Burlesque - 2

With one sharp nod Bossman Phil restores order.

Valerie plucks the microphone from the piano top and Mr. Mottled hauls himself into the keys.

Dah dah dedah dah dah,

hips pound.

Dah dah dedah dah dah,

and breathe,

‘The minute he walked in the joint…’

Phil’s brow curls in rueful she’s-a-one admiration.

Babe, working on all avoidance cylinders scuttles to the cloakroom where cold water and silence run through her fingers.
« He wasn’t a busker! » Lame, but she feels better for it. Leaning on the enamel rim she dares a physical tally. Hair: ok. Face: will do. « Buggeration! » She peers down at her cherry smeared chest; « looks like I’ve been halving carcasses. » The evening had definitely not taken the turn she’d hoped.

Knowing any attempt at t-shirt salvage to be futile; Babe breathes in, counts to three and - doesn’t she ever get sick of being stalwart? - turns. The swing door thuds open. Mirror girl pinballs in; head flung back guffing and guffawing - the boss’ latest, latest favourite is evidently tickled, life it seems is just one giant sized hoot tonight. Rubber banding from toilet door to sink and jiggering to a cartoon standstill at the physical brake pad our waitress provides, she looks up, mouth chewing like excuses are just too damn tough. The dying cry of a shot filled buzzard rises and fades in her throat as the humour leaches, with all colour from her baby blush cheeks. A flicker of perdition and gush. A pina colada gulf stream explodes. Despite Babes nimble backstep she’s well and truly pollocked. « Oh no… »

****************************

Phil, leaning at the corner of the bar flexes an elegant hand and lays it flat. Fine fingers. His mother had caressed that hand, held it to her cheek. ‘You could be a pianist,’ she’d crooned. He closes fist and raps on the varnished wood. « Brian! »
Barman turned automaton with the carrot of hometime pendulous, pauses, the fluid choreography of stacking and clearing suspended.« Boss? »
« Get the lights. »
« Argh…oawah.. » A yelp and cry of disillusion rise from the motley crew of stragglers, intent for multifarious reasons on perpetuating their endless night. Scanning the crowd for potential problems Phil’s glance hovers over the stage where Mr.Mottled gently closes the piano lid, wipes hands on trousers and stands.( I could have been a pianist.) He’d laugh if he had the energy.

Never really comfortable in the absence of movement, impatience jerks as he continues scanning the room, searching out his planned downtime entertainment.

Flourescent lighting isn’t known for it’s compassion and tonight it makes no exception. Mirror girl totters uncertainly toward the bar, powder and paint thick and vivid; if anything un-doing the artful attempt to add ages. Even Phil is surprised, (My god she’s just a kid.) She catches his eye and flashes a smile displaying teeth so perfect, (they must have been in braces half her life.) As she nears, the sugary stench of Shalimar displaces, for one wistful moment, the steady and pervasive honk of vomit.

« Where’s the coke? »
Her smile wavers with concentration, she looks to her hand with an instinctive tracing of step, but all is confusion.
A rising wave of exhaustion and shame scales Phils back and settles conscientiously on his shoulder. « Never mind. Look, » he slides a crisp twenty out of his pocket «  for a cab eh? » He can’t be sure which will win the day, she looks deflated and relieved in equal measure, but if he is honest he doesn’t really care. Phil is long gone.

Spotting Val hunkered down at the end of the bar he walks over. « You seen Babe? »
« Nope. »
« Listen, » surrender, the only action open « would you mind shutting up shop? I feel like shit.» Valerie looks him hard in the eye.
« Go on then. »
He slides a set of keys along the counter and turns. As the door marked private closes behind him Val is already at the optics.
« A thank you wouldn’t go amiss darling boy.» As the vodka glugs over ice it re-opens.
Phil leans far enough around to be heard, « You’re drinking your thank you. »
He re-exits and she can just hear the soft thudding of his footfall on the steps up to the flat as she re-parks overlarge behind on undersized stool.
« The party’s over…de dah dah dooby doo doo… »

**********************

Babe has given over blubbing. She has slid down the wall and is crouching. The pinky yellow puddle has ceased to lap, it’s limit crusting like spent lava inches from her toes. As she disengages head from protective arm lock a brief flash of reflected light catches her attention. The page of a glossy magazine, folded, demi-plié, demi-plié, grand-plié, folded; flotsam on a sickly sea. You have to prick up your ears, but if you cock your head and listen hard, you, like Babe will hear its siren song. An origami wrap, semi sodden, a blotter, swollen with Colombian pride. ahhheeehaeeeaah…

Sitting on her heels in the darkest depths of the Burlesque bogs, Babe seriously contemplates submarines - when hey ho, just in the nick of time the door opens a fraction and, rush of sentimental bonhomie, Val’s ironic eyebrow makes its entrance.

« You look like you need a drink girl. »