Brokenhearted in Bakersfield

 

50 - MORE STARDUST

Like a pair of sailors on shore leave in a friendly port on payday, Owen and me entered the welcoming confines of The Stardust Lounge.  We ordered ourselves some Saturday Nite Specials and settled in to grind away a few pleasurable hours.

I was glad to see the fare on the buffet table, consisting of generous platters of hardboiled eggs and baskets full of oyster crackers, was laid out for easy access.  “It sure is good to be home,” I lifted a salty glass to my lips.  I’m not sure if it was the Cadillac margaritas, the hardboiled eggs, or the spinning blue lights, but my eyes soon watered with the joy of my homecoming.

Long about nine o’clock the girls started coming out to dance.  Conchita Libertad did a loose interpretation on a lawyerly theme with the familiar music from “Perry Mason” playing in the background.  After throwing off her black robe she proceeded to wield her gavel in ways you would not imagine judiciously possible.  Naturally, out of a sense of due diligence, and law-abidingness, I insisted on inspecting her legal briefs before paying my fine.

After Conchita, it was time for none other than Fine Lady Babbs Montez to strut and gallivant on the stage with her exceptional moves.  She marched up and down the runway in a tight halter-top glittering in big script letters, Do Your Own Thing!  This choice of wardrobe prompted Owen to elbow me in the ribs and whisper, “That ain’t what I’m paying for.”

The Fine Lady’s act concluded with her allowing customers to assist her while she lathered up and depilated her legs.  As much fun as we was having, I did learn one thing:  depilatory cream does not mix real well with a Margarita.  The truly unique part of the show was that her gratuities could be applied like toilet paper to a nicked chin, except it was mostly her thighs where bills appeared in green profusion.

Then came the featured performers for the night, The Inger Trio, doing their famous Polka Varieties Revue.  These were the only dancing Siamese triplets any of us had ever heard of, much less seen, and we seen it all in Bakersfield.  I could never tell who was leading who, but how they positioned themselves always drew a certain measure of comment.  Speaking for myself, I must admit, I ain’t never been all that fond of accordion playing.

Every night was New Year’s Eve at The Stardust, even if the morning after hardly resembled Christmas Day.  We’d all put on our pointy hats and bang our complimentary tambourines and blow our noisemakers like hell anticipating the whole lineup of dancing chorines coming out at midnight.

I was dancing by myself to my favorite song, the Spitting Weasels’ version of “What You See, Ain’t What You Get,” while the joint was rocking like the Twains’ ol’ double-wide.  Oh, yeah.  There was shouting and drinking and flashing and dripping, and bills was flying around the room, why...I was licking my lips in joyous expectation of meeting up with the Princess herself.  She had just finished her Native American interpretational dance for the guy next to me.  My fist crushed a bunch of lucky twenties held for my sweet Lorleen.

“Daddy!  Ain’t seen you in a while,” Lorleen Littlesum shouted as she climbed up over me.  “How ya been?”

“Been missing you.”  I slipped the Princess a small token of my appreciation.  “Say, I ain’t never noticed this before,” I gently pointed at what appeared to be a questionable skin condition, without trying to alarm her with the concern in my voice.

“Look all you want, Daddy,” she hummed and shimmied away while I motor-boated her breasts.  “Like, you’re paying for it.”  The Princess arched her back so I leaned forward.

“It’s a tattoo,” she giggled while circling a letter with her finger.  Then she giggled some more, “It’s, like, my name.”

“No fool’n?”

“No foolin’.”

“But, that don’t spell Lorleen.”

“Daddy, can you keep a secret?”

“Lots of ‘em.”

“Okay, like, my real name isn’t Lorleen Littlesum,” she panted as sequined pasties tickled my cheeks.

“What is it?”

“Don’t tell anyone, but my birth name is….”

She rotated into position and revealed her innermost secret tattoo.

“Baby…”

Then she threw one leg over my head and swirled around, bending forward and pulling down the back of her costume to reveal her other most inner tattoo.

“…Harmonica.”

As much as the placement of vowels would ordinarily intrigue me, as you might expect, this money shot produced a totally different result.  Amid all the revelry and the ringing shouts of joy, I had to bolt for the Exit.