“Gawd,” Mrs. Feeley sighed, “ain’t travel broadenin’?”
Dave came back and Crusher pulled the table out for him.
“How’s the chicken? Anythin’ you don’t see, ask for. That’s us.”
“It’s good,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“From her, that’s lugs,” Mrs. Feeley said.
Dave looked refreshed.
“Having such nice company, I hate to leave,” he said. “I sure hope we meet again. I haul to the Coast lots. My vacation’s week after next.”
“I wager you will take your own car and drive to Canada,” Miss Tinkham said.
“Busman’s holiday,” he grinned. “I was plannin’ to drive to Mexico.”
“You gotta go through San Diego to get there!” Mrs. Feeley shouted.
“El Paso’s nearer,” Dave said.
“But you wouldn’t see us! We’ll give you a time, boy. You know what the song says: ‘You got the money, Honey, we got the time’! You can stay at the Ark with us. We know damn near every sailor in the fleet and all the joints. Mrs. Rasmussen’d cook you a dinner…”
“For you I’d make my mushroom soufflé an’ little baby zucchini pancakes an’ a stuffed boneless capon with orange sauce and strawberry guavas on the side.”
“Have to transfer my Union card to a West Coast local,” Dave laughed.
“By God, boy, it’s the plain unvarnished truth.” Mrs. Feeley banged down her empty glass. “We like you.”
Miss Tinkham was scrabbling in her bag for her silver pencil. On the back of a folded card advertising a lethal pink, concoction called The Angel’s Kiss Special…Mellow Rum…Sloe Gin…Passion Fruit Juice…and Southern Comfort…$1.50. Try It. A Shock Absorber Between You and Life. You’ll Never Be Without It. RECOMMENDED FOR HANGOVERS. You Will Have The Hangover, But You Won’t Feel It!
“Interesting, if true,” Miss Tinkham murmured. “Here, David, is the address and all our names. From here we are going to St. Louis, along Route Forty, then to Oklahoma City. Our next stop is Amarillo. From Amarillo we go to Tucson, and then to the best of all possible spots on earth, San Diego!”
“There’s lots easier ways.” Dave folded the paper and put it in his pocket. “Those aren’t all extra-good places to stop,” he said.
“If Miss Tinkham tells you that’s how we’re going, that’s how the map says we’re going—an’ right on schedule too,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“I’ll be thinking of you going through all those towns in between. I know ’em all well. I really gotta be goin’.”
“You’re gettin’ no nearer fast,” Mrs. Feeley laughed. “Hate to see you go.”
“Wish I could see the floor-show with you; be nice to hear your opinion of it.”
“Do you dance, Dave?” Miss Tinkham said.
“No, ma’am,” Dave said. “I never dance unless I’m drunk an’ there’s no use to dance then.”
“I see what you mean,” she said. “‘Speed like the chariot of the sun’!”
“Lady, we’re off that Turnpike! No more speeding for me. Sure enjoyed knowing you. I know we’ll meet again. Don’t let Crusher shake you down, because I took care of the whole thing.”
“You didn’t give us your home address.” Mrs. Rasmussen brought out Mr. Flink’s card and Dave wrote on the back of it.
“This is the name an’ address of the trucking firm in case you can’t reach me at home,” he said. “When Dave Linwood makes friends, it’s for life. If you need help at any time, they can always tell you where I am, or just about. Lots o’ luck to you. Don’t forget to holler if you need help.”
“Us?” Mrs. Feeley laughed. “Boy, we keep our snouts in our own trough and never get involved with nothin’. We’ll be home before you know it an’ have everythin’ ready for a royal welcome for you! Thanks for showin’ us this den of unique-quity, as Miss Tinkham calls ’em—think we’re gonna like the show. We’ll prolly make a night of it, now we’re woke up! Thanks again.”
“Take Time To Be Holy.” Mrs. Rasmussen pumped his arm. “Drive safe.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a buttery male voice oozed from a microphone, “the floor-show will begin in five minutes. Please order your drinks now, as no waitresses will be allowed on the floor after the lights go on.” Mrs. Feeley could make out a platform raised about a foot from the floor.
“The musicians are coming in”—Miss Tinkham had quite forgotten her sleepiness—”How fortunate that we are so close to the stage. We shan’t miss anything.”
“Better get that there Gloria to bring us another shell o’ malt,” Mrs. Feeley said. Crusher Dasey cruised up with a card in his hand.
“If you’ll just register here,” he said, “that’ll be four dollars.” Mrs. Feeley shoved the card over to Miss Tinkham. She hesitated a moment.
“I don’t know Mr. Feeley’s first name,” she murmured.
“What’s the diff,” Mr. Feeley’s widow said. “He ain’t here.”
“Dear lady, never would I be guilty of the arch-vulgarism of writing your name as Mrs. Annie Feeley. There is no such creature in the world. No well-bred person ever uses the title Mrs. and a woman’s first name. It is the mark of the hinterlands, provincial and tacky. If you choose to sign your name Annie Feeley, that is perfectly correct. But Mrs. Annie Feeley—over my dead body!”
“Not so much etiquette,” Crusher said, “the license number is the main thing.”
“Pat Feeley was his name.”
“Mrs. Patrick Feeley and…family,” Miss Tinkham said. “I don’t know the license number.”
Mrs. Rasmussen produced the pink ownership slip:
“Copy it off’n here,” she said. She handed Crusher four dollars: “Where’s the receipt?”
“This is all you need.” He handed her a key. “Lemme know if everythin’ ain’t just right. I put the roll-away in for yez.”
The lights were going up and Mrs. Feeley began to look around. The place was very large and every table crowded.
“Gawd, ain’t they all young?” Miss Tinkham looked with interest at the patrons—many of them seemed to be under high-school age.
“Surely there is a law forbidding minors to enter an establishment such as this. And those foul concoctions in front of them. Everyone of them seems to have ordered an Angel’s Kiss. Just the sight of it would make me shudder, even if I had not read the ingredients listed on the card.”
“Ain’t they dumb-lookin’?” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Look like first-class dopes to me.”
“Aw, just a bunch o’ them low-grade Morans Miss Tinkham is always talkin’ about. They wouldn’t get served in San Diego—not even beer.” The Dixieland Five, black and shiny, broke into sudden cacophony.
“Ja-da!” Miss Tinkham recognized it. The drummer fascinated Mrs. Feeley with his assortment of pots, kettles and something that looked like dried human skulls. He twirled and banged blissfully, opening his mouth like a rhinoceros, displaying one gleaming incisor in his upper gum.
“Lackawanna! Ain’t he got a beautiful set o’ tooth?” Mrs. Feeley said. The audience was too lethargic to applaud.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Uremia De Brie…Strip Tease-euse Extraordinaire!” Old-Timer leaned forward in his chair. The Dixieland Five began playing “I Wanna Be Loved” in a suggestive rhythm. The plushy male voice purred the malodorous words.
“Ten’ll get you five it’s that same jerk that done the announcin’,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
Mrs. Feeley nodded. She was busy looking at Miss Uremia De Brie, who had begun a mincing, smirking ascent to the platform. She was a flaccid, slabsided, sad-eyed woman with hair the color of applesauce. She wore dirty high-heeled pink satin shoes and five balloons.
When she smiled, her mouth slid in one direction and her eyes in the other.
“Three ’crost her chest an’ two where she needs ’em most,” Mrs. Feeley laughed. “Hope to Gawd she don’t have a puncture!”
For eight bars of the song Uremia writhed and sang in a razo
r-edged soprano, then coyly let loose one of the balloons. The overheated air of the night club carried it to the ceiling. None of the patrons even reached for it. There was a faint spatter of applause, mostly from the help. Uremia did an untidy split and let go another of the pectoral globes.
“Ecdysiast!” Miss Tinkham said.
“Dizzy what, Miss Tinkham?” Mrs. Feeley said. “Sometimes I wonder where the hell a lady like you picked up all them expressions.”
“Oh,” Miss Tinkham said, “at my mother’s knee—or some other low joint.”
“I knew she’d have a brasseer on under ’em,” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
“The author of the Song of Songs did not have her in mind when he mentioned apples,” Miss Tinkham said.
Suddenly there was a pop and Uremia reached an anguished hand in the direction of Lower Basin Street. The crowd began to shriek with unkind laughter. Uremia emitted a howl of pain and moved her hand to another portion of her anatomy. Crusher Dasey rushed to the platform amid the cheers of the audience.
“Do it again!” they shouted. The band couldn’t play for laughing and Uremia stood in the middle of the platform sobbing.
“Whoever done it’s gonna get killed in the head…by me!” Crusher roared through the mike.
Mrs. Feeley made a quick lunge and reached under the table.
“Just what I thought.” She dragged Old-Timer’s hand to the top of the table and removed a thick rubber band from it. “Slingshot rubbers, huh. What was it this time? Fence staples? Carpet tacks?” Old-Timer opened his other hand and showed her three tightly squeezed beer-bottle caps.
“So. Beer caps. I mighta knowed.” She ran her fingers over the sharp, crimped edges. “How’d you like that against your tender, buck-naked hide from a distance of about ten feet?” Miss Tinkham felt the missile.
“Really, I thought it was part of the act.” She smiled.
“Don’t take up for him,” Mrs. Feeley warned. “He done it to the hula-dancer with the dirty feet in Tijuana one time, an’ we near landed in the clink.” Mrs. Rasmussen nudged Mrs. Feeley. Uremia was pointing at their table. Crusher helped her off the platform and came towards them.
“After we used you so good,” Crusher said mournfully. “Went and tried to bust up our little artiste here.” Uremia was sniffling and ruining the mascara on her beaded eyes.
“He didn’t mean no harm,” Mrs. Feeley said. “He ain’t bad, just boar-brained. She’s a pretty temptin’ dish.” Under her breath she muttered to Miss Tinkham, “Gawd forgimme for lyin’!”
“Mr. Dasey.” Miss Tinkham put up her lorgnette. “You must admit that the bit of impromptu by-play added a certain something that was definitely lacking in the, shall we say, somewhat passée performance. Just consider the applause Miss De Brie received from the unmusical! Personally, I found it a tremendous improvement. Just as a token of our good will, we will make no charge for the use of the idea. Our friend will not object, or sue for his legal share in the use of this superb bit of business.”
“Have a beer,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Sit down, if you don’t think you’ll take cold on this hot leather seat.” Uremia slithered her nudity in beside Mrs. Rasmussen, giving Old-Timer a wide berth.
“I have a hard enough time putting my act over, the way it is,” Uremia sniveled. “Then he went and broke it up. A girl’s got to make her living.”
“I suppose you’re putting your son through college?” Miss Tinkham said.
“How did you know?” Uremia’s mouth hung open like a carp’s.
“I have never seen it fail; a son in college or a daughter in a convent.”
“Have a beer.” Mrs. Feeley flagged down the waitress.
“I will,” Uremia said, “only it’s so bad for my figure.”
The Dixieland Five was playing “The Muskrat Ramble.”
“The patrons don’t dance.” Miss Tinkham gazed at the glassy-eyed youngsters lolling over each other.
“They’re just drapes. Kids that saved their money to buy pegs. You don’t hardly see no squares in here.”
Mrs. Feeley looked blank.
“Like zoot-suiters; sharp dressers,” Uremia explained.
“Real dads,” Miss Tinkham said.
“You’re hep,” Uremia said.
“One reads the current publications,” Miss Tinkham said.
“Ain’t they minors?” Mrs. Feeley asked. “They couldn’t buy no drinks in San Diego—an’ every one of ’em has them zombie-lookin’ messes in front of ’em.”
“They all drink—their friends call them chicken if they don’t.”
“They should be going to square dances, drinking jumbo malts between sets,” Miss Tinkham said. “I suppose they think that’s corny. This smoke-laden atmosphere has a most acrid odor. I wonder what it can be? Would anyone care to accompany me to the Ladies’ Room?” Mrs. Feeley got up. They looked around and saw a door marked Rest Room. It bore a large, hand-lettered sign:
Gents!
In Here
One At A TIME!
If You Please!!
“Well!” Miss Tinkham was amused. “It must be this next one.” She opened a door decorated with a silhouette of a lady in a hoop skirt powdering her face.
“I sure thought Ol’-Timer had tore it,” Mrs. Feeley said.
“A pathetic type, really,” Miss Tinkham said. “An aging nude is total obscenity. I have always thought those ancient crones who totter about on their multiple varicose veins clawing the dirty dishes off the tables in the Automat were the most heartbreaking of all human flotsam, but this…”
“Ain’t it funny how they never done nothin’ useful in their whole life? I bet she can’t wash a dish or boil a egg. We better go back or she’ll know we’re talkin’ about her.”
“I’m sure we’re in for the story of her life.” Miss Tinkham smiled. “What I would really like to do would be to inject some new material, some timely and topical allusions, into that horribly mildewed act.”
The party at the table had increased by one. A stringy, nervous individual in a blue pin-stripe suit, pink sport shirt and no tie was sitting next to Old-Timer. He wore a bowler hat pulled down so far that it bent his ears in half. His complexion was fish-belly white and his eyes looked like boiled onions. He had a mouth like a chimpanzee’s, flared out and rolled back around the edges as though someone had run milliner’s wire around it. On his upper lip was a dark smudge that might have been a mustache, but looked more like a spot on a lump of dough where a careless cook had left a smudge with a dirty finger.
“This is my friend, Doctor Freemartin,” Uremia said.
“Indeed.” Miss Tinkham put up her lorgnette. “Doctor of what, might I ask?”
“Doctor of Psychiatry. I’m a psychoanalyst. Have my own clinic.” Dr. Freemartin produced a soiled card and handed it to Miss Tinkham: “Doctor Crudleigh Freemartin—my friends call me Lee.”
“That’s doin’ it the hard way,” Mrs. Feeley said.
Miss Tinkham looked Dr. Freemartin over carefully. “You must have kept up the payments on your car.”
“Car? Car? What car?”
“Exactly what I thought.” Miss Tinkham smiled. “That was free association. My head is up in the McLeods.”
“You need help,” Dr. Freemartin said. “Ever been analyzed?”
“Never,” Miss Tinkham said. “If you are so anxious to keep your hand in, you might try analyzing this exhibitionist.”
“Oh, her?” Dr. Freemartin dismissed Uremia with a wave of his hand. “She’s useful enough. Pretty badly mixed up. Clear-cut paranoic with a dash of schizophrenia.”
“We ain’t prudes,” Mrs. Feeley said, “but you watch your language; we don’t tolerate no square-words!”
“Ha-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-n-h.” Dr. Freemartin’s bray ended in a painful groan.
“Don’t do that again,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “Makes me nervis.”
“Nervous? Nervous? Do you ever dream of sliding down banisters? Climbing up a ladder? Paddling in a ca
noe trying to catch up with the Indians? You have a bad father fixation…”
“Let’s get outa here,” Mrs. Feeley said, “before the man with the white coat and the butterfly net comes after us.”
“He done me a lotta good,” Uremia volunteered. “I swore by astrology for the longest, then I took up vibrations, but there’s nothing like analysis. The things he brought up outa my subconscious…”
“I bet,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Quite a racket you got. The fortune-tellers’ noses is clear outa joint, ain’t they?”
“You make light of analysis, madam, but at this very moment you are the victim of a thousand conflicts, the results of personality disorders, which I could resolve for you in one couch séance.”
“Couch séance? How much you get for them?” Mrs. Feeley said.
“Whatever the traffic will stand,” Dr. Freemartin waved a manicured hand. “As little as ten dollars an hour, and as high as fifty dollars, depending on whether it’s a simple neurosis or a difficult psychosis.”
“Gawd,” Mrs. Feeley said piously, “an’ them girls out in the Fleet Rooms sweatin’ away for a measly five!”
Dr. Freemartin looked as though he were going to bray again, but Mrs. Feeley picked up a beer bottle.
“Laugh, an’ I’ll part your hair with this. If anything gets me browned off it’s somebody that laughs like they was in pain. I know three that does it—an’ mangier curs never lived.”
“Mangy? Mangy? That’s biologically exact.” Dr. Freemartin held himself down to a smile. “But you are the victim of infantile aggressiveness, and in the booze bazaars that can lead to complications.”
“Infantile, is it?” Mrs. Feeley said. “If I bring my left up from the floor, you’ll not feel nothin’ infantile in it.”
“And you,” Dr. Freemartin pointed at Old-Timer, “are subject to anachoresiphobia, responsible for many trucking accidents due to your reluctance to back up when facing adverse conditions.”
“Just because he busted her balloon?” Mrs. Feeley said.
“That,” Dr. Freemartin said, “was an out and out sexual assault.”
Wait For The Wagon Page 3
