Henry took his customary seat at the pub with his usual gravity, facing the scene outside the window with some concern.
For months now the signs had been up advertising the new venture, but Henry had chosen to willfully disbelieve them. He secretly hoped they wouldn't find the financing...but it appeared that whatever company funded this development had deep pockets.
"I wish I had a beer to cry in," he remarked.
His longtime friend Ralph, who had been sitting there viewing the same tableau, answered "You do."
At that same moment, the barmaid parked a cold one next to his left elbow, the one he didn't use to talk with.
"Now that's service!" cried Henry. Cecelia sketched a mock-curtsey and made her way back to the bar for another order, batting her baby blues at them over her shoulder as she went, mysteriously wending her way through bodies without incident despite the large aluminum tray she was carrying.
"I dunno..." began Ralph. He drank some. "This place may not be a bad idea after all. It isn't like we have peace and quiet here, any more."
"True." Henry nodded, his glasses slipping down his nose a little. He pushed them back up with a wrinkled forefinger. "I can see that side of it, and it will likely bring jobs and money into town. But I don't think I'll go...not that I have anything against girls in tank tops and shorts, but I'm an old time guy, and that's a fact."
He drained his glass, put it down, and commenced tapping the countertop to make his point. "This here joint is good enough for me, and it has been for fifty years."
Ralph nodded, once. "I can't but agree."
My date was watching the records spin on the jukebox and moving her shoulders to the music. She wasn't much for conversation, I had found in the brief time we had known one another. Still, she was young and pretty and reasonably intelligent. That she was choosing to invest her affections in me made me wonder a little about that last...but I did feel fairly comfortable with the situation.
Ralph and Henry continued in the same vein for a while...I had heard their arguments before, quite a few times. Elizabeth hadn't, though, and she was eyeing them, still moving her shoulders to the music, a dance tune I had never heard before.
"I remember," she said. "When I was real small, my grandfather used to take me on walks, long walks around the neighborhood. It was just beginning to change, and you could still do that."
She lit a Marlboro light, exhaled.
"We used to start at his house and go around Archer avenue past the bowling alley, just stopping in for a chat with his buddies at each tavern. There were all kinds of men from the factories in those places, them and truck drivers...big hairy chested guys that pounded boilermakers for an hour after work and then went home to face the wife. But they were always nice to me, and bought me soda pops and Cracker Jack." She dimpled, smiling saucily.
"Cracker Jack is my favorite. We used to walk to the factory and get it warm and fresh from the oven."
By now I was completely open-mouthed. Not only was the story compelling, but those were more words than I had heard Beth say in a month. I held up fingers for another beer and another pinot noir.
She went on, sighing musically. Her face was lit up from within, and I could see it glowing through her eyes. "We used to get Tootsie Rolls too. I would ride my little bike, wearing this gigantic orange sweatshirt.
"I was bad," she laughed, and touched my hand. I looked up at her. "There were lots of times I went to both Cracker Jack and Tootsie Roll." She made a face, which resolved into a winsome pout. Her lip pooched out a little more.
"But then," she mock-sobbed. "Then we had to move."
What a great little storyteller. People can really surprise you sometimes.
"That was when." Her eyes lit up again, and she broke into a huge toothy grin that made me see the little girl she had been in her face. "When I discovered BOOKS! Ooops..." She clapped her hand over her mouth and ducked her shoulders. "I guess I was kinda loud, huh? Sorry."
Cecelia delivered the drinks. "Books are good," she said. "I read to my kids every night."
"Me too," responded Beth. "I love it. It makes me relax and imagine, too." She left a hefty tip.
"Thanks...?" Cecelia raised an eyebrow.
"Beth...Elizabeth."
"Ah. Cecelia. See ya around. You too," she added, batting her famous eyes at me. "Jack."
Cece was too much. She always was. Too much for me back then, a tempestuous woman with a crazy streak and wild impulses, just about to turn thirty and terrified, newly-divorced...it wouldn't have worked out no matter what. We didn't have much each other needed. Except sex. But that was a pretty convincing substitute for a while, until we each found someone better-fitted and drifted apart.
Beth was looking at me. "You two used to go out."
I nodded.
"I could tell. She still has feelings for you."
"What, the batting the eyes? That's her trademark-her lashes are her pride and joy. Well, that and her nails."
"No..not that. Not any single thing, just the way it added up."
"Hmm." I drank a little. "Women's intuition. Here's to it." I upended my glass.
Beth was giving me the killer look.
"You better not be picking on me."
"I'm not..."
"Ok. Well, back to the story...I learned how to read by taking those walks, the big letters on the sides of trucks were my primer, and menus were my study guide. Those were great walks, and great little neighborhood bars, like this one. My grandpa had his favorite...a hole in the wall just south of the park, which would have made it 55th street and maybe Kildare or Kostner. Antonio's, it's called. Tiny pizza joint that hopped like mad on Fridays and Saturdays when the kids were out of school, with a bar on the side where all their mas and pas would be.
"I used to go back, once or twice a year, when I got older, and sit and drink there. Nobody bothered me. Wonderful place...sure, every once in a while some couple would whale on each other and the cops would come, but they'd be back an hour or so later, sitting together at the bar again.
"Great place on a Tuesday or Wednesday, some dreary spot in the middle of the week. Go out and have four or five martinis, shoot some pool with the old men who would flirt like mad and make me laugh. I felt so safe there..."
She sighed again, eloquently.
"Hey!" she yelped. "There's a thought." She got up and manuevered her way to a brief conference with Cecelia.
"Sorry," she said, sitting down again. "Anyway, I felt good there, as long as I didn't go too often. I knew someone would drive me home if I drank too much, and nobody would be really hitting on me...it made me feel girlish, at a time when I needed to. But I can't go there any more."
"Why not?"
"It was replaced by a Hooters," she said evenly.
"Like the one they're building across the street?"
"You men are so dense. Did you read any of those signs?"
I thought for a minute. I really hadn't, and said so.
"Dumbass," she laughed. "The name of the place is Titters. It's a club featuring female entertainment...comediennes and singers, the occasional stripper for grins. It isn't a Hooters. It's run by women for women, and is tasteful as hell."
I raised an eyebrow at her vehemence.
She smiled back. "The plan is, the plan that Cece and I have, is to convince Henry and Ralph that Titters is a good place. We're inviting them to a game of pool with us. Cece is getting us a table."
This was getting confusing. "But I thought the point of your story was that you understood what they were saying..."
She was shaking her head. "Dense. Don't know how to ask questions."
"Huh?"
"Jack, when did you meet me?"
"Three months ago."
"When did you start seeing those signs?"
It was beginning to dawn on me. "About three months ago?"
"Jack, what do I do for a living?"
I had never thought of asking, figuring she would tell me when she thought I needed to know.
"I don't know..." I volunteered meekly.
"Jack, Jack, Jack. Poor Jack. I don't know why we put up with you men. I manage that place. I also do comedy. I've even stripped once or twice, at the old one in Chicago."
A surprise a minute, this girl.
Once I picked my jaw up off the floor and fastened it back on, it was time to shoot pool.
It appeared that Ralph and Henry were happy for a little diversion.
Beth was most obliging.
We played eight-ball, no slop, and the sides were pretty even. Ralph was wondering aloud why we had asked them to play, and Beth favored them with the same story as she had told me, in between shots.
"You need protection from him?" Henry jerked his thumb at me. "I've been knowing that whippersnapper since he was kneehigh to a toadstool, and I know..." he arched his white eyebrow significantly."Know he's trouble."
Beth laughed and touched his arm. "No, silly. I don't need protection from him. I just like older men."
"You're bad."
"Yes." And she flounced off to clear the table again.
We had a fine time, playing for beer, laughing at old jokes for a couple of hours.
Beth told the guys we had to go.
"We'll miss you," said Henry. "Will you come again?"
She dimpled again. "Of course. But boys," she said with a wicked little grin, "the next game will be at my place. You'll come, won't you?"
"Of course we will." They nodded in unison.
"Ok. Now here's the catch."
"Catch?" managed Ralph, wiping his hands on his trouser legs.
"Catch. It's across the street." She indicated the sign. "That's my place. It isn't what you think."
"That's okay." Henry was laughing. "We'd made up our minds to go anyway. Never too old for pretty girls."
She laughed hard, the peals tinkling prettily. "I knew you would. Just like I knew Jack would go home with me if I asked him." She looked at me.
"Wait," I spluttered. "When did you ask me?"
"Just now," she replied, just as Henry was asking "How did you know?"
"Because," she said, an even bigger and more mischievous girl-grin appearing on her freckled face. "Old dogs can't change their spots."
That was as good an exit line as I ever heard. We vamoosed.
Currently undergoing revision, this is the first draft, from 2001.
