It was the place, hell the only place in town where you could get a decent bite to eat, a good stiff drink, or find a bit of music to dance to. Not a fancy place, but the wood plank floors were scrubbed clean every night and, believe it or not, each morning when it opened the kitchen sparkled. During the course of the day though, the incessant wind would bring in the sand and grit to coat the floors and the grease from the bacon, burgers and steaks covered the kitchen in a layer of grime you could scrape with your fingernails.
Most nights the bar became a swinging place with the jukebox blaring out country music, the raised stage vibrating under the clomping of the boots of drunken dancers and the bell like clink of beer mugs and the ice in glasses. The waitresses served three kinds of beer alongside of Zombies and Singapore Slings to pretty girls in prom dresses, truck drivers longing for company and some lost cowboys just trying to get blasted fast.
When Sally drove into town and stopped at the only gas station still open. She pumped gas into her car and asked where she could go for a meal and a good night's sleep. The attendant, between tobacco stained spits into his can of Dr. Pepper, told her, "Barangrill'll be the place for food, a good night's sleep's gonna depend upon who buys you the most drinks." He grinned, exposing his brown stained teeth and continued, "Or the hotel is quiet sometimes."
"And how do I find these places?" she asked, backing away from the attendant a bit.
"Keep goin' the ways you goin' and they'll find you. Barnagrill's on the right, a bit later the hotel's on the left. Watch the potholes when you turn in or you'll be back here with a tire."
Sally paid cash for the gas, climbed into her car and drove away. It was only a couple of blocks before she saw a sign reading "Mistletoe Bar and Grill" and guessed it was the "Barangrill" the gas station attendant spoke of. The parking lot was nearly full and it looked like every other place in town was closed so she pulled in and parked. She carefully walked across the rutted asphalt and dirt and stepped up two heavily worn stone steps on to the wooden porch. Half expecting to see swinging bar doors, she opened a half glass door and stepped inside, heading immediately past the tables in the dining area into the smoky din of the bar.
She found an empty table and sat down, grabbing a menu. When the waitress appeared at her table, Sally noticed she wore black diamond earrings. Wondering what would possess a waitress to wear black diamond earrings in a place like this, she glanced back at the menu and said, "Give me a chicken fried steak, white gravy and a glass of merlot."
"I don't think we have any of that merlot, just Bud, Bud Light and Miller," she paused a moment, then continued, "And Zombies and Singapore Slings."
"That's all the drinks you have?"
"We got Dr. Pepper an' Coke too."
"Okay yeah, I think I need something strong. Get me a Zombie and better make it a double."
"A double?"
"Just give me two Zombies."
Happily the drinks came very quickly and weren't too bad. When Sally's food arrived she ordered two more and by the time she had taken two bites of her chicken fried steak, the waitress put the drinks in front of her, warning, "Careful with those Zombies, they tend to come back to life."
Sally smiled and nodded, grabbing one of the drinks and taking a big gulp. She continued eating finishing about half of the steak and then gulped the last of her third Zombie. Feeling pretty good she took her last Zombie, rifled though her purse for a handful of quarters and swayed over to the jukebox. Placing her drink on top, she leaned over the curved glass, running her finger down the surface as she perused the songs.
The ancient jukebox still played the old 45s so she soon figured out that there wouldn't be a large selection of currents stuff. Sure enough there was plenty of Marty Robbins, Johnny Cash, Roy Acuff and Mel Tillis, but no Faith Hill, Lonestar or, heaven forbid, Dixie Chicks. Finally down near the end of the list she spotted some old Christmas classics. There was Johnny Mathias, Spike Lee, Gene Autry and, yeah, there it was, Nat King Cole. She dropped several quarters into the machine and punched the letters and numbers, cranking in the same song about seven times.
"Well, this is the Mistletoe Bar and Grill, I guess we need a bit of Christmas," she mumbled to herself leaning against the jukebox and grabbing her drink for a large sip. The volume was turned up so when the song began,
"Chestnuts roasting on an open fire..."
she felt the vibrations through the jukebox. Moving slightly, she could now feel the vibration directly on her clit, so she leaned on the machine and let the sound of Nat King Cole send those wonderful sensations though her body.
