Late Night Rockin'
It was a late night rockin’, sailin’on, a Kansas City Bop Band in a local bar gettin’ down for a bunch of older folk steppin’ out. It was real good to see, you gotta know.

When the time is right and the feet feel the need, there’s only one thing to do. Get on your slick shoes and cut the floor with a good lookin’ babe. Turn her round with a light in your eye and a bulge in your fly.

Dig it!

It wasn’t like any bar I’d seen in a while. It had a stark class without flash, a musty mood of sweat, desire, cigarettes and beer; no strobes makin’ things unreal, just a flurry of tables for two, strewn coasters, the hands and legs of a middle-aged waitress scurrying, three dim wall lamps fickering, the ubiquitous Pabst face grinning in the middle of his stream, slow-moving tin fans, beaten up copper ash trays, the linoleum stage, four stuck, skinny, sweating musicians in their T’s and obvious delight, a river of eyes to follow them up and down and me, the stranger on their waves, captured bodies riding the blues rhythms slow and low on the packed floor, thirsty mouths gettin’ wet for their brews and some eager lips nearby, their Saturday night ‘I’ll-love-you-forever-tonight’ relief.

The wall-flowers, blooming glassy and sad, sucked on their Pabsts like they were angry lovers getting ready to run. Some got curious about me-and-my-pen. They bounded out of their tight circles, in a moment, right in my face, booze breaths and bristles, they bawled, “what the hell are you writin’ man?”




“The fuck!” they yowled, then bounded back with a laugh and a lick of sweat.

I laughed, my pen danced, the band roared its blaring beat of hard-knock-blues-riffs, and the people screamed. They flung out their angers with a hoot and a laugh, a stomp in a drunken haze, a happy-go-lucky-foot-stomping-beer-huggin-face-suckin-table-shakin leer of good cheer. To you! It was a Saturday night fever, a breeze to float on the dark belly of the night, because the week wasn’t real yet, and there was a word for it hung on the cigarette clouds, hovering through the bar to turn the dark into light, a struttin’ good belly of ‘take-me-if-you-can’ rhythms…GLORIA…such a gal to slip the smoke off the toes of all the tappin’ well-wishers in hungry bars where-ever, and she even smiled at me….


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Short Story
writing philermon
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