Burlesque - 1

Snaking and fizzing, acidulous neon throbs; an elevated heart rate. An invitation.

Stepping down, strip lighting scours the scene. last nights glamour; flattened, quivers in a shadowy corner, caresses a figure, mottled, grey, slumped on a stool behind a mute piano.

An ageing, pan-caked femme fatale leans momentarily out of obscurity. She sports a spangled sheath; boldly some might say, but its favours are limited on a line that has known finer times. Valerie is humming. Vocally doodling, killing time maybe, or waiting?

A tall, lean figure stalks across the room. This is Phil, the latest owner. Appropriating the room and its contents with an easy sweep, he notes as he swivels a finely sculpted chin; his bar, his gleaming glassware, his pockmarked burgundy velour, and click clack, clickety clack; the arrival of his latest favourite.

She has a name, but it’s just a little too similar to that of his mothers for retention. So he calls her Babe.

Now Babe is no ‘silly susan’; there are some things a girl just shouldn’t need telling. ‘Discretion is all Babe, can’t be inflaming jealousy now. You know how they like to talk.’ He’d whispered. ‘They’ don’t have a name either, does that make it any better? Without a word or a glance she picks up her shining platter and a damp grey cloth and passes; hair splittingly distant, her heroic paymaster. Bending over a chipped gilt low table she begins to rub, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, at a phallic puddle of tacky vin rouge.

Our man with the chin strokes his trouser front absently, in time.

The pianist strikes a tune, in time.

The singer throws a pose and knows her time has been and gone.

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

The club is thick and heavy with smoke and bodies. Girls in pelmets with laden trays artfully thread their way through the lacework of passageways between tables. On the ten centimetre elevation that serves as stage the pianist attacks a syncopated rhythm. The singer sucks air, lays down her cigarette and dooby doos like her life depended on it. A burly besuited city style jumps to his feet; surprisingly spryly considering the flaccid frontal preponderance that needs manoevering. He throws his arms in an energetic arch inviting any and all to join him in a little fancy footing but his smile is smeared as five pudgy digits catch the curled lip of Babes passing platter.

Champagne cocktails sail. The pianist stab, stab, stabs.

Stop.

The pianist stab, stab, stabs.

The glasses realise their gravitational destiny.

Stop.

A face appears in the doorway, stab stab stab.

All is still.

A strange face.

A painted face.

The silence of suspension gives way to the weight of numbers. Figures resume their urgent business; shape making, arse shaking, space taking. The singer doobie doos and the clown enters unremarked; a daubed fool demanding little room, he slides between the lines. Babe wants to scream. The singer does it for her.

Bossman looks up and notes all. His lips compress into a tight line, ‘later’ he muses. Sliding all staffing worries onto the long finger his jaw splits in an awesome display of orthodontic perfection as he turns and with nine remaining nimble probes, resumes his exhaustive examination of the troubling angles the as yet unknown womanchild before him presents.

Babe stoops to retrieve shattered, scattered fragments. Her movements’ reflection flash in an ornately framed mercury pool. Look! There, over her left shoulder she catches sight - mirror, mirror on the wall - of her golden boys evidently latest favourite. ‘Bastard’ she chokes, as closed fists fly to batten lips. Sirop de cerise trickles gloopily from shard packed palm to blunt knobbed elbow. And all the while all Babe hears is a splat, splat, ever so regular splat as the viscous juice puddles between slightly parted, crouching thighs. Babe wants to scream. The singer does it for her.

At a small vacant table beside the toilets the clown poses a flaking kitbag and begins trawling its content. As tenderly as a farmer rectifying a problematic calving he slides out his arm, gripping the prize. An act of devotion, he unfolds fingers. A small painted box sits on upturned palm. Turning to the crowd he advances. The lines unfold and with each deliberate step the music diminishes, faces open expectantly. A whispering mass follow his straightlining across the room. ‘His feet barely touch the ground’, follow his sightline. They arrive as one, in silence before Babes twisted figure. What can she do but look?

The strangeness before her extends his left hand toward her cheek, she starts, and his lips pucker into a mothering shush. From somewhere behind her right ear he plucks a delicate silver handle that slides soundlessly into the totem he still balances reverently; and he smiles.

The crowds that have closed in, straining for a better view, are forced into retreat as the fool steps back, beckoning.

Babe stands, on the edge of enchantment; follows the jerking of his hooked index; follows, as he leads, to the heart of the sugar slick dance floor where he stoops and places the box between them .

Achingly slowly the manivel begins to turn; a clicking and whirring warm into silvery notes, a tinkling waltz rises. Opening and extending his arms in invitation he stands, watching, waiting.

« Excuse me ladies and gents, coming through. » A thick necked, dickied up bouncer rolls and swells through the crowd. « Come on mate. » He bellows, plucking the clown  neatly, by the collar. « We don’t do buskers in here lad. »