"Where are you?" the voice on the other end of the phone asked in that voice and was so soothing yet so persuasive, like a teenage Barry White who reeked of self-confidence.
"New Canaan," I said nervously, not believing that I had driven almost 4 hours this morning to get where I was now, on the shoulder of a highway just over the New York border in Connecticut.
"Getting close, Marie," Blaine said. "Write this down."
I scribbled obediently as Blaine gave me directions, and after he asked whether I got it all down or not, the phone went dead. Looking at what I had written, I realized that I still had a bit of driving to do.
That would give me plenty of time to change my mind. Turn around. No big deal. It was a nice fall day and had been a nice drive, so all I had to do was turn around and go back home.
Go back home, Marie, I told myself. Go back to where you belonged. Go home instead of following the whims of some guy less than half your age, you silly old fool. Driving all this way just to meet a guy who might not even exist, or if he did would probably not be anything like I had fantasized about.
I drove on, following the instructions until I found myself on a very urban street in a very run-down part of the city. It looked scary even from the safety of my car, and when I saw the bar that I was to meet Blaine at, I cringed.
Old beer signs were barely visible through the grimy windows in the front of the Crystal Palace, which was nothing like the name implied. It looked more like a building waiting to be condemned, with wire screens on all of the glass in front and a large sign that covered the front door.
NO GUNS NO DRUGS OR WEAPONS OF ANY KIND!
A shiver went down my spine as I looked at the warning from inside my car. What kind of place has to warn you about things like that? This was a far cry from "No shirt no shoes no service", to be sure.
I dialed Blaine's number, ready to tell him to come outside to meet me, but the line was busy. I tried again, and again, and as I kept the car idling outside the front of the bar my kidneys started reminding me that it had been a long ride.
"Damn!" I said to the phone after getting yet another busy signal, knowing that Blaine probably knew I was calling him.
Finally, I jumped out of the car and went up to the front door, needing to at least use the bathroom. All around me were reminders that I was a fish out of water, as suspicious eyes looked at the 57 year old white woman who looked every bit as nervous as she was.
I couldn't see inside from where I was, which made me even more nervous, but I really had to go, so I flung the door open and stepped in. The aroma of stale beer brought back memories of my college days, but the bar was so dimly lit that it took me a moment until my eyes adjusted from the bright outside.
A familiar voice blared from the TV at the end of the bar. Judge Mathis. There were three men sitting at the bar and one behind, and when I stepped inside they all turned to face me. I figured that they didn't get too many folks like me in this establishment, so the fact that my arrival raised eyebrows was no surprise.
"Uh - can I use your rest room?" I asked in a voice that warbled like a loon's.
The man behind the bar was talking on a cellphone and nodded, making a gesture toward the rear of the bar, and I nodded while moving quickly toward the room that had a faded LADIES sign on the door. Someone had thoughtfully added BITCHES underneath it, while a reference to Ho's right under that.
I had to go so bad that I ignored the graffiti and walked into a bathroom that I hoped would be a little nicer than the bar it was located in. My hopes were dashed when I saw the ancient fixtures that had seen both better and cleaner days, but when you gotta go - you go.
Hiking my skirt up to my waist, I was happy that I had followed Blaine's instructions and had not worn panties as I straddled the antique china bowl and let loose. The torrent of urine that exploded out of me was so loud I figured that the guys at the bar must have heard the splattering. Either that, or Judge Mathis must have reamed some knucklehead out at the same time, because the guffaws that accompanied my peeing came right through the wall.
At least there was toilet paper, although the soap dispenser was empty, forcing me to wash my hands as best I could in the grubby sink that only provided cold water.
"Why are you doing this, Marie?"
I asked myself that as I looked at my reflection in the cracked mirror in front of me. How desperate have you become? How obsessed with this young man are you that you would drive all morning and follow his directions to this hole-in-the-wall? Crystal Palace? More like the gates of hell, and now I steeled myself before going out to face the patrons of this establishment, most of which were about my age.
I stepped out into the bar area, not exactly sure about what I was supposed to do, and fumbled into my pocketbook for my phone in hopes that Blaine would pick up when I called this time.
"Yo!" the bartender called out, gesturing me over to the bar, where a rocks glass full of a rich amber was positioned in between two hulking black guys who looked at the glass with even more enthusiasm than they did me.
"I'm supposed to - uh - meet someone here, I think," I said to the bartender, who was a heavy set middle aged guy with salt and pepper hair and a face that reminded me of the guy that fought Rocky in the first movie.
"Jack," he said as he nodded toward the glass. "Blaine said you'd like it."
"Blaine?" I asked, confused for a second.
"Here," the barkeep replied, handing me the phone over the aged wooden bar that was older than both of us combined, and would look real nice if it was refinished. Like me, I said to myself.
"Hello?"
"Marie, my love," the familiar voice exclaimed. "You made it."
"Blaine? Where are you?"
"Close Marie," Blaine said. "You're getting warm. How do you like the Palace?"
"Um... okay," I lied as the guy to my right checked out my backside without comment.
"You like Jack Daniels, right?" Blaine asked.
"Uh - yeah, I guess," I answered, not mentioning that I liked some Coke with it - a whole lot of cola.
"Drink up dear," Blaine cheerfully replied. "Say hello to Dwight."
"Dwight?" I asked.
"The proprietor," Blaine informed me, and when I looked up the Carl Weathers look-alike grinned like he knew what Blaine was saying. "He's the man that's going to try you out."
"What?"
"What you're going to do is hand Dwight the phone, and then finish your drink. Have another Jack if you want. Just don't have too many or else - you see that pool table by the wall?"
"Yes?"
"A sweet thing like you gets drunk in that bar might find themselves with their ass on the felt while everybody in the joint fucks her silly. That sound good to you?"
