Shonnie: The Biker’s ‘Wife of Bath’

“Shonnie: The Biker’s ‘Wife of Bath’”

(Yes. You Read That Right; I am a Chaucer Fan. Surprised?)

Anyhow, it fits.

Holly Go

And She Fits (believe it or not)

http://maroni-maronirivas.blogspot.com/2009/05/modern-day-wife-of-bath.html

Here ya go and I do hope you enjoy.

***** 

In Nineteen-Eighty-Seven San Diego County there was only one Country & Western Bar/Dance Hall (that I knew of). I was sorely missing Texas and though I was never what one might call ‘A Hardcore Country Music Fan’, I was feeling nostalgic. So I bought me some Nocona’s (NO, I did not varnish them), a Stetson, Wrangler’s, some shirts with snaps, a string tie, and off I went, Looking for Love in All the Wrong Places, or in this case, ‘Place’. The name of which escapes me, but it was along the lines of Gilley’s in Pasadena Texas, albeit much smaller.

Orig Gilleys

 

I mean, Gilley’s had five bars in their bar and the largest dance in Texas. This joint had but one bar and one medium-sized dance floor. And it din’t even have chicken wire in front of the stage to protect the band from errant long neck beer bottles.

What a gyp! 

T’would serve my purposes, however, and sate my lower expectations at any rate. I mean, we are talking Southern California here folks, after all.

So I began to frequent this establishment in earnest. The thing that stuck me upon my first visit was that all the ‘Cowboys’ and ‘Cowgirls’ looked like Yuppies. Not Dallas Yuppies, mind you: ‘Southern California Yuppies’.

The walls were adorned with all manner of Rodeo Scenes, all of which looked like Norman Rockwell had dipped his brush on them. There were also some lariats, a few saddles strategically placed against some walls, a few ‘decorative’ spittoons (nothing more useless in the world than a spittoon ‘what never dun been used’), and many more things I cannot find the stomach to recount.

The lighting was, well, too light. Hopefully, this would be rectified later in the evening’s adventure as the ‘real’ cowfolks came sauntering in.

One sustains hope in situations such as these. There really is no other choice.

“Good Godawmighty! Lance! Son, you were more ‘at home’ in the Titty-Bars downtown San Dog than this abhorrent lame excuse for a ‘Honky Tonk’.”

The other voice in my head (Probably Peanut’s) said, “Cowboy, you know you ain’t no real Cowboy either; jes go wid it.”

There was, as I said, one bar. And Immediately to the right of this bar… and just to the right of Attila…

(a respectable looking bar, if I do grudgingly say so, replete with no less than four barkeeps and many, many serving wenches scurrying back and forth not unlike so many dutiful worker ants—all very pretty—in that Southern California Urban Cowgirl Beach Babe Style),

…was the stage with a Cowboy Band. Actually a damn good one. They even had a fiddle player (so at least they could play ‘Amardillo By Morning’ a song which always reminded me of ‘Monsieur Le Peanut’, and always held a special place in my heart and in my ears.

Immediately in front of the Bar was the dance floor, (A semi-large dance floor actually. No sawdust, but that could be grudgingly forgiven.)

The rest was mainly four-seater tables and chairs (And Candles! Fer Christ’s Sake! Candles!) For the life of me, I could not spy a single pool table or a shuffle board or even an air hockey table. Certainly no mechanical bull. Honky-Tonk Blasphemy!

The bar itself drew me first (of course). I asked for a Lone Star and got a vacant look. “Ok, gimme a shot ah Beam and a… ah… a Heineken.” (‘Jerry Jeff, please forgive them; they know not what they do’.)

Now properly attired in my two-fisted drinker status, I went searching for a table close to the dance floor. As it was relatively early, I had no difficulty finding same.

I sat and drank and ‘Cowgirl Watched’ as the place began to fill up. Along ‘bout 1900hrs, the place was semi-jumping (For San Diego—I guess–by that time I suppose the surf was no longer ‘up’).

I studied the apparently single cowgirls and spied a rather lanky ‘tall drank ah water’, long-haired brunette with Sloe-Gin eyes and all that implies, just tearing things up with several different dance partners.

I made my move: Between songs, I sashayed over to her and asked for a ‘daince’, (actually tipping my hat! Yes! Yes! I know!) trying ever so hard to establish that I weren’t no ‘Coke-a-Cola Cowboy’, but a real ‘un.

Cowboy Days

Lance As Cowboy (The one on the right don’t look  much like the one what shot  at me),  But then,  that is another story, ain’t it?)

From Texas.

We danced the dance and I could sense I was not her cup of… whatever it is that they actually drink here. She whispered in my ear, “Hey ‘Cowboy’ (rather mockingly, I perceived), “I have a friend you should meet. Her name is ‘Shonnie’ and she is seated (seated?) just right there. C’mon! I will introduce ‘Y’all’” (Yet another perceived slight)

I glanced in the direction she was leading us and saw a rather diminutive dirty blond, absently stirring her drink as she casually watched the band as they began to belt out some Randy Travis monstrosity.

We waltzed up to the table and my escort announced quite cheerfully, “Hey Shonnie! I found you a ‘real’ Cowboy.” (The she quickly whispered to me, “Hey Sugar Britches, what’s your name?”)

“Lance”

“Uh, Shonnie, Girlfriend, This here’s Lance. Say ‘Howdy’” (This California Bitch was beginning to piss me off)

I shook the miniature hand she offered and sat down.

“Uh, Howdy Shonnie, Little Lady; Nice to meet Y’all.” (Yes, I was really laying it on thick, but I was somewhere between buzzed  and drunk and starting to figure, ‘What the hell I got to lose’?)

She smiled wily, if not demurely through semi-white teeth, Marlboro smoke, and Paul Newman Blue Eyes. I must admit: I was intriqued.

Thus began one of the most bizarre ‘flings’ I have ever had.

More to come… Here

*********

“And I’ll be lookin’ for eight when they pull that gate.”

“and I hope that judge ain’t blind…”

We all do Peanut. We all look for ‘eight’

And we all hope the judge IS blind (but you knew that, didn’t you? You asshole! You were not supposed to die first. We made a pact. Didn’t we?? Don’t you remember?)

Rest, My Very Best Friend.

You are severely missed.

I’ll catch up to you.

Someday soon…

Vid Credit: 

Scot Wick

 

–Lance

 

53 thoughts on “Shonnie: The Biker’s ‘Wife of Bath’

  1. Hi lance this is Eddie I read your story , it has too much details. To be honest with you it didnt grab my attention and didn’t like it very much! Sorry my friend but I am not very interested in reading at all..

    Liked by 1 person

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  4. Ah, Lance, some of the phrases you use here are pure poetry and I feel like painting a few onto the stall door of my bathroom so I’ll have a repeated reminder of some lovely language.
    Looking forward to part 2. I know this story shall be a doozy.
    Cheers!

    Liked by 1 person

  5. I have missed reading your blog. Trying to catch up.I will definitely be reading the others.

    I want to say thank you for the video of the incredible George Strait in Amarillo by Morning. Love the song and brought back great memories.

    Now that Cali girl was getting me riled up with her snooty-self. Looking forward to reading more.

    Oh the pic of you, very nice. Reminded me of the Urban Cowboy.

    -Neb

    Liked by 1 person

    • Hey Neb,
      So sorry I missed this comment. I apologize (and smack me in the head for missing it)
      Thanks very much for reading and commenting.
      Again, I am very sorry at my tardy response. You know I do respond to all comments.
      Shit! I feel like an ass for missing your comment.
      Cheers,
      Lance

      Like

    • Seriously Neb,
      I beat myself up when I miss a comment. I do.
      Ya know why?
      Because I love it when folks take the time to drop the dime and come here to comment.
      Hey! Won’t happen again. I got the NSA monitoring my comments now, and they email me a spreadsheet ever’day at precisely Zero Six Hun’ert.
      Thanks for having your sense of humor.
      God knows, mine is weird!
      Cheers,
      -Lance

      Like

      • Lance,
        That’s very admirable of you and I understand completely.
        I like when apps tell me when I have a comment or a like or a new follower.
        I still get a buzz when I get a new follower.
        Yes – a buzz.
        My humor will always be as it is, I know you understand it… having spent some time in Texas.
        🙂
        Weird is my middle name – well actually, Weirdo.
        😉
        Neb

        Liked by 1 person

  6. Love your stories, Lance! Fixing to read part 2 – & yes, I am a Texas-girl! Many years ago lived real close to Gilley’s in Pasa-get down-dena, TX. While many of my family & friends visited, I never made it in there before it burned to the ground (just like the Gilley’s in Branson, MO BTW), being a hippie chick & all 😉

    Liked by 1 person

    • Well, I was pretty much more a hippy guy than a cowboy, but Peanut was always dragging me off to Gilleys (between shark fishing trips which I was always dragging him off to).

      Damn shame it is gone. I remember reading in Willie’s book of how when he played there they had chicken wire in front of the stage to protect the band from flying debris, mostly Lone Star Long Necks.
      Hahahaha.
      Thanks so much for readin’ and commentin’, You hIppy chick you!
      🙂

      Like

  7. Good story Lance, from the make believe cowboy bar from a real cowboy. So far you’ve been pretty damn gallant about getting the handoff from Miss California to Small Hands but you only had one drink and one beer. I have a feeling things change in Part Two …

    Like

  8. You always leave us hanging Lance, and we always come back. 😉

    I have never danced in a Country/Western bar without sawdust on the floor. That’s a new one on me. If you’re gonna pretend, at least do it right!

    My young self would’ve belted the Cali smart mouth like Teela mentioned. lol

    Liked by 1 person

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