Already by 27 years, I had 3 sons and had gone through 2 husbands (one more husband—a keeper—would come later). I still had good looks too for all that, but I only know this looking back at pictures.  At the time, I had so many neuroses their number was longer than my grocery list. It never occurred to me then that I was a hottie. Brought to mind is that cliché about youth being wasted on the young.

My cocktail waitress uniform showed off my good figure. This I did know. The restaurant’s cocktail lounge had live music, and I suppose it was considered a top-notch hang-out for the 30ish crowd. The restaurant was a favorite for seafood lovers, from locals to tourists, and it started out as a fun place to work, although I was always sad to have to leave my boys and make the drive to the waterfront some 20 miles from home. When it was busy, which was all summer, those work hours were no time for pining over missing the kids. I made good money. In some ways it was good to be around people whose conversations did not include, “He started it!” and, “Mom! Make him quit it!” At least most of the time it was good. In the beginning.

There wasn’t a day that my feet didn’t hurt. My back and legs ached all the time too. The music was loud and it was crowded. The band played the same sets night after night. Same songs, same order, same, same, same. Walk to a table, smile, take an order, run back to the bar, get in line to scream in my order. Garnish the drinks, pay the bartender for them, pile them onto my tray, squeeze my way through the isle to the table to plunk down the drinks. Plunking was what I wanted to do. In the actual sense, I carefully placed them, and of course smiling brightly.

Whining customer: “Where’s the strawberry for my strawberry margarita?” 

All the strawberries are moldy and soft you stupid bitch, or I would have put one on your stupid, fruity, lame excuse for a drink.

 “So sorry. The garnishes are not looking so good, but when they bring out some fresh ones I will be sure to get you a nice one.” 

And I’ll smash it right into your face. 

Here’s a sweet, strawberry smile for you in the meantime.

In those days, people could smoke in public places. The place filled with smoke and my nasal passages filled with scabs. My allergies kept me forever feeling sick. Some nights brought out the ugly in many of the inebriated customers. You know the type. Arrogant, can’t be pleased, think waitresses are a low form of life to be verbally and physically abused. The particularly rotten ones think waitresses are meant to be fondled. Shamelessly fondled. There is nothing like a drunk with octopus arms who fancies himself a Casanova, slurring his disgusting overtures in your face, reeking of the garlic from his dinner.  

I would drag myself home around 3AM, catch a few hours of sleep before the kids woke me with their kisses and their demands. I needed sleep, but instead I was Mommy on duty. Maybe I’d get a nap later in the day before making the trek back to work. Exhaustion would soon set in. My patience was worn so thin it snapped like dry kindling in a fire.

After a particularly stressful, busy night when nothing was going smoothly or right, a big party of young couples was drinking and whooping and hollering in my station. I’d been waiting on them for over an hour and one of the guys was particularly obnoxious. He couldn’t keep his hands off me and his off-color remarks were ringing in my ear when I went charging down the aisle to the bar. Without any hesitation and with concentrated purpose, I carefully loaded my tray with dirty glasses and filled them with soda,  splashes of coke for color, stir sticks, straws, and lots of garnish—cherries, limes, mint—I made them look like a fresh order, and off I went back to the creep who had met, and exceeded, his quota for tastelessness. 

It was easy. I fake tripped and all the glasses slid off my tray spilling down his chest and stomach onto his lap. Sarcastically as possible I said, “Oh my! I’m so sorry. Let me help you.” With that I produced a filthy bar rag and began dabbing his shirt. His entourage stood up and actually applauded me.  Mr. Big Mouth was silenced, and lo and behold there was a big tip on the tray for me when they finally left.  Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who thought he’d said too much. 

The Reuben E. Lee Restaurant on Harbor Island in San Diego, CA, is where these cocktail waitress stories evolved. The restaurant finally became unsafe in 2004, and after being towed away to the San Diego Bay close by the Coronado Bridge it took on water and sunk.

. Read about it, if you like: https://www.sandiegouniontribune.com/sdut-iconic-reuben-e-lee-restaurant-sinks-in-bay-2012dec14-story.html

1.

Living on the Shores of the Pacific

It’s not merely the waves

or the sun or the sand

It’s more than the spray

or the crash or the splash

It’s not only the sparkle

or the rocks or the fish

It’s the wonder of it all

A whipped cream of an ocean dance

With the vapors and song of the shore

———–

2.

Peaches

From high upon a wooden shelf,

I lift a can of peaches.

Juices meant to savor later,

while tucked inside my feasting bed. 

Now licking sugar from my fingers,

I am startled by the truth: 

Your sweet syrup is my craving—its

candy meant for spilling on my tongue.

---

3.

in the snow

but all is to be dared, because even a person of poverty

finds strength in the sight of children playing in the snow

their shrieks from the sled as they brave the hill

their bobbing and ducking from snowballs

who among us has not wept with empty pockets seeking joy

as the view from the top of the slope cracks open our hearts?

the days come quicker now; aches and caution greet us

we never knew before about staying steadfast in our waking time

we were filling our minds with dreams of frozen fingers clinging too long

to the snowy childhood memories of riding by the seat of our pants

---

Maybe I’m biased. I wrote these. Happy New Year.

I saw Elvis Presley in a library once

He was chewing gum

I don’t know what flavor it was, bubblegum maybe?

How many times I’ve gone back to that library

I haven’t counted

But I never saw Elvis there again

Instead, I found books about World War II

And one about how to make a tent out of nature’s gifts

I might use that information in the forest someday

Once in a while I go to the library just to breathe

It’s noisy in the world and I need quiet

Breathing in the silence makes me whole

There are so many subjects and so many writers

The pains authors  go through must be tremendous

All so we can sit with their words for awhile

A big, bright room filled with the smells of books

Mingling with the whiff of ages past

The library houses new beginnings for us

Maybe Elvis Presley needed a new beginning

Or maybe he was hiding from the noisy world

I guess Elvis and I had something in common

He might have been nothing but a hound dog

Crying all time

But one day I saw him in the library chewing gum

Remembering how I came to get my first bra…

Standing naked in the shower after gym class, there’s no hiding the fact that I am breast-less. With all eyes on me, I’m certain everyone is laughing at my flat chest. I stare at my nipples. All I have are these little nipples. No bumps or swelling where the breasts are supposed to be. Why can’t I have boobs like Betty’s? I’d even settle for smaller ones like Patsy’s.

Later that Tuesday in the courtyard after lunch, Betty yells at me, “Hey Susie, why don’t you have any boobs?” She asks me that question in front of about fifty million girls. My hands clench into fists. I run to the restroom. Rocking back and forth, alone in a stall, I hear my best friend, Karen, rushing in, no doubt, with the sweet intention of comforting me. I scream at her to leave me alone. What does she know? She has breasts. Maybe they aren’t as big as Betty’s, but they are respectable. Covering my face with my hands I pray, Oh dear God! Swell my breasts. Please?

It isn’t until five days later, right after church, that I muster the courage to ask Mom to take me shopping for a bra. “Really?” she asks.

“Yes, Mom! Please?”

“Sure honey. How about next Saturday?” Her quick response and knowing smile assure me she understands.

I’m counting the days. Little else seeps into my head during the week. Hurry Saturday! Blessed Saturday! It’s similar to, maybe better than, waiting for Christmas morning.

And then the unthinkable happens on Thursday: Richard sits down next to me as I begin unpacking my lunch. I don’t particularly like him, but he’s one of the cool guys and it feels good to know he wants to eat lunch with me. Karen is absent today. I think she has the Asiatic Flu; it’s going around. So it’s just Richard and me.

I grab the apple from my small, brown bag, but I put it aside because I’m saving it to eat after I finish the half sandwich Mom packed. Oh, yum. Baloney and cheese with lettuce. The lettuce is tinged with brown around the edges, but it’s fine with me. Warmed by the morning San Diego sun, Richard and I talk easily between bites, which surprises me a little. Things are going well when just as I’m finishing my sandwich, Richard drops this bomb: “Now I know why you’re so flat-chested, Susie,” he says matter-of-factly, “You only eat half a sandwich.”

What? No! No! No! He did not just say that to me. My body collapses in on itself. Making matters worse, I imagine that the whole world has heard this zinger.

One of the cool guys has just broken my 7th grade heart with his words. All the color leaves my face. I break eye contact with him. My silence is louder than anything I could say. Richard, obviously uncomfortable, waves to a friend, tells me he’ll see me later, and goes off to join the noisy group of boys moving together like a school of sharks. Clutching my flat chest, I can hardly breathe. Fine! Go on, you creep. I vow never to speak to him again.

After what seems like forever, the sting from his words begins to diminish. I inhale deeply and refocus my thoughts onto the shopping trip. Saturday can’t come soon enough.

When the big day arrives I awake earlier than usual. I’m not sure what I expect from getting this sacred garment—a bra—but I am convinced there is magic involved. On that Saturday, in the store’s lingerie department, I move in close to the long rows of padded bras. Because I am afraid to touch them, I plant my feet and stare. Images of what could be swirl in my head.

From the corner of my eye I see Mom shaking her head. I know what she is thinking. Susie, it would be as if one day you were as flat as a pancake, and the next day you were as voluptuous as Sophia Loren. Of course. If she buys me the padded bras I’ll have to begin a new school on Monday.

The bras Mom and I finally pick out are all white, in soft cotton, with just a tiny touch of lace on the upper portion of each cup. Well, cup is the official word. My first bra cups, however, resemble something more like teaspoons. In fact, unofficially these little garments are referred to as training bras. So it is with a new, bright outlook that I whisper to my chest, “Guess you girls are my breasts in training.”

In the end, Mom and I settle on three bras—all size 28 triple A. And while bras may not come any smaller, the one I’m wearing provides a huge supply of much needed self-confidence. Shoulders back, head held high, chest proud; I am glowing from the inside-out, as I enter the holy rite of passage into womanhood.

It’s All in the Game

I am 12 going on 13; it was about the same time I traded in my hula hoop for boys

Bathing in the aromas of the forest plant life—resin, pine needles, and leafy branches of an oak tree—awakens memories of my youth at family camp in the Cuyamaca Mountains east of San Diego, California.

.

All us cool cats are in the basement of the meeting hall having a blast, talking, dancing, listening to the latest hits on a record player. The parents are upstairs square dancing, and that makes sense because all the parents are square.

**

“I want to dance with Joey,” I whisper to my girlfriend, Kathy. “He’s a dreamboat.”

“You should wait for a slow dance,” Kathy says, “but he’s been dancing with Sandy.”

“Yeah, you’re right, and he hasn’t paid attention to anyone else tonight.”

I sit quietly hoping he’ll turn his gorgeous baby blues in my direction. 

“I’m flat as a pancake and Sandy’s got a classy chassis. She’s so stacked, I can’t compete with her,” I sigh. “Let’s hit it, and go freshen up.”

Secretly my plan includes walking past Joey to bump into him. Accidentally on purpose.

 “Whoa girl. Watch where you’re going,” he winks at me.  Sandy gives me a dirty look.

“Oh, sorry, Joey,” and I try to look into his eyes as seductively as a 12 year-old going on 13 can. Just brushing against him makes my body tingle. Everything in the room, including the sounds, disappear, and I’m floating in the clouds.

When we get into the restroom, Kathy and I bust up with laughter. 

“That was a smooth move!” Kathy says when we stop laughing, “He’s got your number now!”

We reapply our lipstick and pinch our cheeks to give them some color before tucking our blouses into our pedal pushers and walking back into the room.

Rockin’ Robin, by Bobby Day is blaring from the record player. Oh Rockin’ Robin we’re really going to rock it tonight! We snap our fingers to the beat.

“Let’s grab a soda,” Kathy says and moves toward the refreshment table.

I trail behind her and look over my shoulder at Joey. Sandy has split the scene, and Joey is making moves toward me. I turn around to follow Kathy, my heart in my throat. Coming up behind me, he whispers in my ear, “Wanna dance doll?”

My knees almost give out. “Uh—yeah, sure.” I know my stuttering response is nothing close to alluring, but he grabs my arm and pulls me onto the dance floor. Tommy Edwards1958 chart-topping single, “It’s All in the Game,” is playing. 

Just as I hear the part he kisses her lips and caresses her waiting fingertips, Joey pulls me close, and I melt into his arms. 

Like the song says, it’s all in the game. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gtizr2G_7Bk

You may recall that the NY’s Eve Baja Midnight Party had to be cancelled because of inclement weather and Covid safety precautions. If you purchased tickets for that, you should receive an email and you are all set to join us for this “make-up” party. No joke. But expect lots of hijinks and fun on April 1st, 5-9PM at Baja Beans in El Pescadero.

Do you like to dance? Do you like to listen to great live music? Then you are in luck folks. David Raitt, Thom Berry, Glen Peterson, and Ashbolt will be there to entertain you. You can come for dinner or just to enjoy the music and dance. There will be a cash bar. (See the flyer above.)

This will be a fun way to support the El Pescadero community food bank. If you can’t make it, consider a donation. We are a completely volunteer organization and serve those in need in our community.

See more information about the food bank here: http://www.bajadreamsplus.com/?p=4382

Mil Gracias Amigos

For I am Heat

I remember with shame the weakness of my first attempt to embrace my victim. In the beginning, my pitiful gift of heat came as a rush of energy—almost a pleasure to her. The failure to cause her proper torment showed my weakness. 

On my second go, I resolved to make her miserable. Determination brought forth my strength—bit by bit, and with practice I had my victory! Pride filled me when finally my blast incinerated her. 

Since then, always somewhere in the middle of her chest I take hold. I hunker down for a while gaining strength. She feels the flame of my evil intent. I know she does, because she fidgets, pulling at her clothes. It is her feeble attempt to get some air movement between her skin and her garments. My vehemence occupies all of her—tissue, muscles, veins, cells, and best of all, her confused, unhappy mind.

I move faster and farther, invading her arms, shoulders and neck before flushing to fill her cheeks. Her ears turn red; she is engulfed, sensing nothing but the burn now. Next, I race from her upper body, pulsing down to her toes, before rising again to disrupt her brain. I bring wicked waves of heat and she knows not how to rid herself of me, her uninvited visitor, her bringer of change.

It gives me great joy to know the ride with me forces her to burn in a hell of my making. In her ear I hiss, “Nothing can stop me.” I laugh as her hair forms into ringlets. Drops fall from her face onto her white blouse. Drip. Drip.

She focuses every ounce of her resolve, longing for relief from my hot, tight grasp. Ha! She can’t get to the window for some sweet air or rip off her outer layer fast enough. She’s frantic. “Open the window for God’s sake,” she says. “Where is the damn fan?” 

I do so relish the time we have together. Her body is my vessel; I am her furnace. It’s my purpose, my job to make her blister with my blaze.

But it is enough for now. I am bored with her, though satisfied with how pathetic she looks flapping her fan, pulling at her clothes, soaking up hot sweat with a handkerchief. Her fever lessens as I release my grip, but I can’t resist jeering. I vow to occupy her again. Soon. How I cherish knowing she dreads my return. 

For weeks, months, possibly years, she will suffer with anticipation of my inferno. After all she’s been through it’s a dirty trick, I know. 

And that’s why I make my flame so fucking hot. 

to dream again 

with a cautious distance

safer, but vulnerable still

using bits of hindsight 

leave behind turmoil

gut wrenching disillusion

criss-crossing conversation

severe smudges of outrage

remove emotional stress

leverage a stronghold on joy

brave acceptance of reality

no more peril in waking

I want to catch a note of happiness

a glimmer of felicity

try some internal reflection

with a goal of brighter vision

I want to un-remember