Last Bus to Coffeeville

by J. Paul Henderson

  ‘What made you do it, then?’ Jack asked.

  ‘The Metro Council is what!’ Warren said. ‘People on it started gettin’ all prissy; got this bee in their bonnet the size of a damned B52 bomber that Nashville didn’t need any adult venues. They started makin’ life as difficult as possible for me an’ people like me. If I’d run a bad club I could have understood it, but I didn’t: WK’s did things by the book. We never violated liquor laws, never had disturbances that warranted a visit by the police, an’ we didn’t make noise. We were a respectable business dealin’ in beauty an’ dreams. That’s all we did an’ that’s what we told ’em. We’d have done better tap dancin’ on a shag carpet for all the impact we had on ’em. They started treatin’ us like common criminals, law breakers. Still burns me up when I think about it! What goddamn right did they have to go rulin’ we were an unpleasant smell stinkin’ up the city?’

  ‘Did they close you down?’ Jack asked.

  ‘No, I’m not sure they could have done that. They closed down some other places for violations of existin’ ordinances – an’ those clubs probably deserved to be closed down – but for clubs like ours they had to play sneaky. They passed new ordinances bannin’ complete nudity an’ makin’ it a requirement for dancers an’ patrons to keep three feet apart from each other an’ not touch. An’ then they went and prohibited alcohol on the premises! I tell you, Jack, it ruined the whole ambience of the place. Customers were made to feel like social pariahs, an’ needless to say they stopped comin’. In the end I just said to hell with it all, an’ sold the place.’

  ‘But if the club was gone, why did Susan stay and rent an apartment? Why didn’t she just leave?’

  ‘Because I had other irons in the fire, Jack. I wasn’t about to wait for old age to come an’ pay me a visit, so I came up with an idea. Maybe the club was gone, but that didn’t mean to say the entertainment had to stop: we could take it to the customers’ houses – to their own living rooms.

  ‘We called them Gentlemen’s Soirees. Clients would call an’ tell me what nights they were plannin’ a get-together, an’ I’d arrange the dancers. It worked well: the dancers made a livin’, an’ the customers got to enjoy themselves without havin’ to worry about the police turnin’ up an’ askin’ for their names an’ addresses. I thought Susan would fit right into this business model, but I hadn’t allowed for the chocolate.’

  ‘Is this the chocolate she brought with her from Hershey?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the stuff. It was supposed to be slow meltin’, but it turned out not to melt at all – not in the early try-outs, anyway. Simple ideas are often the best, but not if you get them from simple people – an’ that’s what I thought this Finkel fellow was. You know the sayin’ that if you get an ear shot off an’ move to Texas, the only people you’re likely to meet are Texans an’ ear specialists? Well, to my way of thinkin’, this was such a case in point.’

  Jack had never heard of the saying, doubted that such a saying even existed and certainly had no idea what it meant.

  ‘I’d take Susan to a client’s house an’ she’d go and prepare herself in the bathroom, smear her body with chocolate an’ then come out. The idea was that she’d stand there motionless, let the chocolate melt an’ then lick it off and slowly reveal her body to the people in the room. Trouble was though, the chocolate didn’t melt – an’ if she moved, it cracked. Customers had no idea what to make of it; didn’t know if they was supposed to help lick it off or what. An’ of course, that’s what they weren’t supposed to do. Susan never allowed anyone to touch her with their hands, so she sure as hell wasn’t going to have people lickin’ her body with their damned tongues!

  ‘“It’s just a glitch, Warren,” she told me: “I just need time to get the mixture right.” And because it was Susan, I listened to her. Anyone else, I’d have wished them good luck and bid them sayonara. Eventually, however, she did get a mix that worked.

  ‘Susan always wanted to stand motionless, but for a crowd of onlookers that’s just plain borin’ – may as well be lookin’ at a hat stand. Great events in history are usually the product of boredom, Jack, but you can’t say that about cabaret. It took a lot of coaxin’, but eventually Susan agreed to dance an’, once she did, the chocolate melted a treat. Only problem was it melted too good. She couldn’t keep up with it, an’ had never before considered that lickin’ so much chocolate at one time might make her feel sick.

  ‘The end result was that the chocolate pooled on the carpet she was standin’ on an’ then, to cap it all, she went an’ threw up. You can imagine how that smelled in a hot room. It was plain awful, an’ other people started gaggin’, too. You might guess I had to waive the fee for that night’s performance, an’ once I’d finished paying all the cleaning bills I was out of pocket an’ in danger of losin’ good customers.

  ‘We tried it one more time, an’ this occasion we had Susan standin’ on some thick sheets o’ polythene. To tell you the truth it was a bit of a mood killer, but we went ahead with it anyway. Rather than lickin’ the chocolate off an’ riskin’ Susan getting ill all over again, we decided it would be better if she just wiped it from her body with her hands, an’ for a while it went well an’ people appeared to be enjoyin’ the performance. But then a couple of guys who’d been drinkin’ more than they should have been, stepped out of the audience an’ decided to give her a helping hand.

  ‘She slapped one of ’em hard, an’ then punched the other fellah with her fist an’ damn near broke his nose. There was blood all over the place. Now that kinda commotion’s one thing that ain’t good for business, Jack, and word got round. I had customers callin’ up an’ stipulatin’ they didn’t want the Chocolate Woman on no account, an’ that’s when I had to reluctantly call it a day.’

  ‘You don’t know where we’ll find her in Memphis, do you?’ Jack asked.

  ‘She said she was gonna stay with a friend of hers an’ think things through. Think about what she was gonna do with her life. I think even she realised this new art form of hers – Still Life Stripping, as she called it – wasn’t goin’ no place.’

  ‘Do you happen to know her friend’s name, an address or a telephone number that might be helpful?’

  ‘Her friend’s called Darla Thomas. She used to be a dancer, too, at one time. My understandin’ is that she’s some kind of manager at the Peabody these days. That’s a hotel in the downtown. You might want to start your inquiries there.’

  They caught up with Eric and Lola in the back garden – another display cabinet for the Kuykendahl’s considerable wealth. Anything of value that could withstand the elements and be considered an object of prestige was carefully positioned for the benefit of neighbours and visitors: four luxury cars, two trucks, a speedboat, an oversized barbecue pit and grill, and a sit-on lawnmower. Eric and Lola were sitting on the edge of the swimming pool with their feet dangling in the water, Lola sipping from a tumbler filled with gin and tonic and absent-mindedly rattling the ice cubes.

  It was difficult to know if Lola was drunk or not; more difficult to believe that any person not drunk would have dressed in the clothes she wore.

  ‘Eric’s the most sorrowful child I’ve ever met, Warren!’ Lola said, and then fixed her eyes on Jack, as if somehow Eric’s condition was his fault. ‘It’s your responsibility to make sure that this only child doesn’t grow up to be an only adult, you hear?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Kuykendahl, I’ll take care of him,’ Jack said.

  ‘You make sure you do. Children are the greatest of God’s gifts and time spent with them is the most precious time of all. You remember that! Warren and I have two of the most darlin’ children you could ever hope to meet, and we love them to bits, don’t we, Warren?’ Warren nodded.

  ‘Where are they now?’ Jack asked.

  Lola slipped an ice cube from her mouth and let it drop into the glass. ‘We sent them away to boarding school,’ she said, without missing a beat.

  ‘Did you find out
where Susan is?’ Eric leapt up to ask.

  ‘She’s in Memphis, staying with a friend. We’ll find her there.’

  ‘But what if we don’t?’

  ‘We will. I give you my word on it.’

  It was time for them to leave, and Jack thanked Warren for his help and Lola for the coffee in the special cups. He then asked Warren if he’d call them a taxi.

  ‘I can do better than that, gentlemen: I’ll drive you there myself. There’s some business I need to take care of downtown, an’ you know what they say: death brings freedom but no extra television channels.’

  Jack and Eric looked at each other.

  Warren dropped them outside the Union Hotel. To the best of his knowledge, it was the first time he’d had a Jew in his car. Jack was a nice enough fellow, and he wondered if it was time for him to re-evaluate his prejudices. He decided it wasn’t: it would be easier to have the car valeted.

  The Revival – Aztec Two Step Style

  They found Doc and the others taking coffee in the lobby. ‘Any luck?’ Doc asked.

  ‘Yes and no,’ Jack replied. ‘She was here, but she moved to Memphis a couple of weeks ago. Warren was pretty sure she’d still be there.’

  ‘Kind of elusive, this cousin o’ yo’s, ain’t she?’ Bob said to Eric.

  ‘Jack says we’ll find her and I believe him,’ Eric replied. ‘Do you know where the toilets are?’

  ‘Over yonder,’ Bob indicated. ‘Is this gonna be the big day?’

  ‘I hope so,’ Eric said.

  ‘What do you mean his big day? Is he getting married? You never told me anything about this, Gene. You’re forever keeping secrets from me. I don’t even have a hat to wear,’ Nancy said.

  ‘He ain’t gettin’ married, Nance,’ Bob laughed. ‘He’s blocked up, is all. Got his’self constipated.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief,’ Nancy said. ‘I thought he was a bit young to be getting married. And what would his parents have said?’

  ‘What happens if we don’t find Susan in Memphis, Jack? Nice as the boy is, he can’t stay with us forever.’

  ‘I’ve thought about that, Doc, and if we still haven’t found her by the time we get to Coffeeville, I’ll stick with him and make sure he gets home safely; try and explain things to the people there. I think I’d already decided on this, but what clinched it was something Lola Kuykendahl said. She told me Eric was an only child in danger of growing up to be an only adult. He’s not the most confident of kids, and reading between the lines of what he’s told me, I think the other kids at school picked on him; made fun of his naivety and the fact that he doesn’t look his age. It’s not much fun being ridiculed – and who’s there to stick up for him now his parents are gone and his guardians are so caring they ship him off to a deaf school? Besides, I enjoy spending time with the boy. It’s a whole lot more fun hanging out with Eric than it ever was with my own family, and if you think about it I’m as closely related to Eric as I ever was to Conrad!’

  Eric returned at that moment. ‘Any joy?’ Jack asked.

  ‘No, I pooped a few times but nothing came out. Do you think I should see a doctor?’

  ‘There’s one sitting right there,’ Jack said, pointing to Doc. ‘What do you think, Doc?’

  ‘Take him for a Mexican meal. It’ll blow it right out of him.’

  ‘Is that what you used to tell your patients,’ Jack asked him.

  ‘No – but it’s what I wanted to tell them! Believe me, it’ll work, and all it will cost is the price of a meal you’d have had to buy anyway.’

  ‘Shall we all go for one?’ Eric asked.

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t, Eric. When Bob told me you and Jack were going to church tonight, I went ahead and booked a table for me, Nancy and Bob in the hotel’s dining room. Nancy’s hoping to desegregate the restaurant this evening, aren’t you, dear?’

  ‘Yes, I am. And if they refuse to serve Bob, we’re all walking out!’ Nancy said firmly. ‘Right, Gene?’

  ‘Right, Nancy. We could meet up for a drink afterwards, though. We were planning to go to a place where they play music. What time does your service finish?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jack said. ‘It starts at six-thirty, so I’m figuring about eight. I’ll have to borrow a phone from you though, Bob – to call a taxi after it ends.’

  Bob took a phone from his pocket and inserted a new SIM card. He handed it to Jack.

  ‘Thanks. What’s the name of the place you’re going to?’

  ‘I can’t remember the name of it, but you can’t miss it. It’s a honky-tonk on the McGavock Pike, right across from the Opryland Hotel. We’ll be there by eight-thirty at the latest. Any problems, give Bob a call.’

  Jack went to the front desk and got the name of a nearby Mexican restaurant. He returned to where the others were sitting. ‘Come on, Eric – let’s go and kick-start those bowels of yours.’

  The Happy Sombrero was an inappropriately named Tex-Mex restaurant within easy walking distance of the hotel. Sombre Sombrero would have been a better designation, as the taqueria was anything but happy. It was apparent to any customer who ate in the restaurant that, on a sliding scale of enjoyment, the waiters and waitresses viewed their jobs as ranking somewhere close to a near-death experience; something to be done until something better came along.

  Despite having grown up in California, Eric knew nothing of Mexican cuisine and Jack ordered for them both: tortilla chips with hot sauce and salsa as an appetiser, followed by wet burritos and refried beans.

  ‘And this will help me go to the toilet?’ Eric asked, once the food had been placed on the table.

  ‘If this doesn’t, nothing will!’ Jack said.

  The burritos were filled with beef, shredded lettuce, guacamole, salsa and sour cream, and topped with a red chilli sauce and melted cheese. The food was good and Eric ate not only everything on his plate, but also the leftover beans on Jack’s. He’d never before tasted food so hot, and the Tabasco sauce he’d mistaken for ketchup and splashed over his food – against his mother’s advice – had only made it hotter. Beads of sweat formed on his scalp, ran down his forehead, neck and cheeks, and left his hair wet and matted.

  ‘Boy that was good! I’m going to eat Mexican food again, Jack. Shall we eat it tomorrow?’

  ‘Let’s see how you get on with this first.’ Jack looked at his watch and called for the check – and again, five minutes later, after the check hadn’t arrived. While they waited, he told Eric to visit the restroom and use the hand blower to dry his hair.

  No sooner had they left the restaurant than the waiter who’d served them came running out after them. ‘Hey, you forgot to leave a gratuity!’

  ‘I didn’t forget: I purposely didn’t leave you one!’ Jack said. ‘I had to ask for water; I ordered a beer from you and you never brought one; and you never once asked us how the meal was! If you think I’m leaving a tip just because you banged two plates of food down on a table, then you can think again. Your whole attitude sucks, man, and if I’m honest, you’re the worst damn waiter who’s ever served me. I’ll tell you what I’ll do though: once I get to church I’ll pray for you, and ask God to cure that deformity of yours that makes it impossible for you to smile at customers!’

  Once his customers were a safe distance from the restaurant, the waiter shouted after them: ‘Fuck you, assholes! I hope God kills you!’ When Jack turned, the waiter quickly retreated into the safety of the Happy Sombrero.

  Jack and Eric walked back to the hotel and found a waiting taxi.

  ‘Where to, gentlemen?’ the driver asked.

  Jack dug the folded sheet of newspaper from his pocket and read out the name and address of the church. Under the impression it was located somewhere close to the downtown area, he was surprised when the driver took the ramp on to the I40 and headed west.

  ‘Is the church far?’ Jack asked, slightly concerned.

  ‘Twenty minutes, maybe thirty in this traffic,’ the driver replied.

 
; ‘Have you heard of this church?’

  ‘No, I can’t say that I have. There are a handful of small churches out there, but I don’t know any of them by name – or reputation, for that matter. I’m a Methodist, myself.’

  Jack looked at his watch: ten till six. Even if it took them thirty minutes they’d still arrive in good time, but just where they’d be arriving he now wasn’t sure. The advertisement in the newspaper had stood out head and shoulders over the other church notices on the page, and led him to believe that the church was a major player in the area. If you’re hungry for an old-fashioned and Heaven-sent Revival, the notice had read, then join us this Saturday at 6:30 pm. It promised a shower of blessings on all who attended, and named the guest evangelist as Brother Logan Bloodworth, a man who’d been born again at the age of eight and subsequently led more than two thousand revivals.

  Jack hadn’t disclosed to Eric – and certainly not to Doc – his true reason for attending the revival, and had probably led Eric to believe the service was for his benefit. It wasn’t: it was for the benefit of Jack, specifically his hair. Although he’d tried desperately to convince himself that losing it was no big deal, he knew that it was and always would be. It preyed on his mind the whole time, especially so when he showered and afterwards had to unclog the drain. Being away from Laura and Conrad hadn’t reversed the hair loss – not even stabilised it. Every time he imagined himself bald, he shuddered. He saw the revival as a last chance salon, an opportunity to seek a cure at the hands of the supernatural. He had nothing to lose.

  Jack’s train of thought was interrupted by the borborygmic rumblings of Eric’s stomach. Gas and air had now started to move through the boy’s intestinal tract, a sure signal that the long-awaited housecleaning was about to commence. The wambling noises grew in intensity until a blast of gas forcibly exited through Eric’s rectum and filled the car with the unpleasant odour of rotten eggs.