View Full Version : From The TL;DR Files: Adam And Eva--TransFat Blues

Vieux Normand
3rd February 10, 12:34 PM
Fade in the "music":

VOCALIST: Oh, babyyyy! Baby youuuuuu done me wrong!
HARMONICA: Honkledieskweedat, honkledieskweedat.

Fade in the "atmosphere":

Smoking-bans being some years away yet, the ability to see one's hand in front of one's face in this heavenly haven are about the same as the probability of breaking up trouble before it turns into a brawl. Most of the lighting is unintentional: huge-boxlike TVs on scaffolding--this era's "big-screens" perma-tuned to hockey or what North Americans call "football--and the occasional boost of brilliance from passing truck-headlights or arriving hog-lamps.

VOCALIST: Oh, b-b-b-babyyyy, babyyyy y'donemewrong!
HARMONICA: Honkledieskweedat, honkldieskweedat.

Cues click on balls from way over at the pool table; noises that might be either coughing, laughing, vomiting or attempts at conversation (what passes for it hereabouts) issue from thevarious and sundry malodourous corners and tables. This is the kind of venue tailor-made for the phrase "belly up to the bar"...midriffs, spilling from beneath shirts, elephant-seal-blubbery and so hirsute that one can't even tell whether or not their owners are placental mammals, let alone human. These, however, are a perfect aesthetic match to the heads of the same worthies: mullets and flattops desperately teased up around widening areas of natural deforestation, other such areas covered in store-bought pompadours, mustaches under poorly-set broken noses everywhere.

VOCALIST: You gonna suck on my shotgun baby when I'm done this song.
GUITAR: Nardly-nardly-nardly-nar---dle---deeeee...

It's a five-hundred-capacity sports bar, and the smell of things dead and dumped tells us that we're almost within ahootin' an' ahollering distance of the Pacific. Having worked my way across this continent, mostly lost zee fronch accent, and intent on funding some west-coast hiking, I've worked this venue long enough not to be its newest bouncer. That would be Adam, stationed over by the juke-box under the torn posters and peeling paint, gazing longlingly at the double-plus-sized diva with the lazy eye, missing digit and multitracked arms.

Some guys are trying to dance. Think of the first two doomed souls in "Natural Born Killers" and you'll get the picture--complete with stained ballcaps and beer-bottle-as-stand-in-dick over unzipped jeans. A demin-clad "mushrat" (apologies to Walt Kelly) strawdles up to the bar where I'm stationed and demands, from the gap dividing a curtain of nut-brown teeth, that the barkeep provide a "shivering...shivering...
SHIVERING...can o' Strohs!!!". If Walt Kelly doesn't suffice for literary references, add some Jim Goad: "Heads shaped like all manner of squash and legume". That's this place.

Fade in the squeals issuing from the ladies' room.

The manager-on-duty (a woman whose face consists of dirty-blonde bangs meeting a granite-slab chin without much visible in between) and I look over in time to see a tight-jeaned, peroxide-furred exodus from same. This being before the age of female bar-security, she grabs me and the other stage bouncer and we violate the pristine sanctity of XX-chromosome central. Blinking the dimestore-fragrance, hairspray-essence and natural-ammonia-sting out of our eyes, we spot the cause of the commotion: in one of the stalls is a very, very full-bodied bleach-blonde with Tammy-Fay-Bakker eyes and a flower-print summer dress...this last hiked up over a hand in which a visible dong is emptying into the bowl.

MANAGER: What in fuckin' Hades are you doing in here? This is the ladies room in case you didn't notice."

PATRON: Hiiiiiii (what is it with fem-boys and overlong spoken vowels?), I'm Eva. My doctor told me I had to live like a woman for two years successfully before they'd do the surgery, so I'm--

ME: You're taking a standing piss?

MANAGER: Shit, no wonder all the others high-tailed it outta here.

EVA: Well, it it my fault there are no washrooms for people like me in places like this? My doctor says gender-identity is a whole continuum, not just two separate things, and everyone has a different place on it.

ME: Right, so, if this bar has 500 people in it, we need to have that many fucking washrooms? Yeah, maybe if we get rid of nonessentials, like the bar, or the stage, or...

MANAGER: Look, "Eva", just zip up and get out of the ladies'. Next time, use the mens'.

ME: Y'know, the room whose plumbing matches your plumbing?

EVA: But all those ruffians might beat me up or (a husky softness enters the voice) take turns raping me.

MANAGER: Tell you what--why don't we have one of the doormen escort you? We got enough guys on tonight that we can spare one, I think.

We exit the women's facility. Back in the main bar:

STAGE BOUNCER: Who we gonna use to escort this...person?

ME: Well, Adam--the new guy--seems to have an eye for the Rubenesque ladies.

MANAGER: We got ourselves a chub-chaser? Perfect! (She motions Adam over to our location).

ADAM: What's up?

ME: Adam, meet Eva.

Adam, er, sizes up his new acquaintance and is obviously pleased.

ADAM: How ya doin'?

EVA, eyes shining at her trim young escort: Hiiiiiii.

At the sound of this baritone greeting, one can almost hear the smile drop off Adam's face and hit the sticky tiles. The manager explains the situation to Adam, as well as describing his duty for the rest of the night.

ADAM: What...me? Why the fuck do I gotta...

Fade out.

Fade back in to near-closing-time. Before squeezing "her" delicate bulk out the main entrance, Eva flutters her reinforced-windshield-wiper lashes at our brave Adam and (this being the pre-cell era) hands him a slip of paper.

"Call me, okaaaaaaay?"

Paper in hand, Adam looks at us, the other doormen. We're very busy studying anything else in the room. We don't mention the hours during which our noob was the shoulder-to-cry-upon of that lovely collossus. Time to go home soon, or hit the nearest Denny's for breakfast. We'll buy Adam's brekkie--it's only fair (plus we don't want him quitting, in case Eva comes back).

This being years before the in-venue prominence of canned offerings from such as the Black-Eyed Peas (is there any sound they make that is not supremely annoying?), the soundtrack is provided by the, um, band:

BASS on B-flat, VOCALIST: Waaal beer! Beer! Beer! Beerbeerbeer...beer!

BASS on E-flat, VOCALIST: Y'knowwhatI'msayin'dontchababy!

BASS back to B-flat, VOCALIST: Beerbeerbeeeeeer...beer!

BASS on F, VOCALIST: Ohyeah! Fuckinyeah!

BASS on E-flat, VOCALIST: Ohyeah, b-b-babyyeah!

BASS back to where it all began, B-flat, VOCALIST: Beer!

Fade out.

3rd February 10, 01:39 PM
Soooo, how much is the cover charge for that fine establishment? I... have some friends that might be into that kinda thing... yeah.

Vieux Normand
3rd February 10, 02:47 PM
Soooo, how much is the cover charge for that fine establishment? I... have some friends that might be into that kinda thing... yeah.

West coast. More than twenty years ago. Maybe a fin on playoff nights.

Lights Out
3rd February 10, 06:13 PM
I find your little stories more and more enjoyable each time.

You should wirte them down (not only post them), check them and make a book out of them.

With the proper editing, I can see a decent novel in the making.