Shonnie The Biker’s Wife, Chapter Two: “You Look So Good In Love”

“Well Shonnie, was nice of your friend to introduce us. Did Y’all come here together?”

“Yeah, we come here two, three times a week.”

“I didn’t catch her name.”

“Layla.”

(Well, I guess ‘that’ fits, I thought.)

“See seems like a real nice Lady,” I lied.

“She’s a good friend. We work together.”

“I see. Do you need a fresh drink?”

“Uh, yeah I do. Thanks.”

I managed to get the attention of one of the Serving Wenches, a slightly chunky Brunette, wearing too-tight jeans, and rockin’ a Neon-Green ‘Cowgirl’ Hat, with little flashing lights adorning the brim. (???) Other than the hat, she seemed fit enough for her duties.

“Shonnie, what ya drinkin’”

“Jack and coke,” she said. (A kindred spirit? Well, if you lose the coke, but what the hell, right?)

To the waitress I said, “For the Lady a Jack an’ Coke, and for me a shot ah Beam and a Heineken.”

“OK. Be right back with those. Wanna run a tab?”

“Sure. Thanks. Nice hat, by the way.”

“Thanks, uh… Cowboy’.”

The word ‘Cowboyseemed to get caught in her throat. Likely her first or second night on the job here at… still cannot remember the name of the joint. Oh well. She was probably a refugee from some higher-end beach bar in La Jolla.

The band started up with “You Look So Good In Love” (George Strait)

Vid Share Cred: ‘asphyxed’

“I love this song,” Shonnie said.

“Wanna dance?” (I knew I could manage a slow dance and that was about it. My Two-Step resembles a blind turkey caught in a rain storm)

“Sure,” she said, standing up. Wow! I thought, she really is tiny, as I took her hand and led her to the floor.

We began our dance and her head barely came up to my chest. I estimated she was about five foot nothin’, maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet. She held me very tightly as we slowly moved back and forth to the music.

She smelled sweetly of some perfume I could not identify. Not surprising, as I am not really a connoisseur. Whatever it was, it was very alluring, and seemed ‘perfect’ for her.

To any Ladies reading these words, is it common to ‘fit’ the perfume to the ‘venue’? Certainly it must be.

Her semi-long blond hair just covering her shoulders was somewhat unkempt and slightly askew. Well, that may be unkind. Let’s call it ‘Country Casual’.

She had a very nice figure, breasts just about right (far as I could tell) for her frame, nice ass (Yes. Yes. I know. I am being sexist, but I suspect she was ‘checking me out’ as well.

And at one point she actually put HER hand on MY ass. So there!

As we danced I admitted to her that slow dancing was all I could muster and that I had never even mastered the simplest dance of all: ‘The Two-Step’. She giggled in my ear and offered to teach me. Told her I would have to drink on that.

As the song finished, we stood there momentarily to see if they were going to play another slow song.

They awarded our wait by busting out with ‘Cotton-Eye-Joe’, a song I remember far too well from the Seventies and the line dance that went with it.

No way!

I hustled us off the dance floor mucho más pronto.

***

Below is How One Dances to ‘Cotton-Eye-Joe’

(It is requisite that one be ‘at least’ four sheets to the wind before performing this dance. In fact, that is a State Law in Texas. Though probably not in California)

Surely you can understand no way I’m gonna attempt THAT, making a fool out of myself in front of a Potential New Girlfriend. Uh Uh. Nope!

Texas Style Cotton-Eye-Joe

“The Bullshit Song”

“Texans don’t like line dancing, with one exception. When this song is done at the end of the night it is a real crowd pleaser. If you don’t know how to dance the Cotton Eyed Joe yet (the real way)  you will, two and a half minutes from now.”

Video Content & Quotation Credit: ‘Wisegeorge’

***

Happily our drinks had arrived while we were dancing and we settled back down and began to get to know each other over booze, Marlboros, and Country Music.

While we were continuing our small talk, Layla suddenly (and loudly) reappeared.

“How’re you kids doing?” She shouted over the band.

Just as I was about to say “Fine,” Shonnie said, “Great!”

(Hmmmm…. ‘Great?’ OK, I’ll take ‘great’.)

“Uh, Layla… That’s your name, right? Would you like to join us for a drink? Take a load off?” I asked somewhat disingenuously.

“Love to!”

(Damn!)

“Well, name your poison,” I said.

“Wine cooler, white.” (Go figure)

I decided to just go to the bar to place the order, as our little wanna-be Honky-Tonk venue was now just about completely full and I did not want any delays in getting Miss Layla her (hopefully) solitary drink, and then her continuing to make her ‘Rounds’.

I took the liberty of ordering drinks for me and Shonnie while I was at it, returned and sat down.

Shonnie and Layla had their heads together and were giggling over something. (Probably my ‘dancing’).

“Drinks on the way,” I announced, thus interrupting their little giggle fest.

“Oh goody” (goody?) Layla exclaimed.

“So, Layla, Shonnie tells me Y’all work together.”

“Yep, and we’re best of friends, so you better take good care of her,” she said, still in giggle mode.

(Good ‘care’ of her? Hmmm…)

The drinks arrived and I decided to kick it up a notch, so I proposed a toast: “Here’s to new Friends,” I said, raising my shot of Beam.

The ladies followed suit and two glasses and one shot glass collided with a soft ‘clink’.

“Hear! Hear!” Layla giggled (what is with this woman? Drunk or stoned, or both?)

We tried to settle into some conversation, but Layla clearly was not interested, as she spent more time perusing the other tables and the dance floor than she did ‘focused’ on the ‘conversation’. I could see she was as anxious to extricate herself from our table as I was to see her succeed.

Thankfully, a California Cowboy finally came over and led her out onto the dance floor. (“Keep her as long as you like Cowboy.” Of course, I only said that inside my head.)

***

Shonnie and I danced every slow dance song that came up for the next couple of hours (between several more rounds of drinks).

About every twenty minutes or so Layla would pop back by, ostensibly to be ‘social’, but methinks, to ‘check on us’, as if we were her charges.

Good Grief!

Finally, as it was getting up along twelve midnight, and Shonnie and I had, indeed, seemed to find some mutual attraction, I broached:

“How ‘bout I give you a ride home? And Layla can be freed of her chaperone duty?” It was a gambit and I gave it fifty-fifty.

“Sure,” she said instantly. “Just let me tell her what’s up, okay?”

“Of course.”

I watched as Shonnie tracked her down and gave her the happy news. I could see they were having some discussion over this, but it did not seem ‘too’ heated, only ‘marginally’ heated.

Shonnie returned to me and announced gruffly, “Let’s go.”

“Yes Ma’am. Just let me settle-up with the bar, and we can split.” (Not really a Cowboy term, ‘Split’, but hell! I was in Southern Cali after all.)

We walked to my Toronado which was parked way in the back of the parking lot, by now pretty much emptied out. After we settled in and I was about to start the car, Shonnie said, “Ya wanna smoke a joint?”

“I would love to ‘Darlin’, but you know I’m in the Navy, and they have random piss tests all the time, so I just can’t.”

She looked a little disappointed, but it was a fleeting look. I turned my attention back to the keys in the ignition when she put her hand on my arm and said, “Well, would you like to fuck me then?”

Bam!

“Love to.” And it was definitely ‘On’. Since she was so tiny and my car so huge, with front seats that could be moved way back, we had no trouble with her straddling me on the passenger side.

The sex was passionate, slightly drunken, and fucking great! Seems there was much energy stored in that diminutive frame of hers and she unleashed all of it on one unsuspecting Cowboy.

After we had finished and I was back in the driver side seat fishing for two Marlboros, she started crying. (Crying??)

“What’s wrong Honey?” I sincerely asked.

“I’m married,” She said.

Almost laughing as I said,

“That’s okay Baby, so am I.”

She stopped crying and started laughing, laughing really hard and loud. She had a great laugh, by the way, boisterous, loud and proud, not even an ounce of pretention–seemingly impossible to be emanating from such a petite, sweet, lil’ thang.

And I joined in with her laughter.

We found time to fuck again.

Stevie Ray Vaughan & Double Trouble – Pride And Joy (Live at Montreux 1982)

Shonnie & Lance:

Keepin’ it Real”

Chapter One Below:

Chapter Three Here:

Part Five of a Sailor’s Scholarly Series on U.S. Naval History in The South Pacific: ‘The Beautiful Girl With The Red Balloon’ I don’t Know.

After a good night’s sleep and an uneventful day at ‘work’, Matt and I hit the beach at 1600hrs. Rog was not to accompany us because he had ‘The Duty’ and could not leave the ship.

That is the little part of The Naval Service Experience the recruiters never tell you about:

“The Duty”

No escaping

“The Duty”

Briefly explained:

A war ship must be ever-ready to put to sea.

Or put out a fire.

Or counter a terrorism threat.

Or clean the shitters.

Or Worst of All: Standing Watch!

Hence, a percentage of the Ship’s Crew must remain on board at-all-times.

AT ALL TIMES

Call it a ‘skeleton crew’ if you will.

This is fitting since while stuck on board, unable to leave, one feels as if better off dead than…

Suffer the dread

Of Duty.

Because Having The Duty Sucks!

AT ALL TIMES!

“Navy: It’s Not Just a Job. It’s A Pain-In-The-Ass.”

***

Magsaysay was a little more frenetic than usual for a hot, humid sunny day.

Or maybe it was my imagination.

“Matt,” I remarked as we sauntered down the street heading for Viva Young, “Seem a little busy today?”

“It’s a Filipino holiday,” he said.

“No shit? What’s the occasion?”

“Magellan Day.”

“I thought the Filipinos despised him.”

“They do. This holiday commemorates that poison arrow they embedded in his ass back in Fifteen Twenty-One.”

I laughed. “You’re bull-shittin’ me Matt!”

“Yeah, I am.” And he laughed. “I have no idea what, if anything special’s going on today.”

“How do you remember?”

“What? Remember what?” he said, while wistfully gazing at a Filipina standing in a barroom doorway.

Matt was easily distracted and had already lost the train of our conversation.

“The year of the untimely death of ‘Ferdinand-The-Fucked’”

(“Don’t know much about History. Don’t know much Biology. Don’t know much about a Science book. Don’t know much about the French I took …” But this sailor knows just enough to get him into trouble.)

“You remember who I married right?”

“Oh yeah. Of course. But I didn’t take Josie for a Philippines’ history buff.”

“I married her for her brain, not for her big tits and tight ass.”

“Now I KNOW you’re bull-shit.”

We laughed some more and continued down the street dodging the ubiquitous  Jeepneys and Trikes and street vendors and sailors and marines and… You get the picture.

As we were making our descent toward Viva Young, we passed a balloon vendor who was struggling with an armload of bright balloons.

A light-bulb idea lit up in my brain (This sometimes happens, not often, but sometimes)

and I stopped dead in my tracks. Matt did not notice and kept on walking.

 “Hey Matt!” I hollered, “Wait a sec. I wanna buy a balloon.”

Since Matt is a sentimental artist, he thought nothing of it.

Now if Rog had been with us, there probably definitely would have been some unhappy words exchanged.

But Rog was stuck on the Freddy. And I smiled inside, imagining him stewing over doing his ‘Duty.’

I walked over to the kid selling balloons. He must have had no less than a baker’s dozen and a-half all trying to escape into the sky. Since I am such a prince of a guy, I decided to relieve him of his burden so he could call it an early day.

“How much for all?” I asked.

“Whaaa?”

“How much for all?” I repeated. “I wanna buy all your balloons.”

“Uh, Pive Hundred Peso” (This is roughly ten dollars)

“Sold!”

I gave him the money.

He gave me the balloons.

Matt shook his head.

We walked into Viva Young.

And all Hell and Pandemonium broke loose.

The girls squealed with delight as they, en masse, stampeded over almost knocking us down in the doorway.

‘Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! Gimmie Balloon!” fifteen voices yelled in unison as thirty arms reached out from bouncing girls.

“That’s what they’re for Little Darlings” I said as I untied the bundle and passed them out.

The girls dispersed back deep into the bar with their new prizes.

I felt some cold blue steel penetrating my head. I glanced in the direction of the source.

“Where MY Balloon? Goddam Chew!”

“Uh, Mama-San… You don’t want no balloon. I have something way more special for you that I picked up in Hong Kong.”

During our last Hong Kong port visit, anticipating such an emergency, I had purchased a semi-cheap but nice, lovely locket on a gold chain. I fished the little box out of my pocket and handed it to her.

She opened it, smiled a sweet smile at me, then caught herself and said, “Why you no gimme this before?”

“I was waiting for a ‘special’ occasion.”

“What special occasion?”

“I was waiting for the ‘special’ occasion of you being in a good mood.”

“I no in good mood now,” she said.

“Yeah, I know, but I got tired of waiting.”

“Well, ‘salamat’” (Filipino for ‘thank you’), she said. “It nice.”

“Walang anuman,” (You’re welcome) I said back. Two can play at this game.

Thinking this was the only opportune chance I would have, I broached the subject:

“I didn’t see New Girl. She here today?”

Instant frown: Just add Lance-the-Butterfly-Sailor and stir the shit.

“I told you! She off you limit!”

“Ah, come on Mama-San. I just want to talk to her. You know you have my heart.”

“Chew bull-chit-man! Yeah, she here. Go to look around you-self asshole.”

“What’s her name?”

“Lourdes.”

“Thanks.” And I went off on my quest before Mama could say anything else.

I discovered ‘Lourdes’ at the back of the bar. Why she had not claimed her balloon, I have no idea. But I theorized she was still very new to this ‘business’ and quite shy.

There was an extra balloon bouncing off one of the hanging light fixtures. I rescued it and walked up to Lourdes.

“Hi. My name’s Lance,” I said as I handed her the red balloon.

She looked up at me through beautiful dark Filipina eyes, took the balloon tether from my hand and said quietly, “Tank you por balloon. Red my pav’rit color. My namb ‘Lourdes’.”

“Yes, I know. Nice to meet you Lourdes.”

“How you know my namb?”

“Mama-San told me.”

The mention of ‘Mama-San’ seemed to make her nervous, so I quickly changed the subject.

“Come sit with me at the bar, okay?”

“Uh… Okay” she said as I led her to the part of the bar furthest away from the prying eyes of Mama.

We sat down and I must have gotten lost in her for a moment. She fidgeted a bit. I finally found my voice and asked,

“Aren’t you supposed to say it?”

“Say what?” she asked.

“Say, ‘You buy me drink’?”

“Oh yeah. I por’git. You buy me drink?”

“Of course I will.”

***

Some things are universal.

In these ‘types’ of establishments, no matter what town, city, county, country, or continent, the ‘game’ never waivers:

The girls hustle way over-priced drinks which more often than not, especially in Olongapo, consist of weak tea—no booze—but cost three times as much as top-shelf scotch.

It’s just the little dance we all must do and I have always been just fine with the arrangement, never being one intent on breaking the rules nor upsetting the balance of power in the universe.

***

We chatted for an hour or so over several beers for me and several ‘scotch’s’ for her.

Eventually, she began to relax having come to the conclusion, I surmised, that I was not a monster and actually a decent guy to hang out with.

Sad to have to say, but most sailors and marines have a ‘I buy you one drink baby, then it’s I-pay-your-bar-fine and we go to the show.’ standing policy.

Your humble sailor is not such a man.

Wasn’t then.

Isn’t now.

***

“’Lourdes’ is a lovely name.” I said, gently brushing her hair back from her cheek.

“Tank you. I like it.”

“Not your real name, is it Honey?”

“No,” she admitted. “I pic it outta book.”

“Kind of a ‘stage name’ eh?”

“’Stay… namb’?”

“At-work name.”

“Oh, yeah… Kinda. Yes.”

“Would you tell me your real name?”

“Mary-Lou. Mary-Lou Perucho.”

“I like that better,” I said. “May I call you ‘Mary-Lou’ from now on?”

“Yes, but not in pront of Mama-San.”

“Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. Where you from Mary-Lou?”

“I prom da prob’ence.”

“Of course.”

***

To be continued…

Part Six here:

***

Previously:

More Michelle! G’damn! How did I Manage to Fuk This One Up? I Musta Really Worked Hard At It.

On First Meeting Michelle—Did Not Go So Well–It Got Better, But Then I Screw’d It Up. As Is My Usual Wont.

There Seems To Be A Pattern Developing Here

The Beatles Live- Michelle My Belle:

Cred for Vid Share: Maco939

******

It Got Better, But Then I F*#ked It Up. (As Usual) And if You are Assuming, Presuming, It Was Physical Abuse, Then You Are Deluded. And Have Not ‘Read’ Me—It Was ‘Neglect’ On My Part: Michelle Expected More From Me Than I Was Capable of Giving.

That Was It. I am An Idiot! I Threw Away The Love of A Good Woman and a Kindred Spirit. She Was My Chance to Grasp That Brass Ring! A Military Woman–Whom I Respected! A True Patriot! And A Bona-Fide Sailor! And Like A Fool, I Just Let Her Walk Away.

I Know This Photo Below Is A Brit She-Sailor,

But I Love Her Face

And

She Is ALMOST As Beautiful

As

“My Michelle”

Michelle, ma belle
These are words that go together well
My Michelle
Michelle, ma belle
Sont les mots qui vont tres bien ensemble
Tres bien ensemble
I love you, I love you, I love you
That’s all I want to say
Until I find a way
I will say the only words I know that you’ll understand

Author’s Note:

This Was Yet Another Relationship That I Managed to Mangle & Fuck Up.

&

Let Her Slip Away

Yes! I Have Regrets!

In The Recruit Training Command at That time There Was A Volunteer Program We Could “Volunteer” For. It Was Called “Saturday Scholars” One Could Get Out of Saturday Duty if one Signed Up.

Michelle and I Signed Up.

The ‘Program’ Was to go to The Inner-City Ghettos of Chicago and Tutor Poor Black Kids. Michelle and I Were actually Very Sincere About This ‘Work’ and We Bonded Every Saturday as we rode the Bus To Chicago.

We Wanted to do Good Work–Serve The Community–Honorably Represent Our Navy.

Which We Both Loved Equally

I loved her very much–Even More Than The Navy

We Were Cut From The Same Cloth, I Thought, but as I said,

I Eventually Managed to Fuck That Up Somehow

I am very Good In This Regard

Call me An ‘Overachiever’ If You Must

South Park: In the Ghetto:

*******

Elvis Presley – In the Ghetto

*********

Dateline: Late 1985

Time: 0800 hrs.

Geographical Location: Great Mistakes Naval Training Center—Just south of Chicago.

Venue: A Navy Auditorium

Suspect: One Ricky-Recruit, AKA

“Marcom-The Moron”

*Slips now into first-person narrative*

I had arrived just a little later than was prudent.

Hence, no seats in the back of the venue.

Searched about. Scanning…

Only open seats were in the front row.

****

I took myself up-front, found a seat next to a serious-looking blond she-sailor, decked out in freshly pressed dress blues. AJ-Squared-Away, she was.

Old Military / Sailor Saw: “Never sit up front and never volunteer for nothin.

I had already broken the first rule. I was about to Break The Second…

****

I was in dungarees—not pressed. Certainly not ‘AJ-Squared away’… slightly hung-over, if I am aiming at honest narrative here.

‘Under-Dressed’ does not even come close.

I had plopped down to her starboard.

Risked a look at her.

(I had already lost myself in her eyes)

She sensed my gaze, looked me dead in my eye and said,

“What are you staring at Sailor? Hi. My name is Michelle. What’s yours?” She said as she extended her hand.

I shook her hand and was surprised to experience a very firm grip/handshake.

A Naval Officer took to the old, very old wooden podium and began his spiel, trying to sell us on ‘Saturday Scolars.’ and drag out some volunteers.

Michelle went Eyes-Front: Intensely paying serious Military Attention.

I did not.

I kept gazing at her…

To the point of being too obvious.

Oh! And BTW, it did not escape me that she was a 3rd Class Petty Officer.

And an ‘ET–Electronics Techincian’

An E-4

She seriously ‘out-ranked’ me–in Brains and Beauty

And, obvious to me:

Out-Classed me.

In the Nav, we called them ‘IPO’s

“Instant Petty Officer”

If you Graduate from the ‘Right Navy School,’ you are auto-magically promoted.

I was, my own self, enrolled in such a school, but the successful end game—of MY Graduation—was tenuous at best.

Not my intent to bash Y’all over the head with a not-so-subtle…

But this do serve my narrative.

Serves it well…

Oh Well….

Credit: Ethereal Music

To be continued…

Previously

Michelle, Ma Belle: Tease! I Fukked Up! She Coulda Been Mine… I Coulda Been Hers! For All Fucking Time. But Oh No! I was / am Stupid! A Stupid Idiot!

For all Time! Yes! Yes!

I Have Regrets! I Screwed the pooch on this One!

I Still Think of Her! And What Could Have Been…

A Horrible Marriage—Ended Badly-and in Great Sin!

(I was Still Marred to Janet Back Then,

When I First Fell For Michelle!)

With Tears and Beers!

Yeah! This Post is Messed Up!

I Fukked  Up
She Coulda been mine
for all time!

“Michelle, ma belle.  These are words that go together well. My Michelle”:

This is a ‘teaser’ for something I am currently working.

(‘Tis an expanding part of my “Great Mistakes Naval Training Center” Nascent Series)

Remember

The Marine”?

The Little Blonde One?

Of Course you do!

This will be way better.

Believe me?

Good.

I have this bridge for sale; kindly follow me into the ‘Showroom.’

We’ll talk ‘Price’ later…

For now, just gape, gasp, and be awestruck.

And Remember Kids: I don’t do fiction.

All my ‘stories’ are bona-fide.

Continued Here:

Video Credit: Starr’s Music

**********

Anyone ever notice that Paul McCartney can’t speak French for Shit?

“Me Shell… My Bell”

Really Paul?

Please stick to English Paul.

And this from a Texan who destroys French with a Texan accent.

“Mercy Bow Chops Y’all!”

(OK. Not that bad, but almost)

I have been perma-banished from Paris… France.

They still welcome me in Paris, Texas.

Thank God!

Upon First Meeting Michelle—Did Not Go So Well

Dateline: Late 1985

Time: 0800 hrs.

Geographical Location: Great Mistakes Naval Training Center—Just south of Chicago.

Venue: A Navy Auditorium

Suspect: One Ricky-Recruit, AKA Marcom

*Slips now into first-person narrative*

I had arrived just a little later than was prudent.

Hence, no seats in the back of the venue.

Searched about. Scanning…

Only open seats were in the front row.

****

I took myself up-front, found a seat next to a serious-looking blonde she-sailor, decked out in freshly pressed dress blues. AJ-Squared-Away, she was.

Old mil saw: “Never sit up front and never volunteer for nothin.

I had already broken the first rule. I was about to Break The Second

****

I was in dungarees—not pressed. Certainly not ‘AJ-Squared away’… slightly hung-over, if I am aiming at honest narrative here.

‘Under-Dressed’ does not even come close.

I had plopped down to her starboard.

Risked a look at her.

(I had already lost myself in her eyes)

She sensed my gaze, looked me dead in my eye and said,

“Hi. My name is Michelle. What’s yours?” She said as she extended her hand.

I shook her hand and was surprised to experience a very firm grip/handshake.

A Naval Officer took to the old, very old wooden podium and began his spiel.

Michelle went Eyes-Front: Intensely paying serious Military Attention.

I did not.

I kept gazing at her…

To the point of being too obvious.

Oh! And BTW, it did not escape me that she was a 3rd Class Petty Officer.

An E-4

(She seriously ‘out-ranked’ me.

And, obvious to me:

Out-Classed me.)

In the Nav, we called them ‘IPO’s

“Instant Petty Officer”

If you Graduate from the ‘Right Navy School,’ you are auto-magically promoted.

I was, my own self, enrolled in such a school, but the successful end game—of MY Graduation—was tenuous at best.

Not my intent to bash Y’all over the head with a not-so-subtle…

But this do serve my narrative.

Serves it well.

Well….

Credit: Ethereal Music

To be continued…

Previously

Fuk it! Expanded It. Gotta Re-Post It. Why? ‘Cause I’m Blissfully Lost In TEXAS! That’s Why! “Shonnie: The Biker’s Wife: Intro.”

And Just For Reference and Deference:

“Escape From Memphis”

Cred: Texas Longhorns

***

Texas Forever!

God’Dammint!

Hook ’em Horns!

Not Shonnie, But Pretty Close (and almost) Beautiful Enough to be a Reasonable Facsimile

***

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 even though I was never what one might call ‘A Hardcore Country Music Fan’, I was feeling nostalgic. So I bought me a pair of Nocona’s, and no, I did not varnish them,

A Stetson, couple pair of Wrangler’s, some shirts with snaps, a string tie, and off I went, ‘Looking for Love in All the Wrong Places.

But in this case, I had found ‘The Right Place’. Even though I didn’t realize it at the time.

***

This One below is Personal and for Shonnie. Wherever she may be.

No need to watch. My narrative would survive without it. But my heart would not.

If you do choose to watch/listen, keep in mind it sums up, and also foreshadows in a nutshell, a great deal of the content in the chapters to come.

Good Gawd! I love My Texas!

***

The name of joint escapes me. Not important. But it was along the lines of ‘Gilley’s’ in Pasadena, Texas, albeit much the lesser.

I mean, Gilley’s had five bars in their Bar and the largest dance floor in Texas, if not The World. (My apologies to ‘Billy Bob’s’ in Fort Worth.)

This ‘Honky-Tonk,’ and I use the term loosely, had but one bar and one medium-sized dance floor. And it didn’t even have chicken wire in front of the stage to protect the band from flying Lone Star long-neck beer bottles.

What a gyp!

Would serve my purposes however, or at least sate my low expectations. I mean, we are talking Southern California here folks, after all.

(According to Sir Willie Nelson in his first book, “Willie: An Autobiography,” The Good Folks who ran Gilley’s, Mickey Gilley et Al, during the Early Years (1971) were compelled to install the wire. Without it, no band would agree to perform there. Things could, and often did, get ‘Rowdy’ at Gilley’s.

By the Time Peanut and I were spending Quality Time in the place–Mid to Late Seventies–I saw no chicken wire. But the rowdy remained. More often than not with Peanut in the thick of it and too often the cause of it. “That Sonuvabitch done pissed me off!”

“Thanks for the memories, P’Nut–You fuckin’ Nut.”)

Credit: Channel Two Houston and devonhart,

June 26, 2014 in ‘Historic Houston’

***

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 as if Norman Rockwell might have dragged his brush across them.

Yuk!

There were also some lariats, a few saddles strategically placed against a couple of 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.

Double Yuk!!

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’,” voice in my head said.

The other voice in my head (Probably Peanut’s) said, “Cowboy?! You know you ain’t no real Cowboy neither; jes’ go wid it.”

There was, as I said, one bar. And immediately to the right of this bar… 

(a respectable looking bar, if I do grudgingly admit, 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-Wanna-be-Urban-Cowgirl-Beach-Babe-Kinda-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 forever held a special place in my heart and in my ears.

Immediately in front of the Bar was that ‘dance floor’, (No sawdust, but that could be grudgingly forgiven, I suppose).

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 nor a shuffle board nor even an air hockey table. Certainly no mechanical bull.

Honky-Tonk Travesty!

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; for they know not what they do’.)

Now properly attired and bona-fide 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 wistfully, wishfully, sorta woefully…

‘Cowgirl’ Watched, as I drifted back into memories of ‘for real’ Cowgirls.

The place began to fill up along ‘bout 1900hrs. The joint was semi-jumping now. (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. Sashayed over to her and asked for a ‘daince’, (actually tipping my hat! Yes! Yes! I know! Bullshit!) trying ever-so-hard to establish that I weren’t no ‘Coke-a-Cola Cowboy’, but a real ‘un. 

From Texas.

Lance as “Cowboy”

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’s ‘Shonnie’ and she is seated (seated?) just right over there. C’mon! I’ll 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 while 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.” (She quickly whispered to me, “Hey Sugar Britches, what’s your name?”)

“Lance”

“Uh, Shonnie, Girlfriend, This here’s ‘Lance’. Say ‘Howdy.’”

“Hiya”

I shook the diminutive 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 intrigued.

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

***

More to come… 

***

“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…

Suzy Bogguss – Someday Soon

Vid Share Cred: Robert W. Roddis, Esq.