Chollywood

It seems like yesterday. It seems like thirty years ago.

Tony and I just finished work early Saturday afternoon delivering restaurant linens and uniforms. It was time for day drinking. Tony had a place. A place he was dying to show me. I was new to the job and the area. He said I was going to love it. He was right.

He took me to a shady neighborhood. Nothing new for us. But I hadn't been to this locale ever. And when I say shady, I mean there were no trees. No tall buildings. The sun isn't even allowed to shine in this neighborhood. But shady as hell it was. It felt as though there were eyes upon us that we couldn't see. Unseen people lurking in the alleys, corners, shadows. I felt a little uneasy, and it was broad daylight. I had to ask Tony where we were headed. I didn't see a bar when he told me to pull over and park. Right here, he said as he pointed to the corner house on the block of rundown row homes. As we rounded the corner on foot I heard the music. Love Hurts by Nazareth. Muted and muffled by the bricks and mortar but clear enough to get my head bobbing jussst ssso. I saw the small non-descript sign above the side door. Charlie's Pros. Tony raised his eyebrow toward the sign as he held the door for me. His grin widened as I approached and then entered the next chapter of my life.

It was packed, bright, and LOUD. My head bob got bigger. My grin, wider. Ooooh, Oooooooh Love Hurts, Nazareth pounded it out. It was elbow to elbow with the toughest looking blue collar guys from Norht East Philly. And some women too.

The first woman I saw welcomed us as soon as we walked in. Tooooony!, she bellowed enthusiastically. I forget her name, if I even caught it. Tony sure knew it. They embraced and small talked while I took in the scene.

Friendly day drinking like it was New Year's Day or St. Patty's Day. Jovial. No expensive pretense here. Flannel shirts, trucker hats, dirty work uniforms, linoleum floor, ticky-tack wall paneling, outdated and mismatched barstools, and the smell of beer and cheap perfume or disinfectant. Because of the music and the boisterous conversations the noise level made it impossible to concentrate. My head was on a swivel. The place had the feel of an indoors Mummer's Parade. Bright lights, loud music, garish stripper outfits and booze. Lots of it. A unique, Philadelphia blend of cheap, raunchy, blue collar fun; jovial camaraderie; sexploitation; and a dash of 'watch out you may end up dead tonight' thrown in for seasoning. Tony made his way to an opening at the bar while I gazed, amazed, at what was taking place at Charlie's Pros.

Behind the middle-aged beauty sporting the double D's that greeted Tony at the door were more strippers working the crowded bar. On both sides of the bar. Hugging and flirting with the guys. Any guy. All the guys. Tony yelled my way, Mike...Yeungling?

I looked his way to nod affirmatively but stopped short of that simple task. Leaving Tony hangin' on my answer. He flipped up his hands, meaning whaddaya want? I didn't answer because I saw a woman in her twenties walk up the four stairs to a stage directly behind the bar.

A big mirror covered the wall behind the stage, making the place look double its size. One pole, directly in the center of the stage. Tony wanted to know what I wanted to drink. I wanted to know this woman's name. This woman's life. How her tall, lanky body felt against mine when we embraced. When we slowed danced in the kitchen. When we made love.

She coyly smiled and giggled as she took the stage, her long, bouncy, bleach blond hair bobbing and moving to the rhythm of her long high-heeled stride. She took the stage. She took her time. She took me with her. She took me with her as her long, slender legs lackadaisically guided her to the pole. She pulled my inner being, my heart and my soul, right up on stage with her. [Thisclose] to her. Her hair, like Medusa's, grabbing my head and pulling it closer and closer. She took hold of the pole with one hand and walked around it in a slow, taunting circle. Flirting with her smile, with her unattainable bedroom eyes. She took over Charlie's Pros. She took over the universe. My universe.

Her name's Tuesday, Tony said as he handed me a cold beer. Tuesday? Wonder what her real name is, I said back to Tony or to myself, I can't remember.

In a reedy southern drawl she announced to the patrons, Well, isn't anyone going to buy me a drink? (Oooh, Oooh…) I offered up my cold beer like the goody-two shoes sitting in the front row of class. Shooting my hand up like the teacher just asked a homework question. (...Love Hurts)

Now there's a gentleman. That drawl, I couldn't make out if it was real or put on. But so goddamn adorable either way. She languidly strode from the stage to the connected bar to where I was standing, beer raised in her direction. The makeup on her face was unnecessarily heavy. Glaring, fire engine red lipstick. Blue eye shadow matching her daisy dukes. Hydrogen peroxide bleached waves of hair and bangs. Dark roots unapologetically showing. When she was real close, right before she leaned over to take the beer, she produced a genuine smile. Big and toothy. To me. I wasn't the only thing standing at attention then. You just know a genuine smile from a fake. You do. It's innate. The smile revealed a slight overbite and a couple of slightly crooked teeth. Maybe the heavy application of makeup was to compensate for that. It was noticeable, yes, but in no way unattractive. I think it made her even more attractive. Unique. Adorable. Cute. Shy?, hell no. Bold?, hell yes.

There was no mistake. I loved this woman. (Ooooh, Ooooh…)

Thanks, sugar, she purred in that drawl. She straightened up, standing tall. About five foot seven, five-ten in her heels. Long and lanky, but sinewy. Toned and strong. Statuesque. An apocalyptic Statue of Liberty. An earthy representation of freedom. She swigged the beer without taking her eyes off of me. Michael, she purred once again, this is a mighty fine beer. Thank you, kind sir. My work shirt had a nametag on it. She was good, I'll give her that. She had me and she knew it. And I sure as hell didn't mind. You're welcome, was my witty reply. I was hoping to say something else, needing to say something else, but my mind went blank. I was frozen until Tony nudged me. I guess you need another beer, loverboy, he mocked, this round's on you, cuz. Tuesday raised a flirty eyebrow his way, Toooony!, she sang out. Hey Tuesday, you're lookin' good, Tony reported. Aw thanks, hon. Is Michael over here your friend?, she asked with a glance at me. Tony nodded as he pulled a long guzzle from his beer and scanned the room. I'm Tuesday, she obliged to me with a southern lady hand-offering. I took her hand and kissed it, I'm Mike. She beamed, You're fresh, is more like it. I liiike that. I'm gonna call you Michael, if you don't mind. That's what your nametag says, and I like that better anyway. Is That alright...Mike---ull? I nodded like a Pavol dog. See you around, Tony's friend~Michael, said she in a singsong voice, stepping over Tony's beer. She continued down the bar stepping over patron's drinks as if she was strolling down the sunny side of the street on the first real warm day of spring.

I went back to Charlie's whenever she danced. Sometimes with Tony. Sometimes solo. A small blackboard was set up behind the bar with the dancers' schedule. Monday lunch through Saturday late night. A convenience I appreciated. Aside from the Saturday afternoon shift, Tuesday usually worked a couple of lunch shifts during the week. I rerouted my deliveries on those days so I could catch her. Flirty conversation and a beer or two on the clock? Absolutely. I was a linen guy not a brain surgeon. She had a cute way of turning me down whenever I asked her out. It never dissuaded me, though, from asking again and again. As if...(with a little extra twang in her accent) was how she started the 'sorry to inform you' declination. A spark existed between us, however. I knew this. And I'm pretty sure she did too. Persistent was I. I always checked the blackboard and I always paid a visit.

Our first dinner together was pretty unique. One late afternoon being as persistent as ever, I asked Tuesday if I could cook her dinner. She asked what I would be cooking. Pork chops, I said confidently. Oh, Michael (she always pronounced Michael as if it was spelled with two i's instead of one), I would but I'm a vegetarian, she chided. Persistent, witty, and fast thinking, I snapped back, Pasta! I'll make spaghetti and meatballs! As if!, she blurted with a snort that made us both laugh. She hoisted her backpack, full of stripper outfits, high and tight on her back and adjusted her denim jacket. Hair dangling and dancing like a marionette as she playfully shook her head. No meatballs, I pleaded. As if, silly, I'm a (extra twang) goddam carnivore, she mocked with her marionette hair kicking it up a notch. Two dancers just hit Charlie's stage dressed in Woodstock outfits. In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida was their opening song and Tuesday's head started bopping in time. Marionette hair dancing an unchoreographed masterpiece. C'mon, she ordered, with a nod to the side door and a final flourish of the dancing hair. Tuesday was out the door in a quick flash. I turned to put my empty beer bottle on the bar. There was a different marionette show going on behind the bar on stage. I'm guessing it was an epic show, I wasn't hangin' around for it. I had a date that I was not going to be late for. I popped up off the stool and popped out the door in a quick flash myself. I stopped abruptly as Tuesday was standing right outside the door, facing me. We looked into each others eyes, not saying anything. Unseen things were becoming apparent. Our brains were synching up. In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida was muted now, but prevalent. It filled the vacuum that was the world around us. As the moment lingered I thought maybe Tuesday was having second thoughts on our dinner date. But her face, her demeaner, body language, her eyes said other words. They said we belonged to be together. Very close together. As the suspense of the song's bass line intensified we inexplicably moved a little closer to each other. Hands reaching out, as if guided by invisible fairies, and touching. Feeling with touch what our brains were feeling with logic. What our hearts were feeling with emotion. As In-A-Gadda's organ solo heightened Tuesday finally broke our silence by saying, I've got one condition. No, two. Two conditions on dinner tonight. Thank god, I thought. She wasn't bailing. And whatever the conditions were, they were going to be met. Okay, I stoically responded as In-A's bombastic guitar melody powerfully sludged on, metaphysically altering our lives, in our discrete universe.

One, she dictated with an upheld index finger, you're making pork chops. Done!, I pledged. The music swelled in it's simplistic, haunting rhythm. Circling around us. Heightening and intensifying. Circling us with an invisible lasso, also guided by invisible fairies or metaphysical hocus pocus. Tightening. Bringing us closer. Closer. Closer. She flicked up a second finger then paused as if she had forgotten what she was going to say. Closer, the lasso tightened. We looked to her fingers, suspended in animation, and then back to each other. We broke out in the giggles. And two?, I prompted. And two, said she, recomposed and semi-serious, we eat dinner in the nude. Naked. ( Ooooooh, Ooh...Love Hurts) We kissed for the first time. Our discrete universe now etched in time and space for all of everything to witness and see over and over again, for eternity. I was Adam. Tuesday was Eve. Pork chops were an apple. In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida's drum cymbals crashed all around us.

The pork chops were great. The conversation was even better. We were a caveman couple with the ability the express ourselves through words and not cave paintings. My favorite story was her telling of The Chollywood Squares. Hollywood Squares was a bad television game show featuring B level celebrities and worse. Cholly is the proper way to say Charlie in the hardscrabble neighborhoods of Philadelphia. Tuesday and her coworkers renamed their seedy regulars in funny fashion to celebrities they closely resembled. I could just see Ernest Borgnine's doppelganger, Furnace Burgnine (this big ol' fat guy who worked for PGW), sitting at Charlie's, sweaty forehead and greasy work shirt, staring at Harold Burnett (the evening barmaid who looked like Carol Burnett's brother). Or Don Dick Knotts, this skinny goofball who resembled Don Knotts and reportedly, supposedly, had a thing for masturbating in the guys bathroom at Charlie's. Our conversation was spirited and fun. I asked her if they had a Chollywood name for Tony. She almost spit out a mouthful beer. I'll tell you later. Much later, she struggled to say as she laughed beer up through her nose. She had a lively sense of humor and we reveled in our funny stories.

It was a fun night. We did eat dinner in the nude. And without silverware, which was an impromptu third condition she had proposed. Definitely a caveman couple, flailin' around in the nude holding oven baked pork chops in one hand and cold beers and joints in the other.

We didn't make love that night, however.

Not.

As if.