Patton Lee Beaugus | November 27, 2010 1:45amHome For The Holidays
It was a cold Christmas Eve. Once again, I was spending
the evening with all my friends and relations. I was alone in a booth in a dive bar in Hell’s Kitchen with my computer, a sci-fi paperback book I’d read three times before, and a beer.
I was listening to Eartha Kitt on the jukebox because a babe with more cash than me had played it. But as 'Santa Baby' was my favorite Christmas song, I fantasized she had played it just for me. To soften me up, so she could have her way with me.
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If you'd like to descend to on the same astral plan I was lounging on, I suggest you pour yourself a pint of beer, and listen to Eartha softly in the background as you read. Or turn her off, if your multitasking skills aren't up to it. |
She was way too young and way too hot for me to talk to, but it just so happened that I have what it seems a lot of women in Rudy’s who can't afford pdas want from a stud like me — access to the web to check their email.
I’d soon hear that this hyperactive grad student fantasized that she was an enforcer of a nefarious gang called the BuddaBings, which she would claim was part of the notorious GalMauro Crime Family. Maybe it wasn’t that much of a fantasy. But I wouldn’t find out one way or the other until the last few seconds of that particular Christmas Eve.
When she saw me in my regular booth at Rudy’s, the big one in the back where I can plug into a power source, she sorta smiled at me. It was one of those crooked little smiles that if I were under 30 again instead of double that, would have meant something. But I knew from experience that it only meant she wanted something. But that’s okay with me. Whatever I have left, pretty young women with strawberry blonde hair and pretty legs in pretty short miniskirts and high black boots can have — with seconds. Assuming I could come up with seconds.
If I had business card with an office address, it’d
be Rudy’s Bar in Hell’s Kitchen. Rudy’s had everything including
inspirational characters Damon Runyon would have loved. Old
Westies. Actors, some of whom even work. Dealers. Hookers,
pro and prosumer. Unemployed musicians. Songwriters looking for a cut to reinvigorate a career that wasn't ever vigorated. Guys on SSI who seemed
to live in the last century. Dudes with handles like Jersey
Mike, Little George, Guru, Georgie The Hat, Panama, Gianni Pasta, and the Colonel. Then
there’s Danny the Manager who looks like he stepped out of
a Barbershop quartet. I must mention Yolanda the cutie barmaid,
who remembers what everybody drinks. And then there are semi-retired, and semi-employed guys
like me looking for a warm place to waste away a winter afternoon
or evening. 
Other advantages of Rudy’s Bar included the beers, which were the cheapest in NYC, a restroom that wasn’t the cleanest, and hot dogs that were the freeist — with mustard, yet!
But wait, there was more! I got a free WiFi connection to hook up on the web, and if I timed it right so I get this big booth in the back, I could get a power hook-up.
In addition to all this, if I wanted to go upscale using my EBT food-stamp card, I could walk down the street to the market and bring back a jar of Planters cashews without Yolanda or Danny giving me any static. Rudy’s was practically heaven for a semi-almost-not-quite-derelict Blogger like me. And quite inspirational. And as this was Christmas Eve in the early evening, it wasn’t as crowded as it usually is with the Yuppie night crowd, so I got my big booth.
The young lady in the red miniskirt, showing a matching colored bra under her thin white blouse, took a look at what looked like an iPhone and then walked directly over to my booth and said, “Hi.”
That’s all she had to say. I said, “Yes.” “Yes? To what?”
“Whatever.”
“I think you’re too easy.”
“The easiest,” I agreed. Why play hard to get when there isn’t that much to get anymore.
She bent over a bit letting me ogle the lace on her red bra, “Are you like on the web?” she whispered. She smelled a bit like pine. Like a Christmas tree that’d just been watered.
“Yeah.” I wanted to say something really witty and charming, but I said, “Yeah.”
The blonde leaned over, rubbed her finger across the top of my Mac, and asked, “Can I check my email?”
“Sure.” I considered making a comment about the speed of my hook-up and the size of my ram, but I resisted, as neither is any more impressive than my other attributes.
She sat down at the booth and gave me a bit of a hip bump to move me over. I love this bar. Of course, other than Yolanda the bartender, there weren’t that many pretty ladies to get hip-bumped by, and I only got hip-bumped by Yolanda in my fantasies. I watched the hip-bumper as her fast fingers frolicked over my keyboard. Okay, maybe she just typed, but in my imagination what she was going at least as far as frolicking fingers.
The guys at the bar were giving me an number of different looks, ranging from curious to dirty. I assumed Kennedy and some of the other Yahoos had tried buying her a drink and failed. I smiled.
Her email name seemed to be GunMolly. Yes, I peeked. So, I’m nosy. At least I didn’t spend the whole time checking out her red half-bra, yes it was half and the other half was her. I even barely glanced at the tops of her thighs between her red-striped stockings and what dreams are made of. At least my dreams.
