My guy pushes the door open and holds it for me like the gentleman he is. I “accidentally” bump his leg on my way in; he acts like he doesn’t notice. It is just a small nudge, a reminder that I am here with him. It’s our night out, or as I like to call it, Date Night. What can I say? I love being close to him all the time.
We arrive early. The reflection in the mirror behind the bar catches my attention. I stare unselfconsciously at the image of the bitch staring back. The bitch is me. I’m okay with that. I sparkle in my pink leather necklace studded with bedazzlements. It was a gift from my man, and it has become my signature statement.
The air in the room is heavy with grease and a faint scent of Clorox as steam escapes from the dishwasher. We are a tight knit family here. To show my appreciation for the camaraderie we share I do my part to help out. I make a sweep of the room picking up whatever has been dropped. My steps click on the wood floor as I make my way to the bar. Half the red vinyl-covered stools are occupied, but I don’t worry for a minute. My stool is empty and waiting for me.
I hop up, prop my elbows on the pitted yellow Formica, and turn my doe-eyed gaze on the bartender, a move that works best early in the evening before poker starts. When it gets busy later my cute factor is more easily ignored. The bartender runs the show recording players, taking buy-ins, setting up first drinks, greeting non-players to make them feel welcome in the frenzy for attention. Jason must be on vacation again because Jeremy is pulling double duty as game manager and busting it behind the bar, and that means that while he’s dealing Avery will be performing bar-back duties and running orders. I rein in my charm and redirect my attention as Avery reaches over with the damp cloth swiping away the spilled puddle of PBR before I get into it.
“Hey, girl. How ya doin’ sweetheart?”
Her voice is tired, distracted, and her face doesn’t match her words of greeting. The incongruity throws me off a little. Her drawn-on eyebrows are furrowed, making the silver piercing stick out a little. I know her frown isn’t directed at me, but more likely the result of a confrontation with her roommate earlier in the day. I pick up the uncharacteristic vibe of the young woman and that her focus is elsewhere so I break my gaze respecting her obvious dis-ease in the moment. My stool swivels as I push around to survey the room.
The front door skritches open and a blast of fresh air hits me, and with it Holly and Ryan come in. I hop off my stool and head over to greet my friend. I feel eyes watching my back side with every step as I make my way across the room. I sparkle and they just can’t help checking me out. I put a little more wiggle in my waggle just for fun; they expect it, and I can’t let my fans down. I come up next to Holly; she smells of something new…coconut or Jojoba shampoo maybe? She and I were friends the minute we met; we just speak the same language. Others only see our differences, but I instinctively recognized a kindred spirit. She’s a little shy, still getting to know the regulars. I make sure she knows who is safe to hang out with, and more importantly, who is not. Since our idea of having a good time does not involve straights or flushes, royal or otherwise, we make our own entertainment, working the room as a team, greeting everyone, hoping to make a score.
Three pool players at the table in the back argue loudly over something, punctuating the thick air with sharp jabs. A couple of old fogies at a nearby high top continue to work through the half empty basket of pull tabs tossing the discards in the growing pile between them, giving no indication that they are aware of the drama unfolding in front of them. House flies (aka, regulars) sit perched on the red stools closest to the front entrance guaranteeing them first dibs on possible single-minglers dropping in, and with any luck, dropping drinks in front of them. Not our style. Holly and I don’t wait for the action, we create our own mingle tingle.
Things really start to pop about 6:55. The back door to the smoking patio opens and in a cloud of smoke three rough ‘n’ tumbles slouch in, eyes working hard to focus, the smell of pot and cigarettes hovering around them like Pig Pen in the fabulous Peanuts comic strip. They ignore us like we aren’t even there. That’s a good thing. We don’t want to attract the wrong kind of attention. My guy and Ryan aren’t the jealous types so we can flirt and get away with it, but no one makes a serious move on us.
The next ones through the door are regulars, here for the poker. Safe to approach, not out of bounds; they will be respectful.
A belch rumbles loudly from one of the regulars, his watery eyes at half-mast, he is too far gone to be interested in a couple of honeys like me and Holly and that works for us. Jeremy looks over and asks the belcher if he wants another round to which the man responds, “Well, why wouldn’t I?” Even I, not one to bet, would have put money on his predictable answer.
Holly and I dodge the stampede as poker players line up to pull a card telling them where they will be sitting when Jeremy starts the timer and play begins. We get busy heading to our target – the ladies in waiting on the far wall. Looks promising, Donna is here tonight. She will eventually be playing at one of the tables but for now we jockey for position, winding our way through the others to get a seat next to her. She always has something juicy to share. We are at attention, don’t wanna miss a bit. Then candy man, a semi-regular, walks by with a gaggle of followers reaching into the bag of candy he holds open. I have to look away. I’m on a diet right now and this stuff is filled with sugar. I wouldn’t say I’m fat, but others have hinted, and to be honest, it is harder to hoist myself up on my bar stool of late. Holly and I discussed this last week, as if she had any insight. She’s rail thin. I don’t know how that girl keeps her lithe figure. Let’s just say I am more solidly built. My guy hasn’t said anything, but my new diet was his idea, not mine. Since he does all the cooking in our house, my opinion remains a moot point.
Candy man pulls something out of the bag and hands it to my guy. I recognize the wrapper, and I’m pretty sure he will share this treat with me on our way home in the truck, as it’s not chocolate; I’m allergic to chocolate. Oh! Nope, no sharing tonight. He’s chewing and smiling…oh well. Holly misses the chance to grab something, but she just isn’t interested…maybe that explains why I can see her ribs. She’s a drinker that one and has wandered off in search of liquid refreshment.
Play begins when Jeremy calls out, “Put’em in the air, we’re live at Moezy’s!” Holly, not yet as social as I am, finds Ryan and settles just behind him. She worries he might leave without her. I told her, “Girl, he ain’t that kind. And you know you’re a keeper; just look at your long svelte legs and those beautiful eyes.” But she still worries. I bet all that worry and lack of interest in treats contribute to her skinny condition. I join the girls at the bar hoping Rocky hasn’t gobbled up all the meat sticks. He can be that way, greedy bastard.
The night continues with players shuffling from one table to the next, Avery runs drinks and snacks to the tables. There is a lot of chatter, friendly for the most part. Then the buzzer sounds signifying the break. Most of the players are smokers and need their fix. Holly and I are allowed to go out to the smoking patio with the poker folks. We don’t smoke, it’s something we just can’t get our heads around, but we don’t wanna miss anything.
Back inside, I perch on my stool. The stories continue, probably never stopped while we were outside, but words are coming out in-slow-mo-shun now, a bit slurred, and no one but me notices that some are repeats. If their words are slurred, their memory is blurred. I don’t drink when I go out… it interferes with my ability to suss out the good stuff, besides they don’t stock my favorite. Holly isn’t picky. She drinks anything Jeremy puts down in front of her.
Sometime during the final hour, the guy in the funny black hat comes in with bunches of flowers to sell. Not many buyers among the poker players, but one of the bar stool “players” falls for the spiel, hands over money, then proffers the spur-of-the-moment floral gesture into the face of his target for the night, the one he’s been chattin’ up, hittin’ on, and buyin’ drinks for, hoping to impress. There is the expected eye-rolling from the other ladies still in control of those body parts. But the target, I think her name is Flower, or Flo, no, wait, Flo is the mannequin dressed in Seahawks swag and propped on a stool next to the shuffleboard. Oh, yeah, it’s Fiona. Fiona is tonight’s winner. This player doesn’t need cards to get lucky, he’s got posies! My guy doesn’t fall for the flowers ploy, he doesn’t need to buy my affection. And if he did, it wouldn’t be flowers, if you know what I mean.
Ryan doesn’t buy flowers either. I don’t think he did well tonight. He was shaking his head as he got up from the last table, muttering as he grabbed Holly and left. The night winds down, my guy is smiling. He returns his wallet to his back pocket after settling up with Jeremy, leaving a substantial tip on the counter. He slaps his thigh as he heads to the door, then glances back to be sure I caught his signal. I was busily making one last clean up round through the room, again doing my part for my extended family. We are leaving. He snaps his fingers and pats his leg again. I’m not dumb, I know I need to put it in gear when my man signals. I make my way to his side. He will wait for me to do my thing, but he won’t wait long. I been there, learned that lesson. It’s a long walk home. I assume my position as he leans in for a kiss. I plant a sloppy one upside his cheek as he scratches me behind the ear. “Good girl, Izzy. Did you have fun with Holly tonight?”
I did! I did have fun!
He clicks the leash on my pink bedazzled leather collar, and we head out the door. One last wiggle-waggle and we’re dust in the wind.
Never at a loss for words... 