A Polyglot at The Horse

“But Sir, the prescription for your pain medication ran out about 2 days ago. We’ll have to call your Doctor and get permission…”. “We can give you three days of medication until your Dr. gives the O.K.” She was a young pretty pharmacist who had the kindness to give me some Kleenex to wipe the tears from my face. I didn’t know the tears were there. I just knew pain and it was getting to me.

I went back home and crashed for a while. I got up after a few hours with less pain and decided to celebrate. I went to a place called “The Horse” near the Southern State off Grand Avenue. I’d been there before. I didn’t want go to the ancient dive. I had my reasons. One of those reasons goes back to grade school. So I let the car take me to “The Horse”.

It’s a superclean, easy going, neighborhood bar. I know a few of the regulars and some of the old timers. The real reason I came there was “G”, sure enough she was holding court at the bar. Let me tell you a little something about “G”. The acronym ‘MILF’ (If you don’t know what it means ‘google’ it) doesn’t begin to describe what most guys really feel like doing when they see her.

Though she’s in her 40’s she’s is jaw dropping gorgeous. Mesmerizing, seductive and sultry is just the tip of the iceberg with this woman. Like most people she’s had some bumps in life. Her body is 21 years old, nicely proportioned and nicely toned. Her stomach is flat, which hides the truth of having given birth three times.

But what snatches you is the magnetism of her truly sorceress type European features. She’s a cross between a young Sophia Loren, a hot Raquel Welsh, and Gina Lolobrigida (who earned the nickname “The Worlds Most Beautiful Woman in the mid 50’s). Though some light lines in her face betray her young body, her eyes have a slow burning that lures men like a moth to light.

If I never met this ensnaring arch-diva, I would swear she was just another Long Island woman who managed to keep her youth. But she puts on her Long Island accent like she does her tight fitting tank top. I knew her when she could not hide her Italian accent, I knew her when she was just a shy little girl. Yeah, I went to grade school with her and caught up to her after nearly 30 years.

“RJ, How ya doin’”, ‘really good right now’ I half whispered. She flashed her Hollywood smile and gently pulled up her tight jeans, causing her firm round chest to jiggle – cleavage exposed provocatively. “G” asked, “Watcha drinkin’”, ‘Guiness’. I noticed when she was behind the bar, not one man at the bar took his eyes off of her. Old guys, young guys, it didn’t matter. Eyes were glued to “G”’s ass. She could melt asphalt if she stood on it long enough.

“The Horse” Dart team was in the bar and they kicked ass. They celebrated and they hung out, every guy in the place was bidding for her total attention,… she gave a little attention. I wonder how “G” got here, that is, working behind a bar. She’s a highly educated, thoroughly brilliant woman. Not just book smart, but street smart. “G” is a ‘polyglot’, she speaks five languages, German, French, Spanish, Italian and English. She can translate in all of them.

She should be working at the U.N., but she is here, at “The Horse”. The short story is she married into a traditional Italian family (that is, scrupulously mobbed up). She had kids, raised them and divorced. “G” said she is making it and doing alright. “Life happens and then you get what you get” said “G”. We talked a little about the possibility of a class reunion.

But what she talked about was her former beau, she wanted to know where he was. That man is no one else but my long time schoolmate, The Met Fan. I constantly tell M.F. (‘M.F.’ meaning ‘Met Fan’) that “G” wants to see him, I mean really bad. I asked him, ‘when you gonna see her’? His reply, “No time soon”. I asked M.F. ‘why’? M.F. looked at me like I was a Nazi Interrogator “and said, “I don’t wanna talk about it”.

I told this to “G”, her eyes half squinted as she grinned, “he’s scared”, the grin faded from her face and she gave me a disappointed look. “G” said, “We’re not in grade school anymore, or junior high even…we’re here and its now!” I said, ‘I don’t know why M.F. won’t call or see you, he’s always been straight up, the high school super jock, All-American…’ “G” broke in and said, “that was then, who knows what happened to his balls in 30 years.” Now she looked totally wicked.

I didn’t have an answer as she glided up and down the bar, running it without hitch or glitch. I then realized how incredibly confident and self assured “G” was. The light lines in her face was from a life that made her tough, I knew this from an earlier conversation we had.

I knew “G” paid dues but she never let anything get her down. She’s the kind of woman who could subjugate a man. (Assumption: Is this what M.F. is scared of?) I wish I was M.F. Any man would be somewhat intimidated by “G”. Some men may fear getting used and/or ruined by a woman who could seduce anything that is minimally conscious. Maybe M.F. fears being ‘used’. I don’t know. But I wish I was him.

If I were M.F., I would tell “G”, in the words of Bill Withers “You just keep on using me until you use me up……Until you use me up”

Later….

Love.

R.J.

The Bird's Nest

A while back when I was living out in Ronkonkoma, there were not too many bars that my friends and I could drink in when we were sixteen. Go figure.

We did find this one spot, called the Bird's Nest right next to the Ronkonkoma train station. Now that I look back at it with my 40 yr old mindset, the location was perfect. The average 9-5er could get off the train at the Ronkonkoma Station, walk across the street, have a few pops and get a look at some bare-breasted "lovelies". Oh, did I forget to mention that it was a topless joint?

As far as the dancers go, the bulk of them were white trash with bad teeth and worse asses. The bouncer was ridiculously large. Not fat. Tall, with rippling muscles that were accentuated through the filthy sleeveless t-shirt and leather vest that he wore.

The barmaids were retired dancers that were just too old to make tips based upon their ass-ets anymore. They were an especially acerbic group. Embittered with harsh voices that came from years of smoking filter-less cigarettes. Their mouths would be crinkled and purple at the edges from so many hours of sucking, mostly cigarettes, but many times from sucking other things out in the backseats of patrons cars.

This is going back a ways. Circa 1983 or so. So you could still smoke in the bars. As a matter of fact, it was encouraged. I didn't smoke at the time, neither did any of my compadres. The overwhelming smells in this railroad shanty were those of smoke predominantly, but a strong mix of sweat and perfume was a close second. These smells were capped off with that sweet-sour smell of stale beer.

On this particular Friday night, (a hot, humid and steamy night I might add which really served to enhance the conflagration of bad aromas), the bar was packed. Lots of 9-5ers, but a good number of local bad-asses. It took forever to get up to the ramshackle bar to order a beer. As bad luck would have it, as we were ordering our drinks a group that had been seated at the bar, got up to leave. We scooted into the vacant barstools like it was a game of musical chairs.

As the night progresses we are drinking and tipping the dancers, who are shaking their golf ball dimpled asses on a ledge (read: extremely narrow stage) behind the bar. We're tipping not because they were semi-clad goddesses, but because the bouncer would have forced us to give up our seats to tipping customers.

While I am drinking my bottle of "What's the cheapest beer you sell here?", a dancer is having an argument with an intoxicated 9-5er standing over my left shoulder. Apparently she had flashed him a little more than the industry standard and he didn't tip her enough. This gets the attention of the sea hag behind the bar. She has some words for the guy, who has a "fuck you" kind of attitude.

You could see a little spark of life come into the old crone barmaids previously dead eyes. This she liked. This she relished. This asshole was representative of every guy who didn't tip her when she danced, who tried to slide a digit where it did not belong, of every guy who ever wronged her in her entire miserable existence. She summoned KONG.

Of course, his name wasn't Kong, though it could have been. Kong moved in quickly, belying his 6ft 5 frame. This was going to be better than any show the dancing gargoyles could provide.

Barmaid says with a hiss to Kong, "This guy blah blah blah."

Kong grunts, picks up a glass from the bar and bites into it. Really. Bites into it, chews a few times and spits the shards of glass at the drunk 9-5 guy. This didn't seem to faze the brass-balled commuter in the least, much to the amazement of Kong and the Sea Hag. In fact he starts in again. Now Kong is seething and decides to unleash some Hellfire in this guy's direction, er, my direction as well. Kong picks up a can of Aquanet hairspray that belonged to one of the dancers. The hairspray back then was in an aerosol can, providing a nice stream of shellac for those big-hair-do's of the era. Kong then retrieves his flip top Zippo from his leather vest pocket and deftly strikes it as he dispenses the VERY flammable hairspray. A fireball erupts from behind the bar. Quickly I ducked to my right. I could feel the heat of the fireball as it continued on into the direction of 9-5er. That was enough for him, for me, and for the Bird's Nest. He forked over whatever it was that he owed the girl, me and my friends gave up our barstools and bolted for the exit. Ah, the good old days.