Last Night at The
Gossip Inn...
By LaToya Prater and Ike Hill
There I was, sitting in a tiny, smoky bar on the corner of 25th Street. I could
barely see the glowing silver heads of the desperate business men, sitting alone,
lamenting lost loves into their mugs, pint glasses, tumblers and champagne flutes. A
skinny woman with smeared red lips was slurring a blues tune next to a player piano. A
quarter for a tune. A quarter for your heart. After four Three Wisemen shots and five Long
Island Iced Teas, I was ready for action. I saw one lonely Joe, barely discernable in the
haze, sitting at a round booth across from me. He had lips like two slabs of raw liver.
The age spots on his ancient head looked like warpaint - paint that spoke of the ongoing
battles of the broken hearted, the unlucky in love, the forgotten souls who's only friend
in the world now came in the shape of a pint or a fifth. I knew he was my target tonight.
I hiked up my plum fishnets and prepared to slink to the ladies room, knowing the
clackety-clack, clackety-clack of my high heels would snap his head up in one last futile
burst of hope that maybe, just maybe, his boat had come in.
After cracking open my fifth pack of cigarettes, and ordering up the usual, I
heard the sweet call of a dame in shoes meant to poke out the eyes of fellas like me. It
was instinctive to turn and take a gander. She was amazing, legs, two of them, both arms
as well, rare for this spot. A big amputee joint it was. She thought she could get to the
ladies room without being bothered. It was my intention not to let that happen.
Surer than a duck likes vodka, his head snapped up at the sound of my approach. He
gaped at me like I was the Venus de Milo (but with arms). I brazenly lifted my eyes and
took a long, direct look. On second inspection, he wasn't nearly as old as he looked. The
spots on his head seemed to be some sort of blotchy rash. And that was fine with me,
because overall, he was still a looker, and I had a few rashes of my own in places few
people got to see. It was time roll the dice and place my bets. I dropped my eyes and
slithered toward the ladies room, the swish-swish scratchety-scratch of my burlap dress
against my stockings calling to him like a siren's keening wail (if the siren was a heavy
smoker with bronchitis). Just as I reached the ladies room door (which sported a picture
of Frank Sinatra in drag and read "Dames"), a firm hand grasped my shoulder.
Slithered right by me she did. I wasn't used to anyone moving that fast here. With
only seconds left, I hopped out of the booth and approached her. I had to warn her of the
hell she was about to walk into. The men's room in this place hadn't worked since the new
owner had a sex change. Why would a girl named Hank want to fix a place of apparent bad
memories? I grabbed her by the shoulder. That fancy dress couldn't hide the soft rippling
skin underneath. I knew this chick had what I wanted.
"The name's Horrace, but my friends call me Dane."
I was sure I had something on my face, she just stared right through me.
"I gotta warn you about the facilities here, they aren't really meant to be .
. . well, used by a Lady." I said with a wink. "I got a little place just around
the corner that's all yours. If you want it."
I think I was on to something here, she placed her hand on mine, and, in a voice
that sounded like it was weaned on whiskey and cigarettes shouted "WHOA!"
I think he thought I was going to slap him, but instead I had nearly lost my
balance out of surprise at his touch. My balance ain't what it used to be after that
incident with the Puerto Rican bank robber, the Windex drink-off and the multi-crop
thresher. That was one helluva crazy night, and I'd lost three toes on my left foot to it.
I wheeled my arms around wildly like a pelican in an airplane propeller, and just when I
thought I was going down, he deftly caught me with one stiff hand. I sank gratefully into
his arms, leaning heavily on his chest before regaining my balance. That's when I noticed
his right hand. It was a beautifully carved wooden replica of a…hand. Looking closer,
I noticed words carved into the back of that shining mahogany hand. I didn't want to pry,
as I was really hoping to use his private "facilities".
I blew my mussed hair out of my eyes nonchalantly, and said in a cool,
freeze-dried voice "Is that a proposition, stranger? Doncha think you oughta buy me a
drink first? Or…I guess not, since I obviously have to…uh…take a lea…I
mean…pop a squa…er…use the restroom. So, a drink probably
doesn't…um…make much sense and…but anyway…is that a preposition…I
mean proposition…stranger?"
I had regained my composure beautifully.
What a way with words that dame had, and was she ever graceful. She had the moves
of a cat stung by a wasp. At first I thought the flailing was an attack so I drew her in
close. She softened quickly and rubbed up against my chest like a good lap cat.
Her glossy red eyes met mine in a slow motion gaze. I released her from my grasp,
keeping a hand on her lower back, and brushed her disheveled hair from her face. She
immediately noticed something wrong with my hand. I had lost the real one years ago
pilfering Indian burial grounds in Peru. The new one was made of the finest Brazillian
cherry wood. It has its limitations with manual dexterity, but it can drive nails and
crack skulls whenever necessary. A great conversation starter usually, most people mistake
it for being made of Mahogany. But not this broad, she had a head on her shoulders, I just
know these sorts of things.
"Come on Baby, this place is beginning to stink," I crooned. She agreed
to a trip to my place faster than Gimp-Leg Goldberg picks up a pet dime on a string. I
moved around to her side, sliding my arm around her waist.
"Come on baby, I got a bottle and a fresh roll of paper by the litter box for
you."
I spun her around and planted my power hand at the small of her back. We strolled
past all the regulars, most were indifferent, Glass-Eyed Molly shot us a wink, and even
Five-Fingered Frankie tossed us a heads up nod. I was the king, and those gimps knew it.
Tommy No-Toes was tanked, as usual, at the end of the bar nearest the exit. He had
just knocked over the umbrella stand as we approached. It was a melee of an obstacle
course getting past all the prosthetic limbs scattered about. Sure he was apologetic, but
he wasn't doing anything about it.
The morning air outside was brisk. Traffic was heavy, but people have to get to
work.
"You want my jacket?" I asked the now shivering piece of candy wrapped
around my arm. I took it off anyway and wrapped her in it.
Five cigarettes, four fender-benders, three bums, two blocks, and one key later, I
threw the dead bolt. We walked in.
The first thing I noticed about Dane's place was the smell. Like new golf balls
dunked in whiskey, with an underlying odor of cat pee. It was intoxicating. The hazy
morning light drooped lazily over the furniture, all four pieces of which (a couch, a wet
bar and two metal folding chairs) were covered meticulously in plastic.
There was the room with the furniture, and just off that two smaller rooms. One
was clearly a powder room. Smaller than a gnat's ass.
"Take your coat?" Dane asked, dropping another one of those stinky
winks. It was time for me to turn trick number one. I carefully grabbed the coat and a
handful of my burgundy burlap dress, just along the Velcro running the full length of the
bag. Uh, dress…
(to be continued…)
