Hot Flash, Part I "Ladies and Gentlemen"

The stout, fiftyish woman hesitates on the stairs by the front door, scanning the restaurant. Oh god, what am I doing here? “An evening of music and poetry!” I feel like a fool. Everybody in here is at least twenty years younger than I am. And where’s Sharla? What if she doesn’t show up? I’m just going to leave.... She turns abruptly and, grasping the painted iron railing, pulls herself up a step until she’s chest-to-chest against a young man. “Nike” says the young man’s jacket, and the swooping logo presses itself against the woman’s breasts. She blushes and leans backward as far as she can without losing her grip on the railing. “Excuse me, please, may I get by? I need to get out.”
      “Sorry, lady, can’t move. There’s people behind me.” The young man presses forward, insultingly so, the woman thinks, until she notices that his eyes are locked on something beyond her, across the room. Hmmm...  he says to himself. There’s a cute one...alone? No, but with her doggy girlfriend--yes! We have a ‘go,’ Houston.... He squeezes past the stout woman and crosses the floor with purpose.
      At a table in the center of the room, Becky shrugs her way out of her coat, leaving it dangling in her boyfriend’s hand. This should be fun. Hamp and I haven’t done anything with a crowd for a long time. Can’t believe Amy wore her black jacket  I told her I was gonna wear mine.... “Well, here we are!” she says in her sprightliest voice. With an impatient, freshly-lacquered fingertip, she indicates the chair she wants and waits for Hamp to draw it away from the table. She seats herself carefully, arranging her purse, scarf, and gloves on the tabletop like cutlery. “Hi, Amy! You look cute. Love your jacket.” Becky tosses introductions over her shoulder. “Hamp, you know Amy, and this is her boyfriend, Charlie. And that’s Teddy and Ginny and Mike.” The men shake hands, rising slightly and reaching over the heads of the seated women.
      Becky continues, “I heard this guy is supposed to be great. I’m so glad we could get tickets. Oh, not tickets? Well, reservations then. Never been in here before. Looks great. Very artsy. Are we eating? Umm, nachos and bean dip. I  had Mexican food for lunch, but....” She pulls the heaping platter toward her and scoops up a generous dollop of refried beans with a corn chip. Opening her mouth widely, so as not to smear her lipstick, she maneuvers the laden chip between her small, evenly-spaced teeth. Her mouth closes; she chews and swallows. “Yum! Have some, you guys!” Becky fills another chip with beans and, this time, adds green chili sauce from a small bowl that the waiter has placed on the table near her. “Hear we have to sit through some poetry before the music. Hope it’s not too boring. I never understand poems. Hamp likes poems. He even wrote one for me when we first got together, didn’t you, honey? How did it go? ‘Roses and lips and something-something.’ Something like that. Really sweet. So, Amy, tell me what happened in class Thursday. Did I miss anything?”

  A tall, lean man in an apron decorated with red and green chili peppers and the words “Hot Flash” taps the microphone that stands on a tiny, raised stage in one corner of the restaurant. A straight-backed chair and a slightly-rickety table fill the rest of the space on the stage, and in the harsh glare of the spotlight, all four of them--table, chair, microphone stand, and tall man--cast spiderleg shadows on the wall behind them. “Please, ladies and gentlemen,” says the man, and his voice ricochets off the brick walls and bounces metallically around the small, high-ceilinged room. “If everyone will please take their seats. We’ll start in just a few minutes. Yes, there’s still some seating up here.” He beckons to three young women who are standing on tip-toes. “Up here, ladies.” The women snake forward one after another, swiveling their hips to the right, the left, then the right again through the maze of tables and chairs.
  People continue to crowd into the small restaurant. The stout woman turns with difficulty and takes three steps back down to the floor. Trapped!  Sharla’s not coming, damn her. I’ll sit here by the door  Maybe I can duck out when they get started. She squeezes her bulk into a chair between the wall and a round table not more than fifteen inches across. She leans against the brick wall, and it cools her flushed back and neck.
  On the other side of the room, the young man in the Nike jacket leans on the edge of a high, narrow table that’s pushed up against a humming soda pop cooler. Two young women perched on tall stools at this table hitch themselves an inch or two to the left, making more space for him. “Hi,” he smiles, “Mind if I stand here?”
      The more attractive of the women, brown-eyed with spiky, frosted-blonde hair, smiles back. “Not at all.” She consults her friend without looking at her. “Do we, Nadine?” Nadine nods, glumly reluctant. “You here alone?” the blonde asks the young man.
  “S’posed to meet a friend, but I don’t think he’s coming.” He leans in close to the blonde and puts out a hand. “I’m Karl.”
  She touches his palm briefly with her fingertips. “I’m Cherie.  This is Nadine.” Nadine bobs her head and sighs, then studies the poster taped to the side of the pop cooler in front of her. A border of chili peppers dances around the edge of the bright yellow sheet, and large, black letters say:

AN EVENING OF POETRY & MUSIC  

HOT FLASH BURRITO COMPANY

FRIDAY, JANUARY 24th

7 P.M.

SEATING LIMITED

“We come here all the time,” says Cherie. “They make a mean enchilada. You should try it. It’s hot.” She looks closely at Karl and decides she likes his blue eyes, his dark brows and eyelashes, the way his jacket hugs his shoulders.
  Karl swivels in closer to Cherie. When the waiter looks his way, he holds up three fingers, says, “Dos Equis,” and points at the table.
  “I’m drinking Diet Coke,” Nadine announces to the poster on the cooler.
  Cherie nudges Nadine with her hip. “Don’t be difficult, please,” she hisses from the corner of her mouth. Nadine sighs again and turns her stool toward the stage.
“Nadine knows one of the poets,” Cherie explains to Karl. “She’s in his class at ISU. I came to hear the guitarist. From Spokane. S’posed to be very good.”
The waiter puts three sweating beer bottles on the table and takes the ten-dollar bill Karl pushes at him. “Yeah, I heard,” says Karl. “I’m in a band, myself. Bass guitar.”
“Really? What band? Maybe I’ve seen you.”
Karl lifts his beer bottle and wipes the wet ring it leaves on the tabletop. “Doubt it. We’re just practicing, so far. Gonna get a gig in Jackson Hole next summer.” He takes a long drink, tipping his head back. Cherie watches him swallow, notes the thick cords on each side of his neck, likes the way they spread down into his shirt collar and onto his shoulders. Karl swipes the back of his hand--the one holding the beer bottle--across his lips. “So, Cherie,” he says, setting the bottle on the table, “some friends of mine are playing at the First Nash. You wanna go over there?”
“Well--” Cherie hesitates, rolls her eyes toward Nadine. Karl leans a few inches closer. He’s so close now that, looking down at Cherie, his eyes are almost closed. Cherie can see only a sliver of light blue beneath the heavy lashes. She makes a quarter-turn toward him; her forearm brushes his abdomen lightly. The Nike swoop on his jacket puffs out and rests on her shoulder. Her arm feels warm, like it does when she rests it against the rolled-up car window on a sunny day. The heat moves up her arm to her neck, across her chest, down her torso. Karl exhales softly, and his warm, Dos Equis breath tickles a few frosted-blonde hairs on her forehead.  “I want to hear Butch Tendler,” she says, “but after that, I could go to the First Nash for a while.” She draws the word “while” out slowly.