The Barstool Journal of Jonco Bugos

Sunday, August 09, 2009

Chameleon, Part III

Concluding this little story, it was yet another Friday night at Think-A-Holic Lounge and I was eager as a beaver for another look at the Lounge's newest barmaid, Chameleon. By now, everyone knew she was a shape shifter hired by Angus, the big-ass head bartender at the Lounge, to extract money from us like a bubble gum machine containing a single, solitary, cherished prize amid all that common, everyday bubble gum. A prize nobody would ever win but one that would keep us all busy trying.

I arrived early and slid into a corner booth instead of mounting a stool at the bar like I'd been doing before the arrival of Chameleon, the shape-shifting barmaid, two weeks ago. I recalled how she first appeared as a shy, veiled and demure Persian beauty and then as a nun whose angelic face drove you to a premature guilt, a guilt that was only alleviated by emptying your pockets onto her serving tray. As I sat there recounting the Solar folding money in my wallet that I had earmarked for tonight and the pocketful of Solar coins that were good anywhere in the Milky Way Galaxy, I entertained thoughts of what she might appear to be tonight. But before I could tally all my beverage, snack and tip money, she arrived (see pic).

Even though she didn't resemble either of her two former selves, I knew it was her. Her voice was the same and those eyes, those eyes said she was yours. All you had to do was show her how much you appreciated her. I knew that both Chameleon and Angus had gone too far this time. This is a lounge, not a strip bar. Still, her brazen new look told us lounge lizards that she knew what we really wanted. Some of us regulars had taken part-time jobs on top of our full-time jobs just to have enough tip money these days. One traditionally-published author I knew had even resorted to mowing lawns on the weekends just to finance his Friday nights at Think-A-Holic Lounge. When Chameleon finally arrived at my table and asked me what I'd have, her words flowed like buttermilk. I had to wet my lips before I could reply.

"A triple shot of think-a-hol and a schooner of brew," I said, stripping Solar Fins off my big roll like a banana peel, "and keep them coming."