At a recent visit to his friendly therapist (physical therapist, that is) after going through all of the requisite moves and the deep lower back massage this guy had administered (no it didn’t “move”, you fans of Seinfeld!) your friendly bartender was given this strange prescription. He was told if he wanted to further open those spaces that exist between the discs, at least ten times a day he should try the following. Lie flat on his back, tighten his stomach and do at least ten thrusting motions toward the sky with his hips. Then he added, “You can also do this standing up at your job site.”
“But I’m a bartender,” I said, smiling at the notion.
“So?” he said. “What’s the dif?”
“The dif’ is I’d look like a male stripper!”
And just that quick this scenario filmed in my mind.
“Excuse me, Leonard, but unless my mind is playing a trick or this Pink Squirrel is getting to me, isn’t that bartender doing something rather rude back there? Take a look.”
“Why, Martha, I believe you’re right. It’s not the Pink Squirrel. He seems to be doing a go-go dance or something. Which is rude and lewd!”
“Well if he thinks I’m jamming money down his apron he’s crazy! Get the check!!!”
Then just as fast as that ludicrous scene had a moment of time in my mind, this real life situation popped into frame. One that actually happened…
Quite a few years ago, or as some like to say, “in my salad days”, while driving my car down Santa Monica Boulevard in Hollywood near where I lived, my eye was drawn to a sign that hung in a saloon window. The hand written sign said, “Girls! Girls! Girls! A-Go-Go!” And even though it was only three in the afternoon (an unsavory hour for such deviance), I nonetheless pulled to the curb as if drawn by a magnet. Perhaps it was just that unsavoriness that amped the temptation.
I parked my Oldsmobile convertible, slowly entered the bar, and once my eyes had managed to adjust to the dark after God’s golden sunlight, I found there were only two other people in the bar. That’s it. There weren’t these “Girls! Girls! Girls!” as promised, just me and these two other people both of whom worked there. One was a woman who was tending bar in nothing but a bikini and heels, the other apparently her boss who looked like a carny guy. A juke box pumped The Bee Gees from Saturday Night Fever.
I took a seat at the bar, ordered a bottle of Budweiser, and just as the bottleneck touched my lips (you don’t use a glass in such places), the bartender said rather wantonly, “Wanna’ dance?”
“Do I want to dance?” I choked, the Budweiser hitting my Sunday pipe. “Thank you, miss, but no I don’t dance.”
“I didn’t ask if you wanted to dance,” she said with a sympathetic smile, “I asked if you want a dance whereby I dance for you.”
“Ah, no, that’s okay,” I said, probably making her wonder what the hell I was doing there. Yet in spite of whatever had lured me in, the last thing I had in mind was a personal Go-Go dance. Too much pressure. I mean what do you do in these one-on-one’s, grin and nod, sip your beer, then applaud whenever she dips to a lewd plie’? I’d feel too damn self-conscious to pose in that tableaux.
“You sure?” she purred, her finger circling in her mouth.
But before I could answer the Carny guy barked, “G’wan, doll, give ’em a show, I’ll cover for ya’.” (As if any covering was needed, for crying out loud.)
And with that the woman put one foot on the sink, the other foot up on the bar, and just like that she was standing above me like Super Woman. And I mean right above me… so much so that in order to look I would’ve had to lean so far back I’d fall off my stool. But as fate would have it I didn’t have to look because fifteen seconds into her dance, just as she started those thrusting motions my therapist seems to swear by, her right foot slipped on the bar and down she went. On her back with a THUD!
“That’s it, show’s over!” Carny yelled, as if I’d requested this performance.
“M-a-a-a-h-therrrr-fuck!” the woman yelled, but less I think from the pain of the fall, though I’m sure that played a hand in it, and more because her wig had left her head. Unbelievably. And I swear to God it landed right in the sink! I also swore to myself at the time as I backed away from the bar in stunned horror, that Fellini was up in the rafters directing this movie. He just had to be. Surreality like this just doesn’t come along.
Then watching this woman wringing out her wig which was soaked to the roots with suds, her real coif nothing but bobby pins holding down hair knots, I figured it was time to get my ass back into sunlight. To reality! As this wasn’t the “Girls! Girls! Girls!” I had had in mind. So I threw some money on the bar, a little extra for extracurricular, but given how hard she’d slammed on the bar not nearly enough I’m sure for her physical therapist. And out I walked.
Off to my car to think about what had just happened!
See you next week-end, dear reader, but if you happen to come to the bar before then and see me moving my hips like an over-the-hill Chippendale’s dancer, know that it’s doctor’s orders and not for quarters, okay? Though a five dollar bill down the apron I wouldn’t refuse!