“So you see, Sweaty, I’m more sensitive to your situation than you imagine.”
“Well, I’m happy to hear that.”
“Indeed, it’s a pleasure for me to say so,” replies Rico Soiree, still puffing on a soggy cigarillo with the silhouette of a naked lady printed across the leaves.
That very next weekend, Sweaty’s Place is in full swing. There’s not a seat to sit in, and the coat check girls have shut up shop. Blues men blast their trumpets, their black faces beaded in perspiration. The lights are hot and white, the air dark and empty but for translucent smoke clouds lingering overhead. Stockings, fedoras, smarmy smiles and pasty faces. Wooden chairs and cheap champagne are all the rage this evening.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” The trumpets blast again, followed by a drum solo done by a blind old cowboy. A young missy, no older than eight with blue ribbons in her blond hair, stands shaking two Indian-red castanetas, while uncle works up a beat with his bare leather hands.
The bar is manned by Mac, who puts all his tips in a sack. But when the drink runs low, and customers low, he offers to give it all back.
Sonny Boner, no nonsense newsman turned city beatnik barfly, is entertaining the high stool crowd in the corner of that bar, now sounding much like Louis Armstrong…
That’s my girl on the floor, don’t you see.
She’s with a man, and he’s not me.
I don’t wanna look, hide my face in a nook,
But my neck takes to peepin’ through my knees.
He lowers his head and snaps his suspenders in a signal to receive applause from a small but attentive group of listeners.
I’ve got the blues… Oh yes I do… do, do, do
I’ve got the bluuuuues… And so do you, you, you too.
Why are you dancing with that man?
I can do the things he can.
But I’ve got the blues, blues, blues blue.
A cigarette girl with stumpy legs under an umbrella skirt makes a pass, and Boner extends a limp pair of choosy fingers, clearly not intending to pay for anything.
“Get a job – loser,” says the girl, moving on into the crowd.
“She used to work for me,” explains the shamefaced wordsmith in a low tone, his five o’clock shadow now illuminated by a Zippo slapped into action from a clean-shaven stranger on his left.
Drum roll.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give a warm but wary welcome to Mr. Majestic.”
Rico Soiree, head neatly set in a saffron yellow turban, appears center stage. His smoking jacket is so black it looks wet.
Seated beside him is a man in a bunny suit, only with dark sunglasses and his hands neatly folded on his knees.
“It’s a full house tonight, my long-eared friend… but you wouldn’t have noticed that in those dark glasses that you’re wearing, now, would you?”
No answer from the rabbit.
“Well, if you’re not using those ears, then maybe I should lop them off for you,” says Soiree, taking out a large pair of seamstress’s scissors seemingly from nowhere and snipping into the fluffy white material sticking out of the rabbit’s head.
“What’s that? The cat’s still got your tongue? Or you’ve swallowed it yourself… perhaps?”
Soiree now leans over as if listening for any sounds coming from the rabbit’s stomach, all the while keeping his eyes on the audience and flashing a cheesy smile.
“Seems to be empty in there,” he says, still beaming at the audience. Then, without warning, he lands a vicious punch to the rabbit’s paunch, sending him collapsing to the floor and gasping for breath.
Sweaty tugs off the bunny costume head, his eyes still not adjusted to the blinding stage lights, looking dumbfounded and in pain.
“Well, I guess it was a little early for Easter, anyway, eh?”
A significant “ooh” is unleashed by the audience, then a single raucous but strained laugh followed by applause, first uncertain but eventually louder in its approval.
“Now, now, everyone let’s keep it down. Sweaty’s going to read us some verse… aren’t you Sweaty.”
Still holding his gut with one hand, the publisher turned poet removes a piece of folded-up paper from the side pocket of the rabbit suit and begins to recite its contents, occasionally straightening the dark glasses on his face.
What is a fellar without sleeves, much less a collar?
I own not a coat, nor the buttons to dignify it
Yes, I have pants, but no thanks I won’t dance
For what is a fellar without sleeves and a collar?
Sweaty suddenly collapses to the floor once again, this time landing on his knees. Soiree, stands behind him, having just kicked him not so hard but with precision, right above the calves so that his legs buckled beneath him.
“That’ll be enough of that, Mr. Tank Top. Do you imagine yourself reciting a ditty for a men’s wear outlet?”
Again straightening out his dark glasses, Sweaty resumes his poetry reading, at first haltingly, from a kneeling position.
I saw you but was afraid.
Knew you were too good for me.
Publisher, poet and whatnot that I was
Knew you were too good for me.
“Now that’s an improvement, ol’ boy. Keep it up. Please. Don’t let me hamper you…”
Forgive me, Miss Kyiv
You really are too good for me
Forgive me for real
For not defending you with zeal
For letting him make you squeal
You’ll always be too good for me
A hearty and prolonged round of applause ensues, during which Soiree kindly helps Sweaty to his feet, even dusting off the back end of his rabbit suit with the outmost care and consideration. Then both men, but mostly Soiree, take a deep bow, smiling with all due humility from the stage’s edge.
“Take your paws off me, I said,” comes a sour female voice from the back of the club, which almost nobody but the doorman hears.
And he’s not in the mood for listening, but promptly shoves the gaudily dressed middle-aged woman out onto the street, where she shuffles off like a wet hen, one of the sleeves of her flamingo-colored raincoat flapping freely like a broken wing.
Filed by Dirk Dickerson, for Exit Stage Left Review, November 23, 2013