“You wanna do a shot, cowboy?”  says a voice from behind me.

I turn to see a frail woman wearing a sheer black bra. She is smiling broadly showing me her teeth, most are present and in good repair, if a bit crooked. She nods at the small box in front of her which contains some test tubes with various colored liquids, each covered by cell-o-phane and a small rubber band around its neck. I have a flashback to the phlebotomist at the doctor’s office and the red box with the biohazard logo.
“No, thanks, I’m driving.” I say.
And while this is true, it’s not the principal reason I refrain. I’ve seen too many movies where people wake up with an organ missing to fall for that.
Now, about her greeting. I am wearing an old cowboy hat that has been shaped by age, its straw weave permanently molded into the Marlboro Man form. So I admit, I’m a mark.
I blink.
The bar area now comes into focus. It is a 12 by 12 foot square with a raised platform in the center. The bartender looks like my second grade math teacher, only 35 years older and twice that amount heavier. Behind her on the riser, a nude black woman is dancing. In the dim light I can’t discern any of the details of her dark skin, but the black light makes her teeth and fingernails glow menacingly like a Middle-Earth demon. There’s a buzzing cloud orbiting her thigh. The Day-glo green garter fairly pulsates with the wad of phosphorescent dollar bills it contains.
“Hey Man, are your feet sticking to the floor?” says the guy on my left.
It’s Cedrick, my wing-man, and I make a mental note to give him shit for not covering me on the shooter girl, but instantly forget when I shuffle my feet and discover that they are, in fact, sticking. My usual curiosity is tempered–I don’t really care, no surface should stick like this. I am now second guessing my decision to come here, and the loss the of the $10 cover charge.
It has got to be the hat. Probably the swelling of my brain against the hatband from too much well-brand whiskey. I guess it’s too late now, so I order a beer. Pabst Blue Ribbon is $2.50 for each safely sealed aluminum can. Cedrick and I put our backs to the wall in a relatively non-stick corner and take in the scene. There is a DJ booth at the end of the small dance floor. Beside that a raised stage where people are dancing. Fairly normal looking people, normal having been checked at the door. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse a large floating dollar bill. Now I am curious. The currency is topped with a mop of white-blonde hair bobbing along on an intercept course.
“Hi, I’m Cupcake!” she says, her voice an auditory smoker’s hack.
Pause.
“Hi Cupcake, I’m Marshal,” I say.
This female is a dead ringer for a late-career Bette Davis circa “Whatever happened to Baby Jane,” complete with clown-face white, double length detachable eyelashes and fake beauty mark, but her smock is blinding. The print on the fabric is a $100 dollar bill blown up to huge proportions all over the sleeves, skirt and bodice.
“You wanna have a dance, cowboy” she offers. (fucking hat!)
“Not right now, I’m good,” I say, gesturing, “but that young man right there pointed you out when we walked in and he is a YES.”
Cupcake zeroes in. I watch as my soon-to-be-former buddy Brent is caught up by the elbow and led through a stand of tables to a chair directly under a crackling neon sign. The flickering light casts a surreal pall as Brent takes his seat and Cupcake begins her dance.
Now, I have seen this routine many times in many places, most of them nicer than this one, and I am convinced that there must be a Ginger Rogers Academy of Strip Tease. If so, Cupcake is surely not a graduate. She puts her arms on Brent’s shoulders and brings her heavy, pasty bosom close to his face. Brent is locked in a 1,000 yard stare, and I’m certain he’d rather be home playing his Xbox right now. Then Cupcake spins on her heel, more like a truck turning a corner than a dancer executing a move, and proceeds to do a shimmy move that concludes with her landing in Brent’s lap–hard. BAM! FlashDance meets SlamDance. Cupcake weighs in at around 190 – 200 and Brent probably wrestled in high school at 155. His detached stare has now left his face, and he is very present in the moment.
Again, out of nowhere, comes that voice.
“You’re next, cowboy,” (my hat is now slated for retirement).
“Sounds like a plan,” I say, off into the space between my left shoulder and the voice.
Cupcake finishes her routine to a perfunctory smattering of clapping, and I see Brent gingerly massage his abdomen.
I turn to the voice and decide to have a little fun.
“What’s your name, darlin’?” I ask.
“I’m Kathleen.”
“That your real name?” I ask.
“Yep, but you can call me Kat, cuz If you’re nice to me I’ll purr like a kitten, and if not I’ll scratch your eyes out.”
It’s nice to know where you stand with people.
“Well hey Kat, name’s Marshal, where y’all from?” I ask.
“Texas, honey, you?”
“I’m from Alabama. Centerpoint”
I thought Centerpoint sounded more country than say, Homewood or Mountain Brook. Especially when pronounced “sennerpoint.”
“Well I got a shot right here called an Alabama Slammer”
And with that she breaks out the biohazard box again.
“Well I’m still driving,” I reply.
Really. There I am fighting my base instinct to flee; I’m establishing rapport, granted with faulty geography, AND talking a big bag of bullshit to her, and she twists it around to a lame ass sales pitch. Aware now that I am overthinking the hell out of this situation, I catch Cedrick’s eye and give him the one handed signal for “bug out” and take a step forward.
“I gotta hit the head, ma’am” I say.
I even tip the brim of my hat for good measure. My eyes are fixed on the exit sign and Cedrick falls in formation as we beat a hasty, sticky retreat.