The door opens revealing the wafting lusty smell of stale cigarettes and liquor. Inside the Clermont Lounge on Atlanta's Ponce de Leon Avenue, the light -- a rich, incandescent red -- is cut into shadows by the lingering patrons.
The people here desire the novelty of a setting that doesn't discriminate against our inner-most urges. Scantily clad middle aged women pass drinks to people of every variety. Everyone has a place in this room.
The two girls that brought me out and I take a seat at round table not far from the dance floor. My voice cuts through the funk music thumping from the turntables, "So, what do you girls want to drink? I'm buying."
"Vodka tonic."
"Yeah, make that two."
I nod and head for the bar. Moments later, with a disapproving shake of the head, the bartender -- in her forties, wearing a tight tube top and home hacked jean shorts that push more of her thick legs out than in -- points toward the ATM in the corner.
The line moves steadily. I glance to the table but sillouettes obscure my view. A man behind me asks, "You've never been to the Clermont before, have you? [a pause] My name is Jim. Pleasure to meet you." He extends his hand.
"Hi Jim," I reply, "how'd you guess? Yeah. this is my first time. I'm Bart." I'm skeptical of what this 'Jim' is after.
"I'm out here helping out with the promotion and the business. I'm a business man by day -- software -- but this place is a pet project. I keep a pulse on it. I love it." I pause to let the ATM sort the few bills I can extract on my student budget, and Jim slaps my shoulder and continues, "Listen, it's your first time here and I've gotta' introduce you to someone..."
Not sure of the where this is going, I say, "Ok...?"
"Have you ever heard of Blondie?"
I shake my head.
"You'll love her. She's classic Clermont. Who are you here with? Anyone?" Jim looks quite amused.
"Yeah, the two women that go to school with me called me and insisted I go with them to check this place out ... and, here we are. We've got a table just over there." I point in the general direction and watch Jim pull a couple hundred dollars in $20 denominations from the plastic teller.
"What are you drinking?"
"Vodka tonic... and water."
"Listen, go back to your table. Have a seat. Tell the girls you ordered drinks. I'm going to introduce you to an old friend. She makes this place what it is. You'll never forget her once you meet her."
"Ok Jim. Wait a sec... What exactly is this?"
Laughing and turning my shoulders to direct my attention at the room, Jim leans in close to my ear and says, "Bart, look around, this is where strippers come to retire when they don't want to retire. You got here just in time. Right before the fun begins."
My attention jumps from the bartender to the women carrying trays of plastic cups, and suddenly things start falling into place. It dawns on me the poles in the room aren't just for structure.
* * *
Sitting down, the girls mark their disappointment, "Bart, you were gone for ten minutes, where are the drinks?"
"Relax, this guy offered to buy our table a round. Said not to worry about it. I figured, 'why not?'."
They don't look convinced. With my back to the room, I don't see what's causing the girls' mouths to drop open in front of me. I turn around in my seat and audibly, I think, "Hoooly shit."
* * *
Blondie stands behind me, arms akimbo. At five feet tall, her stretched skin the color of milk chocolate is covered with a one-piece floral full body halter and the biggest, most flamboyant blond wig ever made. The wig's volume of partly-groomed three inch curls cascade in a dense web of riffles spilling over her shoulders to her aging breasts.
"Who's Bart? Is that you, sugah?"
I nod. Jim is standing behind her. The girls at my table get their drinks from the other waitress accompanying the duo.
Blondie's halter falls to the floor. She leans in close and asks, "How's about a little dance and a drink?" I can't help but stare at her enormous sagging tits.
I think to myself, "Holy shit." Then, "She missing a lot of teeth."
She offered me a dance. This is far beyond dancing. Her body thrusts and convulses in between moments of grace. She moves smoothly and perhaps bends too far, stretching her tired back, catches herself and changes momentum to avoid prolonging the creaking pain of her old joints. It could be that or she might be drunk.
Please don't sit on me. Please don't sit on me.
I can't believe what I am seeing. Reaching for my tonic, I see the extra beer on the table: Pabst Blue Ribbon. I don't have time to wonder who it's for. Blondie put my tonic down, picks up the PBR and pops the top. Handing it to me, she says, "Finish it, honey. I got something to show you." I don't argue. I can't remember drinking the beer in one long gulp. There's no time to think. She tells me to hold the can out to her -- horizontal to the floor.
Blondie, with one breast in each of her hands, leans forward and lifts the can out of my mine. She tosses the blond wig back and presents herself to the room so that everyone can see the white glistening can between her massive now flattened breasts, and squeezes with remarkable strength.
The can buckles, sides crushing like a paper accordion, under the pressure of her breasts. I see the fine spray of leftover beer blasting forcefully at one end of the can.
Crushed, the can falls in my lap. I pick it up, stunned. The room around me erupts in applause. She puts the halter on and asks me if she can have a seat. Agreeing, she sits in my lap. The girls with me, shocked, shrug and realize they never bargained for this, then raise their drinks to toast the moment.
Blondie take a sip from a cocktail that seemed to appear from thin air and asks, "Sugah', do you know I am a poet?"
"No, I don't."
"Well, I am. In 1988 I was on Sally Jesse Raphael and I got to read my poem on the tv."
"Wow."
"Yeah, I am a poet... and for five dollars, I'll share my poem with you," she offers, still sitting in my lap, I reached around Blondie to grab the five dollar bill someone was already waving.
Looking around the room of silhouettes, take the five, pass it to Blondie and say, "Of course."
