Shonnie The Biker’s Wife, Chapter X: Dalliance (and loyalty in Las Vegas)

More on Shonnie Here: Chapter Ten

Chapters One  Two  Three  Four  Five  Six  Seven  Eight  Nine

***  

So about six in the evening we walk on down to the El Cortez. Shonnie goes in and I hang back a few; Smoke a Marlboro on the street and head on in. Making my way through the slot machine triple canopy jungle I head to the back, the bar, and the blackjack tables while looking for Shonnie. I spot her seated all alone at a two dollar minimum table decently close to the bar. She was next to ‘Third Base’, empty chair to her left, and five empty seats to her right, just as I had instructed her. “Good Girl,” I thought, “Now, let’s see what you can do.”

As I sat at the bar, lit a cigarette, and ordered a gin and tonic, I watched as Shonnie placed a two-dollar bet. Glancing about the casino, I saw it was a bit slow. A few of the Blackjack tables were completely devoid of players, but it was yet early. This would certainly soon change. I hoped we would be out long before the crowds came. Shonnie had learned the basic count pretty fast, but I did not think she would be able to sustain if there were a table full of other players and thus many more cards to count. If she could pull it off with just her and the dealer, well that was good enough. We had already made a good score with the Craps game the night before and I really wasn’t looking to get rich. I just wanted to (truthfully) impress her with my ‘Gangsta’ ways. Prove a point, as it were.

She was playing a double-deck game (again per my instruction), and I noted that the dealer dealt deep into the decks (a very good thing). Between reshuffles, I could see Shonnie chatting it up just a little with the dealer, a diminutive ‘Ornamental’ Girl: Pretty much becoming the ‘Norm’ in Vegas at that time. Chinese or Korean, best guess.

I was on my second gin and tonic and my fifth Marlboro when some schmuck waltzed over and sat down to Shonnie’s left. Proper Third Base. He looked about fortyish and was wearing a fake cowboy hat, ruffled shirt, à la George Strait, and a stupid face. He began chatting her up. Now, I had not planned on this, but I did realize a good-looker such as Shonnie, sitting all alone at a BJ table, would be bound to draw some flies. I only hoped this asshole did not distract her too much from her count. We had practiced ‘distractions’ in the hotel room. As I played dealer and dealt way too fast, I would ask her questions and play with the remote on the TV. She did just fine. (She is smart, this one.)

Shonnie played through four reshuffles and was winning. I even saw her double-down a few times and in fact she was increasing her bets. ‘What the fuck?!’  I’m thinking. ‘How long does it take a double-deck to go hot?’

‘George’ remained and was beginning to piss me off. Obviously he was distracting her from her count. I ordered up another gin and tonic, lit a cigarette and stewed some. My drink arrived just as I saw Shonnie pull a cig out of her pack, hold it in her left hand and waited for George-The-Sycophant to light it.

Game on.

I gathered my drink and my pack of Marlboros and sauntered over to the table. Sat down at first base, threw out (drunkenly, for show), a few hundred dollars. The dealer arranged them on the table for ‘The Eye in the Sky’, and said, “Changing six hundred.” She then passed me some big stacks of red and some green chips. I noted that Shonnie had placed two red chips immediately to the right of her stack. If she was spot on, this meant the count had gone to ‘plus ten!’ I had coached her to constantly shuffle her chips, as if she were nervous or bored, so that this act would not draw any attention.

“No Darlin’, gimme a few black,” I said to the dealer, pushing away the red chips. She took them back and pushed out three black chips to go with the twelve green. I placed two bets (two hands—one can play multiple hands if the table is basically empty) of one hundred dollars each. Shonnie dropped a green chip (I had told her nothing fancy dammit!) George dropped a red and seemed more interested in Shonnie than his game and whispered something in her ear.

All bets placed, ‘Ornamental Dealer Girl’ began to deal. (I estimated that only one-third of the two decks had been dealt, so this bode well for me. A plus ten count! Outrageous!) I caught a pair of eights on my first hand and a hard eighteen on my second. Shonnie caught a natural blackjack and sent me a sideways glance. George caught a dead man’s hand: a thirteen. The dealer had her hole card, but with a five showing. Surely she would bust on that weak ass shit. She would have to take a hit, no matter what and with the decks rich in face cards, she just had to bust.

Of course I split my eights. Caught a three on the first eight and doubled down (now two hundred on that hand) Caught a jack! Twenty one! Caught a deuce on the second eight, doubled down again. Caught a king! Twenty on that hand. Another two hundred. I am now five hundred into this round. I stood pat on my other hand, the eighteen. Shonnie had already been paid for her natural blackjack, so it was up to George. He hit his thirteen! (A rookie move: He should have stood on his thirteen against a dealer showing a five up card—idiot) He caught another face and busted. A face card meant for ‘Miss Ornamental’. Again: Idiot! But it all worked out…

The dealer flipped her hole card, revealing a ten, making her a fifteen. She hit the fifteen (as required) and caught a nine and busted.

Pay Me!

The deck was still hot (plus to the plus) so I played another hand and won three hundred. Shonnie won another twenty-five. George lost another five. The dealer started to reshuffle. I was done here.

I pushed all my chips out in front and said, “Color me up Darling and keep this one,” as I tossed her a green. I saw Shonnie throw me yet another sideways glance, rolling her eyes.

I gathered my chips and headed over to the cashier. Got my money and split back to the Union Plaza to wait for Shonnie.

And wait.

And wait some more.

To Be Continued… HERE

 

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

The Story Continues…

Chapter One Here

***

“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 very nice,” 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.

“Shonnie, what ya drinkin’”

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

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

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

“Yeah. Thanks.”

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

“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 five foot nothing, 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. Her semi-long blond hair was somewhat unkempt. 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 never mastered the simplest dance of all: The Two-Step. She giggled in my ear and offered to teach me. I told her I would have to think 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-Eyed-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.

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 the place was now completely full and I did not want to delay getting Miss Layla her (hopefully) one drink. I took the liberty of ordering drinks all around for our table while I was at it and returned to the table 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 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 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 to the dance floor.

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

“Yes Ma’am. 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 Hun, 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 big 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 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 managed to get out.

I almost laughed as I said, “That’s okay Baby, so am I.”

She stopped crying and started laughing.

And I joined her.

Then we found time to fuck again.

To be continued… here

Shonnie: The Biker’s Wife

 

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 lesser.

Orig Gilleys

 

I mean Gilley’s had five bars in their bar and the largest dance floor in Texas. This joint 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 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’,” voice in head said.

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… 

(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 that dance floor, (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 nor a shuffle board or 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; 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 ‘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. From Texas.

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?)

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 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 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.” (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… 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

 

Just Who Do You Think You Are?

This below was inspired by a post from a blogger I much admire: Abby of Abby Has Issues fame: writer, published author, blogger, self-described sarcastic (and inspiring–my words) wench.

Thank you Abby

**************

“Who am I?”

This should be a very provocative question for all. Some ancient guy once said, “The unexamined life is not worth living.”

I am rapidly approaching my sixth decade on this earth and have been (painfully) taking stock of all that I could call “My Life.” What good have I accomplished? What are the bad things I have done? How many ‘friends’ do I have? How many bridges have I nuked? (I generally do not ‘burn’ bridges; I have a tendency to shock and awe ‘em—obliterate ‘em) I have put my boots on the ground on every continent except South America. What has this taught me? A lot. Did I always use this knowledge gleaned? Most definitely not.

“Who am I?”

More and more I have come to the stark realization that I must sum me up with one word:

‘Asshole’

I am an asshole. I don’t want to be an asshole, pompous ass, arrogant ass, the smartest ass in the room, (which I obviously am… maybe once in ten or twenty tries 😉 ) I do not want to be any kind of ass, but that is my reality. I have made some friendships during my life which should have lasted forever, but didn’t: Mostly from my neglect. I have had some wonderfully loving relations with women, and actually married four of them. Each one of those relationships should have been a lasting euphoria, but I did not, could not, allow that. Wanderlust always took me away, eventually needing to ‘get outta town’, but with no malice, just gotta go…  ‘This is the part where the cowboy rides away’–find some elusive spot half-way across the globe where I could ‘find’ ME, unencumbered by people who ‘love’ me and think they can help me.

Not sure if I have found me yet. And this is disconcerting, ‘cause I do fear the time for that is growing short. Writing helps, but I continue to struggle with:

“Who am I?”

I still don’t know.

As Abby broached the subject:

“How would you answer the question?”

Run with it, and drop in to read Abby: (and tell her I sent ya–I could use the publicity)

Cheers Y’all and Happy Monday.