”

I pointed forward.  “That’a ways.”

The driver looked behind to see if it was safe to get back on the road, and we merged with traffic.  I considered this skilled driving maneuver to be a marked improvement over my last ride experience, which nearly killed me.

“Yeah, well, I’m probably headed in your direction for a few miles, at least,” I offered noncommittally.  I looked the driver over on more careful inspection.  This dude was maybe pushin’ forty, what with a beer gut half-hid under a dirty white T-shirt.  He wore grubby cargo shorts and worn sandals (and I had to avert my eyes looking at his toenails, which could’a used a cutback from a band saw or perhaps some medical attention).

The driver was quiet for a few minutes when all of a sudden he gave me a nasty shock.

“You like titties?”

“What?”

“Titties!”  He was grabbing at his tee and shaking that what shouldn’t ought’a be shook.

“Listen, pal, I’m in it just for the ride.  I ain’t lookin’ for nothin’ else.”

“Not my titties.  Girl titties.  You like girl titties, don’cha?”  He kept shaking his chest at me in a disturbing way.  “Tit-tays!”

“Yeah, sure.  But that ain’t no girl tit ya know,” I pointed at his handful of man-boob.

“Don’t be dumb.  I’m going to a tittie bar.  Wanna come?”

“Fuck yeah,” I was happy to join in the enthusiasm of the moment.

(What the hell?  I ain’t seen no exotic dancing since…well…since my time at The Stardust Lounge in Bakersfield which featured my sweet little sister’s high-kicking performances.)

The driver’s eyes grew large like empty sauce pans.  “They got one chick there that’s got these little gold rings in her nipples, and she’ll come right to the edge of the stage and squat down so you can put rolled-up bills into each one, and then she lifts ‘em up and takes your bills out with her toes.”  His breathing was getting pretty irregular, and the dude’s eyes glazed over.  “And makes change!  It’s amaaaazing!”

Not many miles further we come up to a little strip mall with a gun shop, a Chinese-Mexican take-out, a dive called Chubby’s and a plain cinderblock structure painted bright pink with big red letters:

THE BA-ZOOM-ZOOM ROOM

I knew, this must be the place.

I followed my new companion into the dark confines of a topless bar somewhere in West Florida.  Coming from the sun to the inside, it took a minute for my eyes to adjust.  The music playing was some chronic disco crap, and the interior was strung-up with white Christmas lights except for over the stage where there was pink light bulbs in two rows along a little stage.  Someone was up on the stage do’n something, but this sure as shit wasn’t no Stardust Lounge, or even like downstairs at The Fancy Pants Arcade back in Bakersfield.

My ride walked right up to a table next to the stage and motioned for me to come sit down next to his big fat self.  Then a big ol’ bottle-blonde with an incredibly huge rack of meat balloons come by our table to serve us.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said to my seated companion.  “Day drinking again.  Whattaya want, the usual?”

“You know it, bay-bee.”

She leaned over the table across from me.  Her gigantically brown wrinkled ta-ta’s poked outta a low-cut tank top stuffed with crinkled hundred dollar bills.  “Whattaya want, sugar?”

“A Bud Lite would suit me just fine, thank you very much.”

“Hey, ya hear that?” she slapped the shoulder of my accomplice.  “You could learn some manners from him.”

As our peroxided hostess sashayed away, my latest friend shrugged and smiled.  “Ex-wives.  Ya can’t ever keep ‘em happy.”

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