by Dancer, Jack
“So, that’s the whatnot.”
“That's right. Hand job extraordinaire,” I say lacing my fingers together and cracking my knuckles.
While we're laughing away, up comes Juan the bartender and boy, he is Juan-Hot-Tamale. His hair alone - as tightly groomed as the rest of him and shiny black as midnight - could do a Calvin Klein ad. He's wearing a starch-white, open-collar shirt - just enough to reveal a butterscotch-smooth chest. Sleeves rolled-up sinewy arms that end with hands that could squeeze passion from a stone. The rest of him is poured into a stylish pair of bum-hugging black trousers that would make any woman's heart dance a Pasodoble.”
“You ladies are enjoying yourselves, no?”
“See, mucho partido!” Terry exclaims raising her empty glass. “Another round of Bun Runners Señor Juan, I mean Rum Bunners,” she corrects. “And while you’re at it, she’ll take a whatnot,” she calls out, laughing and pointing to me.
Juan joins in without a clue why any of this is funny. Crazy Americans, he must be thinking.
“So, what happened next?” Terry asks.
“Next? There was no next. By the time we finally fell asleep, it was nearly four o’clock in the AM. Two hours later we're landing at Gatwick. Took us forever to get through customs. My feet hurt, and I smelled like a Luden's cherry cough drop. It was so embarrassing. I’d brushed my teeth and washed three times on the plane trying to get the smell off.”
Terry’s laughing. “Be glad they didn’t bust you for smuggle’n illegal fruit.”
“Thankfully, American has an arrival's suite where we could shower and change clothes.”
“You mean into that little red dress you had on in Portbou? Not what one would call typical traveling attire. Course if your purpose was to make an impression I'd have to say, you certainly did,” she says.
“Yeah, Tucker noticed.”
“Oh, I’m sure he noticed. No, I’m talking about Ebba. When she first spotted you and Tucker standing together on the train platform in Portbou, and you in that red dress, honey, she nearly had a cardiac. That girl went from white as a sheet to red as your dress. I thought she was going to pull a gun and come after you.”
“You’re kidding?”
“I’m not kidding. She was madder than a one legged woman at the IHOP.”
“What?” I say choking a laugh. “What does that even mean?”
“I don't know. She was hoppin' mad?”
“Well, she must have gotten over it pretty quick because she didn’t look mad when she came running across the platform, and into Tucker's arms like she was playing a scene in a movie. She was all smiles and tears.”
“She was playing a scene - at least in her own mind. That’s how she is. She’s a drama queen.”
“Attention boar, you mean.” I couldn't help the wisecrack but I could see from her expression that it missed its mark. ”You know, Ebba the boar,” I remind her.
Terry turns toward Juan. “Perdon,” she says pointing to her empty glass for another round. She turns to me. “Doesn’t it seem a bit ironic to be sitting here, discussing your little dalliance, in a bar called, Scruples?”
“Is that the name of this place?”
“Yep,” she says, “but from the looks of the married-looking hombres over there,” nodding in the direction of the three barflies on the end, “that keep leering at us - I don't think it means you have to have any to get in.”
Juan returns and exchanges our two empties for two freshly mixed drinks and asks, “Would you ladies like to see menus?”
I can see from the way Terry's ogling Juan, she'd like to have him for dinner but surprisingly, she simply says, “Gracias Juan.” But then, she asks, “Are you Catalan?” And I'm praying she doesn't make some smart-ass ethnic remark that gets us into trouble.
“No Señora. My family is Castilian and have lived in Barthelona (the lisp) for many generations.”
“Maybe we should get something to eat,” I interrupt before she makes a wisecrack about the lisp.
She shoots me a pained look of wisecrack repression that she's holding in check only because of the 'don't you dare' daggers I'm throwing at her.
She then turns on me with, “I'm so hungry I could eat the balls off a low-flying duck!” and sends me laughing myself silly. So silly even Juan got sucked in, and I don't think he got it at all.
When Terry finally rights herself and scans the lounge area, she points and says, “we’ll take the table over there, Juan.”
“Si Señora, I will bring your beverages over for you,” he says and turns but stops and says to Terry, “I will also check the menu for low-flying duck,” giving up a smile so captivating it made her blush.
When Juan leaves she says, “Monica, I think I'm in love. No shit.”
“Then hold on to it honey, it doesn't come around often.”
In the lounge area we dropped into two deeply upholstered, square club chairs separated by a small round table, Juan following with our drinks and menus.
“I’ll give you ladies a few moments and return for your orders,” he says with a slight bow then turns and retreats with Terry’s eyes riveted.
“Umm…umm, the hiney on that young hombre brings the cougar out in me,” she meows. ”How bout we split the seafood paella for two?”
“Fine with me. I don't feel like making any decisions right now anyway,” I say, “I'd rather drink, except I know if I don't put something in my stomach, you're going to have to call a bellboy to cart me up to the room.”
Juan returns. This time with another young Spanish stud in tow bearing a tray with one huge covered dish. Juan unfolds a side station and the assistant sets the tray. And with a relish of showmanship, Juan removes the cover and the most fabulous aromas waft over us. Our hunger pangs, until now, held at gunpoint by all the alcohol we'd been consuming, rise up and welcome the seduction like an eager lover.
A basket of warm bread and two small dipping plates are set before us by the assistant while Juan dishes out our paella. The deft hand of his assistant draws golden circles of olive oil across the smaller plates and a drizzling of dark balsamic vinegar until it looks like a Jackson Pollack painting.
When the paella is served, Juan produces a little bottle and says, “Ladies, the paella is wonderful, but it will be even more wonderful if you also add Juan's special sauce.”
“This is your sauce, Juan?” Terry asks.
“Si. I make it myself, and I will be honored for you to try it,” he holds a small bottle out for our inspection, and Terry takes it.
“Wow, and this is your picture on the label too, isn’t it?”
“It is,” he says proudly.
“How could we not try it? I'm sure it must be wonderful,” Terry says passing the bottle to me.
“Thank you, Juan,” I say.
“Bon appetite,” he says with a smile.
“Castilian huh?” Terry cracks.
“Pyrenean Castilian,” says Juan with a twinkle as, he and the young stud muffin assisting him, turn and withdraw.
“Mongrel,” she mutters under her breath as both of us locked on the two cabooses receding across the room.
Turning back to our plates we begin devouring the paella. Terry picks up Juan's special sauce, inspects it again, and twists off the cap.
“I wonder how this is?”
“Only one way to find out,” and with that she shakes a drop onto her finger and tastes it.
“Hey, it's good. Try some?”
“Sure.” I give her my finger and she shakes out a drop. ”Wow. This is good. Go for it.”
She shakes sauce over her dish of paella then passes the bottle to me.
“So what is it, Monica? What is it about this guy that’s got you hooked?”
“I don't know. I don't know if I'm hooked on him at all. I think maybe it's just; for the last two days and nights, I've been with someone who's paid attention to me. I'm not saying that he didn't have ulterior motives. He's a guy. If he didn't have ulterior motives,
I would've been worried. The biggest thing was that he made me feel like I was the most important person in the world, and he treated me like I was. I guess I just had a big craving for it, and he was there to fill it. No. It was more than that. He actually enjoyed dishing out the attention. It was real. And I enjoyed being with him.
“Of course, some people might not consider him such a gentleman having me go down on him. You know, right there, in the seat with all the other passengers around us, and the conductor standing behind us watching. Some people might not exactly classify that as a proper way to treat a lady, I suppose. But . . .”
“What?” Terry says practically choking on a mouthful of paella.
“Still,” I continue, “he was a perfect gentleman, well nearly a perfect gentleman, as perfect a gentleman as I've had in a long time, a very long time, and I had him for a very, very long time.”
“Oh, my Gawd,” she says with a forkful of paella hovering in front of her wide-open mouth like it's waiting for clearance from ground control.
“Boy, I haven't done that in quite a while either,” I say dreamily as if to myself but actually directed like a laser to, you-know-who.
“Did you really do that? Go down on him in front of everyone? Even the conductor?”
“You betcha,” I tell her, “and you know what?”
“Holy mother of Christ and all the angels, I'm afraid to ask.”
“It was even better than the first whatnot.”
“Holy mother of Christ and all the angels and all the saints too, I'm afraid to ask, but how?”
“Because this time I had an orgasm that nearly derailed the train,” I say gloating even more.
“Oh, my Gawd! In front of the conductor too?” she asks like a child at story time.
“In front of the world!”
“Oh, my Gawd. I can't believe the conductor didn't throw you both off the train!”
“I didn't know the conductor was watching. You think I'd do that if I had known he was back there watching? I don't think so.”
“So, how'd you know he was watching?”
“Tucker told me.”
“And the conductor did nothing?”
“Well, yes and no.”
“Explain.”
“Tucker said when he turned, the conductor was glaring right at him with a scowl at first, but then he shrugged a c'est la vie, as Tucker described it, then, get this, he applauded.”
“You're kidding? He applauded? That's rich.”
“I'm not kidding. I couldn't believe it either. It was a good thing he didn't tell me until we were off the train, otherwise I don't think I could've faced the man.”
“Those French. Figures. Heck, they were the ones who invented fellatio. I'll bet it wasn't the first time he'd seen someone do it on the train.”
“Maybe, but I'd bet he hasn't seen too many people our age doing it.”
“Yeah. That's why he applauded.”
“Probably,” I laughed.
“So, what about the other passengers?”
“The only other passenger we had to be careful about was a young guy, a student, sitting in front of us.”
“The seat directly in front of you?”
“So, close I could've blown him too,” I say, and that really sent Terry into a spasm of laughter.
“Stop right there. I want to hear the rest, but I want to savor it, and I don't want to let this delicious paella go cold in the meantime,” she says reaching for the Juan Special Sauce and dousing it again over her paella. “I don't know what's in this sauce, but boy is it delicious. It probably tastes just like Juan.” She laughs and passes the sauce to me, and I sprinkle some over my remaining paella.
“You're not kidding. This sauce is outstanding. We should ask him about it. Maybe we could buy a bottle or two to take home.”
Before digging in again Terry raises her wine glass to make another toast. Clinking our glasses together she says, “Here's to Juan's sauce, and we hope there's more to come.”
Just then Juan appears at our table. He reaches for the bottle of Albariño, so we set our now half-empty glasses back down again, and as he fills them. “It appears you ladies are enjoying the paella, no?”
“Si,” we both return in unison.
“You like the Albariño too?”
“Si, mucho gusto,” we parrot in unison, giggling at ourselves.
“The Albariño is my country's signature wine made from the grape of Galicia,” he says proudly.
“It is very good and a perfect match with this paella,” I say.
“And the Juan sauce, it too is excellent,” says Terry, “Would it be possible for us to purchase a couple of bottles to take home?
“I am sorry Señora, but we do not have it available for sale here in the hotel. However, I may be able to get you some before you leave if you would like?”
“That would be fabulous if it's not too much trouble,” gushes an inebriated Terry.
“For how long are you ladies staying with us here at the Fira, may I ask?”
“We're leaving a week from Saturday,” Terry offers.
“Then I will have it to you before you leave,” says a smiling Juan. Terry ogling him up and down making a fool of herself.
“Wonderful,” we both say.
“In the meantime, may I offer you ladies some dessert and coffee perhaps?”
“No, I think we’re finished. Just the check please,” I say. And Juan takes his leave.
“So, did Tucker make you yodel?” Terry asks.
“Riiiicolaaaa!”
“Ha, ha, ha.”
“And how did you manage to accomplish that? You said the seats were inadequate.”
“Remember the red dress?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Here kitty, kitty, kitty.”
“Oh, my Gawd.”
“Yeahus,” a voice answers and Pat walks up to our table.
“So, what's up Capeetan? Dinner over already or are you just calling it a late night,” asks Terry.
“Over, done, ate enough snails to safeguard most of the gardens in Barcelona for another month or two.”
“Yuck,” I say.
“And, you must be, Monica,” his interest level clearly rising.
“Oh, you two haven't met. I'm sorry. Yes, Pat, this is Monica, my lost flying companion who has finally arrived.”
“Very nice to meet you, Monica,” says Pat the gentleman, offering his hand and when I extend mine, he bows and taking my hand to his lips, kisses it with, “enchanté.”
“Oh, Pat, such the gentleman,” gushes Terry, surprised.
“Pleased to meet you too, Pat,” I say.
“So, you're the famous lady who trained all the way down through France to be here with us in Barcelona?”
“That's me,” I say with a little blush.
Juan approaches the table with the check, and Pat sidesteps.
“Well, I'm calling it a night. I just wanted to stop by and say hi to the lovely lady I've heard so much about tonight and who has been traveling with the man who won the 120 million euro Spanish lottery.”
“What?”
“Your friend, Tucker of course. Surely, he told you,” he says mocking surprise.
“And surely you know a jest when you hear one, Pat. What in the world were you all drinking for the boy to say such a silly thing?” I ask.
“Sangria of course.”
“Then there's your answer.”
“In a bottle. Message in a bottle,” slurs Terry.
“I know he was just kidding, but I've got to say, he had us there for a moment. Quite a character, your Tucker.”
“Not my Tucker, Pat. He belongs to Ebba,” I correct him.
“Oh, right. Well, I suppose if exaggeration is a character trait, they're a good fit. Ladies I do apologize profusely for interrupting but when I saw you sitting here tonight I couldn't resist stopping by and introducing myself to the talk of the table.”
“The what?”
“The talk of the table, at least at the Taverna La Tomaquera. You and Tucker were the talk of the table tonight.”
“Well, that's just lovely.”
“Yes. I think it's now time that I take my leave for the evening, so I'll bid you ladies, adieu until we meet again, tomorrow perhaps?”
“Good night, Pat,” says Terry.
When Pat staggers out of the room I turn and say, “And he's the pilot?”
“Crazy huh?”
“Not as crazy as 120 million euro Tucker.”
“Yeah, what's that all about?”
“I haven't the foggiest.”
nineteen
8:00 Hours, Tuesday, 2 September.
The Fira Palace Hotel.
I don’t know if anyone emerging from a coma is ever actually happy about it or even comes willingly. Or, if like a stubborn tooth, they resist being extracted from their cocoon of oblivion.
“Leave me alone I want to sleep.”
“You can’t. We're meeting Terry, and Monica for breakfast, remember? Then we're driving down the coast. Come on and get up, it's a million-dollar day.”
Now that was like reveille, and my head comes off the pillow in an instant.
“Had the strangest dream last night . . . that I'd won the lottery.”
“You did. Don't you remember? 120 million euros.”
Fortunately, before I could say anything more - some stupid thing that might reveal my secret - the synapses across the barren plain of my frontal lobe begin firing, and clarity dawns like Genesis. Invisible hands wrap around my throat and shake me until I promised not to open my mouth again lest I blow my one chance to collect on a once in a lifetime jackpot.
“You won La Primitiva last night honey. But, that was last night; today you're just a regular taxpayer like the rest of us. Come on and get up, Tucker. I've already let you sleep in while I showered and dressed. I'm going down to meet them. Don't dilly-dally now. Breakfast is in the restaurant, L'ARIA, on the first floor.”
“Okay, I'll be down in a few minutes,” I say as she closes the door behind her.
Just the thought that I'm waking up a One-Hundred-Twenty-Million-Euro-Aire is blowing my mind. 120 million euros! I can't believe it!
One-Hundred-Twenty-Million-Euro-minutes later and I'm standing in the breakfast buffet line, plate in hand and offering everyone a big smiling, “Buenos Dias.” No doubt I'm the happiest guy in the restaurant on this morning.