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."

Chameleon, Part II

Continuing with this little story, it was another Friday night at Think-A-Holic Lounge and the busiest night for predatory biped lizards in this part of the cosmos, next to Saturday night.

I sat at a table in a dark corner instead of at the bar where I usually sit and that's because of Chameleon, the new barmaid with the veil covering her face. You don't get service from a barmaid when you sit at the bar. You have to look at Angus McCloud's ugly spook face all night long and that gets a little old after a while. But I didn't see Chameleon anywhere and I craned and strained my neck like a goose, looking all around the Lounge for her. Then I heard her voice. But it seemed to be attached to someone else (see pic).

When this Chameleon look-alike approached me I started to peel off Solar Bucks like I was husking corn and handed them to her, even before I ordered a drink. Just the very idea of being waited on by a woman who looked like a nun made me feel guilty. Guilty enough to expunge my guilt with money, just like they teach you from day one on planet Earth.

But this isn't Earth, I said to myself as I gently laid a Solar Sawbuck on her tray, on top of the three Solar Dollars and the one Solar Fin that I'd already laid there. I'd never felt this guilty about anything in my entire life before and all I did was just sit down. After I ordered a double shot of think-a-hol and a schooner of bubbly chaser, I secretly hoped I'd have enough money left over to pay for the drinks when they arrived.

After Chameleon left, I muttered a few choice words to myself about Angus, the big-ass head bartender who'd hired this shapeshifter called Chameleon. I was almost certain, at this point, that she was splitting her tips with him and that the worst of it was yet to come.

To be continued...

Chameleon

I rarely sit at a table at Think-A-Holic Lounge but ever since the Lounge hired a new barmaid last week (see pic), my butt hasn't touched a bar stool there. No one knows anything about her or where she comes from and Angus McCloud, the Lounge's big-ass head bartender (and the ghost of a dead Scottish poet) won't divulge any information about her, except her name. Chameleon. That's what he calls her. And that means Angus is not only the guy who hired her, he's also the one who's dating her.

I've always been a good tipper, even a big tipper, but one look at those alluring, mysterious eyes and folding money starts to slip between my fingers. Especially when those eyes look back, or pretend to look back. The fact that all you can see of Chameleon are her eyes makes our lounge lizard brains work overtime just trying to imagine what the rest of her is like.

I gotta hand it to ol' Angus, he sure knows a money maker when he sees one. I wonder how long we regulars at Think-A-Holic Lounge will last before our tip money is all dried up and we have to go back to work to earn more. It doesn't matter. That's just fine with me.

What else do I have to do with my disposable Solar Dollars, Fins and Sawbucks? Still, one thing bothers me and I'm sure it bothers the other regulars, especially the tried-and-true lounge lizards who make Think-A-Holic Lounge their home away from home. Why is she called Chameleon?

To be continued...

Froggy Night

Last night I pushed away from the bar at Think-A-Holic Lounge a little earlier than usual and I did this deliberately after seeing that snoring old fogy the last time I stumbled down the steps (see the Lost In Translation post). The image of an obviously homeless man sleeping on a wooden bench in the alley with his eyes open still haunted me like a cryptic warning from some possible future. I instinctively checked out the bench this time, hoping that it would be empty. But it wasn't.

The old man was gone and in his place sat a frog (see pic). I didn't recognize this particular frog who looked much younger and bigger than the frog bartender that filled in for Angus last Halloween. I decided to approach the out-of-place amphibian and talk to it.

"Who are you?" I asked it, trying to be cool, calm and collected.

"Yo no hablo Español," the frog replied in a man's voice.

I didn't hang around to respond. I lit out of there like a kid being chased by the bogeyman. I went straight home and went straight to bed. That night I dreamed I was a frog and a beautiful fairy princess kissed me and I turned into an author whose latest novel was number one on the New York Times bestseller list.

And then I woke up.