Peace, Love, and I'll have another beer, dear....

She Barbie-doll walks across the floor, Cinderella shoes clacking on the floor, Rhinestone Cowboys on her fingers, and smiles with painted lips and glow in the dark teeth. He's right behind her, fingertips on the small of her back, swishing this way, and her way. They run a tab and dance the night away...An Arthur Murray re-run. They're in love...

Just ask them, they'll tell you....

He straddles the barstool and scuffs his pointed shoes on the floors while she giggles and swirls and twirls around him....eyes flitting in disco circles to see if anyone is watching. The show gets better with an audience. They're in love...

Just ask them, they'll show you....

She caresses her glass, swishes the cheap shot in lazy waves, and then eyes it like an Owl on a telephone pole. One determined Gulp and she's got hair on her chest. Her left hand travels and she accidently touches her neighbor.

She's looking for Love....

He nudges her, and she falls....head over heels...for him...and onto the floor...

I swing my legs Pippi Longstocking style, balancing, I hope...
Just high enough and brave enough not to ever go there.

I'll have another beer, dear...


And if it's all the same to you,
I'll keep believing in peace and Love...

Hello Tomorrow

My legs were crossed, all lady like, and my right sneakered foot was just~a~swingin' in tandem with hers, crossed at the knee. We were keeping mad time together. Pacing in place. The lobby was full... Broken lives hooked to IV poles, held up by other's... faces blank, tired, scared, old~schooled. Hugs and how~to~do's were quietly passed in "shhhhhhhh.....we're in church now" fashion. I flipped through the pages of the Reader's Digest so fast and hard, it sounded like I was shufflin' poker cards, and I concentrated on making that same sound over and over again.
.
And then they called her name. For a moment I wasn't sure I could walk without having my legs crossed, right one swinging. What other nervous tic could I develop that would be socially acceptable? And hide my fear..... What other nervous tic could I invent that could pass off for strength? How was I going to catch her when she collapsed? And who would catch me?
.
He smiled. That handsome Doctor smile. Babyesque brown eyes, old already. Lips curled just enough to make you wonder who his Dentist was, and why on earth he chose to practice this type of medicine. Why on earth he didn't want to be a Soap Opera Star....
.
She had been summoned here. To this room at this time with these people. For the news. We waited. He talked. Drew pictures. Circled foreign words on endless reports. Nodded his head up and down as if we understood. And then we did. Sweet Jesus! Remission! Gone! Poof! Not there! Unremarkable scans. Nothing here, there, over there, in that.....crawling, corrupting, eroding. Nothing!


.
We stood in the parking lot, in the rain, and cried. Laughed. Hallelujahed the sky! Tried to dial numbers. Skinny's. Papa's. The kids. The boys. And then we decided to party.....
.
.\And we know how to party.....
.
Thursday night, Friday night....into the wee, wee hours. At 4'oclock this morning, I fell into bed. Kimbies curled up like a rolly poly on my little living room couch. Her dancin' boots in a heap, her little blue bandana

still on her noggin'.....
.
And I slept like I've never ever slept before....
.
In peace.
.
With Stevie Ray Vaughan there in the shadows, whispering lullabyes for the soul......
.
And Tomorrow, just outside the window....
Smiling...

Rest in Peace.....

In the beginning, we were newbies. I remember where we sat and what I wore. The songs the band played. The wig Ms. Betsy had on. I smiled. Tapped my tennis shoed foot on the floor and finally, solo-d it on the dance floor. Kevin joined me. He couldn't hear the music and he couldn't introduce himself. We had to scooch really close to the drums before he smiled. He had to write his name on a napkin before I smiled. He couldn't hear. He couldn't speak. But, by God, he could feel it....

52 Fridays times two plus some have passed. I've barreled through the doors in cowboy boots, combat boots, barefooted. I've hugged people, kissed people, and just once.....slapped a wayward soul. I've slow danced, low danced, fast danced, no~touch danced.....held my lighter to the sky, my bottle to the heavens, and held my breath. I've fallen in love, met angels and demons, and family here. I've come through the painted door high on martini moons, wild from full moons, and tiptoed through no moons. I've been free here.

On Friday I knew.....

Ran my fingers down the painted front door and scrunched my nose up to the make believe speak easy.....

And made my entrance fit for an exit.....

Rumors.....

You never know what to believe.....

Butterflies and Hurricanes......

I twisted and twirled the same strand of blonde hair over and over again, weaving a pretend dreadlok back and forth between my fingers. My eyes were sun heavy, and each time I blinked, I did it slowly and savored the moment, my lashes like lazy palmetto fronds fanning me into summer sleep. I was bored with the conversation.

.

She babbled endlessly. A thousand words strung together like a macaroni necklace.... And she fidgeted. To the right, the left, under the table, across the table....A chihuahua frantic for table scraps....

.

She was making her move. Chasing Prince Charming. I blew smoke rings and watched them hover, transluscent doughnuts disappearing when they framed her face. She didn't notice. She didn't see his blue eyes flit from the right to the left and then settle on the pile of paperplates and pastic silverware stacked in front of him. She didn't see the sun falling into the river or the shadows from the giant Cypress trees turning into Gargoyles on the water. She was too busy bustin' her moves.....

.

The band came on and for just a moment, I thought she was going to leap onto the tabletop, Tom Cruise in high heels..... but she just yanked him, snatched him off his feet and swirled him out onto the floor. I took one last swig of cold beer and watched. Skinny arms flailing, legs up and down, spinning, and still.....she babbled on and on and on......"Me" language, her native tongue...

.

Silly girl.......

You lost him at hello....

The Butterfly Bar....

I'm the welcome wagon. The Go~Go girl. The cheerleader. I laugh, sway, twirl, spin...and never miss a beat. A face. A voice. Oh, I might trip sometimes, go splat on the floor, but I never miss a beat.....

And so I noticed them right away. Seven and a half weeks ago. Elbows on the bar. Boy's night out. And I watched them. They leaned in and tipped Roxanne. She smiled. And that's a good sign. From my side of the bar I knew they weren't being obnoctious, weren't spilling silly pick~me~up lines at the beautiful soul filling shot glasses and popping corks. Miss Macey settled down next to them, stirred her steaming coffee cup, luring the good stuff up from the bottom. She gave them her "One eyebrow up, one down" cursory "I'm watchin' everything you do, boys" glance. And she watched them well. Listened. Smiled. Smiled with them. And then I knew it was O.K. to make my move.

O.K. to walk over and meet my two new best friends.

They laughed at my peddler's bag of bottle caps and bought the next round. We've been no~touch dancing ever since. We've been to the ocean and the river and barbequed at 2:00 in the morning. We spent Saturday night at Kimbies, clanging cymbals, canastas and spoons. We've serenaded the sky, raspy voices and guitar strings wooing the stars....We've traded secrets, and dime store dreams, and happy ever afters. We've played follow the leader, catch me if you can, and "let's dance like Joe Cocker".....

And now we're an army. Of angels.

"Let's hear it for the boys......."

And the butterfly effect......

No touching

I wasn't going to go. Friday's are for dancing and Saturdays are for wild oats. But, they called. I made every excuse, but a fitting one, and then jumped in the shower and threw on a pair of jeans. If you skip Friday, they come lookin' for you on Saturday....


The Saturday faces are different. Piranhas and barracudas. Nothing like the manatees, tattooed and grey, comfortable in the warm blue waters of Friday nights...I wasn't at home, but I wasn't far from it....


In the murky, jerky waters.... I tipped my Michelob to the mirror and the faces lined up watching me watching them..... the elbows on the counter, stray dollar bills in "I fold" concession, laugh lines and frown lines sagging like a Salvadore Dali painting. And I ached for them. These strangers on the other side of the bar.


The band played everything except Rolling Stones and I sat out the set. Fidgeted. Smoked. Told stories.Twirled my love beads. Friday's are for hippies. This wasn't feelin' like a Friday.

"Do you wanna dance?" he said, inching closer, breathing canned beer on me, three lines into the slow song. "No touching" I whispered and he vanished, poof! and he was gone....until the next one. "No touching" I whispered and he laughed, took a hand from the crowd and disappeared.

"Now?" my friend asked, nodding to the dance floor, questoning, comfortable, but not sure, and I threw my head back and said "yes, but no touching".....

"I don't know how" faded into the lyrics, the music, the rhythm, the rhyme, the move me, the this way, the that way, the "I've never done this before"....and I "mmmmmmmm,hhhmmmmmed" him as we danced eyes closed, around the couples, between them, into the music.....close, but never touching. Driftwood in the waves

"She won't let you touch her?" beer~breath bellowed over the band, into our peace. I never opened my eyes. Moving. Swirling. Psychelic circles, paisley foot steps. "No, she wont let me" Lucas whispered, barely aware he was talking. "Then take her back where she came from!", BB belched from his four square podium, arms draped around his mortified prize, feet shuffling, rough red cheeks touching hers.....chest puffed out like a plaster rooster on a kitchen wall....

We gave him two fingers and kept dancing.....


Into 1976 at The Saloon. Into Christian's living room, fluorescent light's glowing, mermaid goldish growing in a bathub. Into yesterday. Tomorrow. Down the dirt road to Peace Creek. Through a midnight sand dune. Over a rickity tickity wooden bridge. We just kept dancing, no touching....just feeling. The music.

The guy with the canned breath and canned lines stopped, mid mindless step, and watched.

And then he surrendered.


"Peace......"
was the last thing I heard him mutter as he left the floor.....

Soul Food.....

Friday couldn't have come quick enough, the clocks, the calendar, working in tandem, holding the promised day hostage at the end of their broken pendulum. "Not yet" the nights whispered to me. "Not today" the morning crooned.....And then she was here. Friday's are for dancin'......

And I couldn't soak it up fast enough, breathe it in deep enough, the music, the salty smell of strangers and friends elbow to elbow....the dark courtliness of the walls, smoke stained and autographed, another day older. My barstool casually parked on her tip toes, waiting....a yellow yard dog behind the picket fence.....

Finally, the clock slowing, counted out in rhythmatic noise, in the wave of arms, legs, hips.....the sandy sound of softshoes on the dancefloor, the clinkity tink of bottles on the bartop, silverware clanking in a tincan diner....

He drums.
Bangs the heart.
Slams
the song into
sign language,
lost language,
close~your~eyes language.

He growls.
Spits the words out,
drags them through the house,
steak bones for a stud,
a rabid rat,
a hungry cat....
He drums.....
And in the shadows,
the secrets they'll never tell,
he's
the
fix....
the accidental addiction...
the story
with the
hand~me~down ending....

He drums....
And I'm listening....

Pleased to meet you....

Last Sunday I was estatically catatonic. Worn slap silly out from friday night dancin' and camping out with the little ones, playing hippie hoo-hah, and chasing stars. It was wonderful. I was punch drunk, giddy from exhaustion. I fell into bed on Sunday, racing the Sun to be the first to fall, and slept a glorious full 8 hours.

In those eight hours my life changed. I woke up rested, rejuvenated, full of love, and charged out the Monday Morning door. Cranked the car, blasted the music and joined the ratrace. And then I saw it. The orange glowing lights changing. Flickering. The clock in my car suddenly working again. It's been stuck on Midnight, the moment between yesterday and tomorrow since June. And so have I.

Other chics have biological clocks. I have a car clock. And Monday the alarm went off.

Ta! Dah! Sometimes, it's all in the timing...

Cinderella, and then some....

"You gonna sit with me for New Year's?"
"Course I am"
"Dressing up again?"
"Yeah"
"Did you already get your dress?"
"Yup"



"Is it long?"
"Mmmmm....hmmmmmm"
"Pretty, huh?"
"Mmmmmm...hmmmmm"



"You wearing those boots?"
"Yup"
"With your dress?"
"Yup"
"Are you kidding?"
"Nope"



"Okay"
"Okay"



"Can I have the first dance?"
"Yup"

There's got to be a morning after....

When the new neighbors saw the officer at the door, they politely turned their backs. "Police. Open up. Search Warrant" he cop-pounded on the door. "It's open" I bellowed back, "Come on in, you've been here before, you know where everything is! " When the disco light came on, they gave up and went inside, pulled their shades. Missing the rest of the Saturday night parade, they spent the evening with only their imaginations to fill in the blanks....and the grapevine to tell the story......"Ahhhh, the police were across the street again, you'll never believe what she did this time!"........

We marathoned the night. Toasting, boasting, twirling, dipping, moonwalking, laughing, swirling, clinking, drinking, and having a ball. Sometimes, you have "to fight for your right to partaaaaaaay!"

I'm gonna be a Macho Man.....

With one shoe on and one shoe off! Let the party begin! We're six and one and ready to rumble! Chey's got her chaps, and the newlyweds next door are collecting feathers and leathers, Theo is donning the blues.....

And out of the perfectly clear oceanside past, Persichetti shows up on my porch this afternoon, and our plea, for a few good men has been answered! Ta!Dah!

Trick or Treating is gonna be a blast.....
concrete boot and all......

And yeah, Cinderella did wear construction boots, just not in the made for TV version......

If "what's her name" can do it, so can I......

I've been in hand-me-down cut-offs, bell bottomed jeans, and stove pipe scrubs for 7 weeks now . All my left shoes are piled in a heap on the bedroom floor, a thousand steps older than the right ones. I'm sure I'm gonna walk with a permanent gimp to the left, like a mama that's toted too many chubby babies on her jutting hip.

So I did what any peace~lovin' hippie would do...drug out my dancin' shoes (well, one!) and a little black dress (And a little black magic) from the back of the closet.....And went dancing!

Yup, you can swivel in a cast. Swirl, twirl, go up and down, hoop, holler, spin, and do it again.

Clink! These boots were made for dancin'.....

Spinning....

"Stop talking and dance with me".....I fought it, hands perched on my hips....swaying to the music, because I just can't help it, but I wasnt' going to do it. I bit my bottom lip. We had done this a thousand times before....Bob Segar, Eric Clapton, unknown cover bands, Rolling Stones, The Eagles....

Hands perched on my hips..."I'm not doing it".......

But we went anyway, onto the dance floor, my arms crossed, business style, slow dancing with the crowd. Nothing special. Nothing fancy; might as well be another fly on the wall, because I couldn't do it our way, deep and low, throaty and all Aretha Frankliny, like we used to, because we aren't.....or because we just can't, even if we are.... things have changed.

And he so desperately wanted the last dance to be the perfect dance and it sucked and I told him so.....And he remembered our first dance and our first kiss and our first hello and he told me so...And I denied them all.

Because we never had a first date, a first kiss, a first dance...we had been there all along, the coming together all to familiar, homecoming for the soul... And how could we have a last dance, a public display of "The End" when we had no beginning that we could place a name to.....

And he agreed.

And we walked barefoot into the ocean.....out the double doors....into the tomorrows we keep trying on for size.

On Friday night, I pushed the double doors open, and stepped onto the dirty neon dancefloor....Christmas lights dangling from the ceiling beams, flickering on and off without rhythm. Their twisty green wires crooked like chicken bones strung together on a string. I took a deep breath. A long blink. My week-end smile started squiggling, sneaking onto my face. Arms reaching. Octopus arms. My friends... pulling me in. I heard the music in my chest, vibrating, waiting....

And when the gray haired handsome stranger with the Clint Eastwood voice, leaned in and asked me to dance....I muttered "Rolling Stones".....and he nodded. I danced up and down and in circles, in my own little rock and roll world, and smiled occassionally at his feet. "Do you swing?" he asked on the way off the floor, and I threw my head up and laughed at the green chicken bones dangling, sparkling, flashing over head "No!" I'm laughing, "Are you kidding me?" "The Rolling Stones Girl?" And he laughed..... and said....

"Come along for the ride...."

"I can't follow....
petulance creeping into my smile...

"Come along for the ride...."

And I did. Twirling, flying, swirling, dipping, diving, sliding, laughing, seat-belted in by his arms....

Sometimes.
at the fair,
you have to dance with strangers..

At the barre......

I wanted to be a ballerina. I really did. "Seeesopewfect!" Mrs. DiMarco swooned, cigarette breath on red lips, into my face. My face started to blotch, to swell. I knew I was going to be tortured, jabbed with those long pointy fingernails, suffocated slowly. It was so hot in here. And my skint knee was bleeding through my pink tights, an abstract orange blossum spreading there. Why did I use all the bandaids to make book-binding for my soon to be best seller: "The Mystery of The Moving Pictures".......

I was five.

I wasn't the oldest and I wasn't the youngest. I was next to the thinnest. "It's never too late to start, dahling, you have the body of the swan at night......" she purred as she wrapped the sepia colored measuring tape around my neck, my chest, my 18 year old waist, my thighs, my shins, my ankles. Her teeth showed a little as I climbed up on the scales. Her teeth showed a lot three months later. And she hissed. And pounded that damn stick on the floor "One and two and one and two and one and two and three"......"Tuck your buttocks in, and suck your stomach in and point those damn toes!" I couldn't even pat my head and rub my tummy at the same time........

I was not quite 19.

There is safety in numbers. Three tuition bills. Three checks on the first of the month. Three late bloomers at the barre. They took our money. Kimbies was just there for the sport. She couldn't be bothered to be fitted for shoes, and wore pink Isotoner slippers instead. They let her. I hung from the barre. Stretched. Flew through the air. After class, we would stop in at the Oyster Bar next door, for raw ones on the half shells and a few cold brews, all balletesque in our leotards and cut-offs. It was wonderful. And then we got the bright idea, to meet at the Oyster Bar first. Before class. To loosen up. That was wonderful ,too. In our world.

We got kicked out.

I was 26.

He held me at the waist for just a moment. And twirled me around and around and around. A pretty plastic toy on the top of a blue velvet jewelry box. The band was banging out a remix of "Oh Suzie Q, I like the way you walk, I like the way you talk, I like the things you do"..... His eyes traveled back in time, to that year, to another girl, to another world. And I dreamed of being free.

It was just another Friday night at the bar. And he felt like he was 21 again.....

And I wanted to be a ballerina......

No shirt. No shoes. No service needed.

We stopped for Hollywood sunglasses , popped on the highway and flew. The miles unraveled behind us blindly, ribbon dancing to the past.

We left it all. The cats, the dog (Please, Lord, let the neighbors feed the dog!), the bills, the wayward child with a payday wad in his pocket, the refinanced -high financed-home-sweet-home, the dirty dishes, dirty laundry, and dirty little secrets. Left ‘em all.

When the tires crunched on the coquina driveway, salty dust dancing in a lazy tornado around the car, we smiled. Big summery run-away smiles. We listened to the last verse of the song and waited for the sand to settle, a flannel blanket on the car. “This is good. This is so good”. Our doors opened and slammed in tandem.

We parked our little fannies three feet from the unlocked motel room door. The splintery Adirondack chairs were just our size. Like Goldilocks and the three bears, we tried them all on until we found the ones that “fit just right”. Comfy, cozy. The ocean roared and hiccupped salty spittle into the air…GOD, I’M IN LOVE…..

“Whatchoo girls doin’?” the big fellow, crossing the grass and ambling our way, drawled with a slow grin on his face. “Bonding” she whispered over the pink Marguerita. “Well, that’s nice. Real nice” “Whatchoo girls drinkin’? he said with his head tilted and his smile sliding sideways into his double chin. “Sunshine” we chimed. We’re drinking in the sunshine. He laughed with his eyes to the sky and turned on his feet like Fred Astaire…..sauntered back to the Tiki Bar.

“Bartender! We need some room service here! Gotta delivery to make!” “See that blonde hippie chic over there……” And so began the week-end.

Bonding with our new best friends.

The three suburban fifty-something ladies, on a girl’s night out. They giggled and drank foo-foo drinks with little pink umbrellas, stewed meatballs in a crock-pot plugged in through the window, and played hopelessly romantic 70’s songs from a giant boom box. At midnight they were dancing on the sidewalk, in their two-piece (not bikini, thank God, not bikini) swimsuits and cover-ups.

The little league Dads and their tribe of youngin’s. On a Field-Trip of dreams. The kids ran in an endless “You’re gonna crack your head open and knock your teeth out” circle…. around the picnic tables, down the sidewalks, through the bar, into the pool, onto the deck, in your room, my room, their room…laughter trailing behind them like bubbles from a magic wand.

The big fellow and his brother. The chef with his guitar. The absolutely adorable bartender with no hair and tattoos. The brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and the biggest baby I ever saw from Indiana.

The cops. Sauntering by at 2:30 in the morning. “You folks need to go to bed now”….respectfully shining their flashlights at our barefeet and not blinding us with their intrusion. “You got all day tomorrow, Coach".....

The housekeepers, smiling toothlessly and knocking in early morning whisper tones. “Well, if you don’t want no towels or nothing’, do you need ice?” “We gotta get it before the bar opens up again”

We left a good tip.

The tires spun on the too hot, too dry gravel . I adjusted the rear view mirror and gunned into traffic. There was no looking back. Only a lazy tornado spinning in the distance.

Shake it like a hula hoop! or in other words, Will work for Beer Part II

We came late and they charged us a cover. The corner bar. We had been there a zillion times before and never been charged a cover. They were having a party. A celebration. They had a catered spread (we just left the little restaurant down the street, feasting on cheap appetizers) and they had goodie bags and were touting games and prizes. “Are you kidding me?” I just wanna rock and roll.

We sat through the first set, lullabyes , and I started to get antsy. My Mother played this music to me in the womb, and while it’s comforting, I am being a rebel tonight and just paid a $10.00 cover to park it in a bar filled with couples on date night. I am not on a date. I start fidgeting. The band takes a break and I grab the drummer and whisper two words ….mouthing them close enough for him to feel my lips on his cheek, and hopefully understand I am begging…. Rolling Stones!

I waited. They belted out The Platter’s “Only You” and couples swooned and crooned on the dance floor. Chey and I took our miniature Heath bars (from the goodie bags) and played craps against the wall….We cheered and gambled and ordered another round…..on the gentleman next to us....

Dute dute da....I heard the first three notes and went flying. Chey behind me. We jumped , and stomped, and flung our hair like Jumping Jack Flash on Fire. It felt good. “I can’t get no SAT-IS-FAC-TION!” A few couples dribbled onto the dance floor, into our space, but we didn’t leave them elbow room. They already had their turn. This was a revolution. “We’re mad as hell, and not gonna take it anymore”…..

The music ended and a parade of regulars waded past our barstools. “Did you break up with your boyfriend?” Arrrrrgggghhhhh! "You girls need a beer?" "Yes, thank you"

At 11:00 they had a twist contest. “Are you kidding me?”

At midnight, a hoola hoop contest. The prize: A $25.00 bartab.

I grabbed Chey by the arm and twisted her just-as-thin-as-mine skin. “Pretend we’re at Jai-Lai….we have to minimize our losses” They handed us florescent hoops, and I traveled back in time. Grin and bear it , baby girl. Shake it like a hoola-hoop.

Between the break-up beers and the hula-hoop, we came out ahead...

Daytripping.....

The sun started a riot. Smiling from the sky. Rising on her own. Flipping lazy clouds, like pancakes, out of her view. She whispered on our cheeks, and cackled kind of haughty as she kissed us on our knees...."Follow me, for free".....

We put the top down . Buckled up and took off.....

Hugging the highway, feeling her heat.

Past the row after row of make-believe castles, shuttered up for the winter, with their chain-locked gated lives.....past the private little yachts, Carnival Cruise size, with their tacky little names....."Octopussy" and "The Mare-in-her", past the tennis courts, the Valet parking attendents in bermudas and jackets....

We revved the engine at red lights and bolted on green.....

...Shot the peace sign at housekeepers dusting the cans, tourists in rick-o-shays rattling the streets, and "married-for-money's" toting their tribes....

We snaked between the palm trees and cocacabanas, banged U-turns in Membership Only Concrete worlds, and played chicken with the draw bridges and uniformed men....

We followed the sun ,with her bright blue petticoat, 100 miles south.....

Until they would let us in.......

Where the beer was ice cold, and the barstools were crooked. Where the ladies room door was propped closed with your foot. Where the "We sale sea shells" played music we could dance to. Where the people were comfortable wearing their skin.

"Theres no place like home......."

Will work for beer....

18 years have passed since I walked out the front door of my first little house, drove in reverse down the dead end street....

And started over again....

No map, no plan, no stick, no bandana....just an unairconditioned car piled with youngin's
and
the belief that I could do this.....

And we did.

Some of the best times of my life, hunkered down in our "Are we homeless, yet?" days.... Skinny and I at the kitchen table brewing up "there must be a way" dreams....

Moon Stars and Paper started a chain of love, dig up a picture from 20 years ago, and feel the love. I spent five minutes plundering through the suitcases of memories, but before I made it back that far, my fingers fell on this one, and I knew. It's exact copy has been plastered on my refrigerator door for 17 years.

Skinny on the right...
It's a hot, hot Sunday morning and we're packing up. When we get there, we'll plop down in the the old wooden chairs, arranged in a perfect circle, stretch our legs out in front of us and stack our barefeet in the middle of the cement meeting place, toe to toe. The flakey ole paint, pink, aqua, yellow and green will stick to our bikinied rumps and our Ban de Solie'd thighs and we'll smile at the sky and the passers-by, the regulars, the waitress, and Tony and Joe. Ice cold beers arrive and disappear. Evaporate by the heat and our unquenchable thirst. We'll laugh and tell stories, make friends, dare each other silly , maybe even cause a ruckuss.... We'll order a giant hamburger, all the way, with greasy fries, and a dill pickle, that will sweat in the sun. We'll ask for a knife and divide it into thirds....

This sign was good for two and half Sundays at the beach. "Do Not Jump The Fence" sat propped up in the garage, we'd pull it out, toss it in the trunk and gift it to Joe when we ran out of credit.....

When Harry met “I can’t remember her name”….

There’s a little club in our neighborhood kind of like Cheers, only better….because it’s real. Passers-by would never think to stop there. It’s not aesthetically appealing from the curb. You have to cross the dirty gravel parking lot, trudge up the make-shift-dipping-deck-entry -“sit here and sober up”-patio and actually open the door to appreciate it’s appeal. You have to see the faces. Learn the names. Join the crowd.

And then it’s a blast.

In my world, nobody’s a stranger. Linda says men only murder on Mondays, so if a new face bops up to the bar on a Friday night, it’s safe to be the welcome wagon. It’s not my official job, but I take it seriously. I’ve met a lot of friends that way. And only a few creeps. Either way, most of them come back again.

I didn’t see him come through the door, but Chey did. He was on a mission. Probably his first time….meeting someone at a pre-determined “spot” at the bar, landing smack next to us. He zoomed up, leaned through the crowd , elbows on the bar and waited…..Jimbo, our favorite bartender-bouncer-keeper of peace, didn’t see him. He didn’t flash that “I’ll be right with you grin” and he didn’t, I noticed after a few minutes, even acknowledge him. Poor guy. He’s just thirsty. I nudged Chey. She nodded. I leaned over her, tapped the new kid on the block on the shoulder and asked if he was having trouble getting a beer. “I aaaammmmmm…” he drawled back at me. Grin. Cutest damn little accent I’ve ever heard. Chey and I chuck two coasters at Jimbo, he spins and thirty two seconds later our new friend has an iced cold Bud in his hand and is in leaning in for introductions. It’s loud here. A lotta rock and roll going on, but we talk over it. His name is Brian and he is new here. New in town. New to the club. New to our world. We scoop him up, with his baby blues ( I hear ya knockin’ Nadine!) and introduce him to every one that meanders by, drag him (well we really didn’t have to drag him) onto the dance floor and spend the evening telling stories and laughing. And dancing. And telling stories. And laughing.

We deja-vued it the next week-end. Same time. Same place. Different costumes. We had a ball. We topped it off with 2:00 a.m. coffee and get-to-know-you-late-night stories. We laughed.

And blah,blah,blah,blah,blah…..

We’re joy riding. Flying down a two lane highway, the top off, my arms in the air. In my world, I’m at the Fair. We’re laughing.

German potato salad. The waiter is polite. I crunch my nose. Waiting for the smell of vinegar to twist my face , the one he sees, into the KOOL-AID pitcher expression. Fake and smiling-grimacing. My Mama used to feed us this out of cans … on nights we ate salmon patties with tiny little bones floating in the greasy little bouffant blobs. I ate it all. I devoured it. And laughed.

On Tuesday he called to make plans for the week-end. And hemmed and hawed. And drug his accent out even more. He started back pedaling. To the night we met. And the moment we said hello. And all the people in the club. And how Howie called me Blondie, and Evey calls me Missy and Chey calls me Baby Girl and Sweetie Pie…..

I’m thinking he wants to call me names…

He sort of stutters.

I just want to know where we’re going on Friday night…..

And then he blurts it out. This man that I’ve danced with. Talked on the phone with. Swallowed German potato salad with…. This man I want to see on yet another Friday night.

“I don’t waaaaaannnnnnt you to be mad at me,
Buuuuuuuutt,
I don’t Knoooooowwww yer name…..”

FLASHDANCE (Or in other words, We're here to have a good time. Don't Blow It)

Sometimes you just have to accessorize to get the total look!

Big fat CD buttons pinned to our 501 levis.

My idea of charmed.