The Traveling Death and Resurrection Show - Ariel Gore [9]
“Gentleman on the other side of the bar just bought y’all another round,” the bartender tells us, pointing to the father-to-be from outside.
“Those are the weird girls who laughed at me,” he says.
We weren’t laughing at him, exactly, but who’s going to argue with free drinks?
“I’ll laugh at you if you’ll buy me a drink,” someone calls out, and maybe Dad just got paid because he doesn’t hesitate. “All right, another drink!”
An old man with a long white beard studies us from the other end of the bar. “Girls?” he wrinkles his bulbous nose. “Where y’all from?” his voice is all gravel.
“San Francisco,” Madre offers for simplicity’s sake.
The old man nods into his beer like he figured as much, lights a GPC cigarette. “Time was they called Astoria San Francisco of Oregon,” he says, then shakes his head. “San Fran-cisco. I guess down there you gotta turn ’em upside down to figure if they’re a boy or a girl.”
Paula fidgets with her studded belt, nervous, but Madre just laughs. “And up here I guess you don’t quit smoking ’til you’re dead.”
The old man chuckles, won over just like that.
And now the bartender’s passing out boards for meat bingo.
“Meat bingo?” Magdelena raises an eyebrow.
“Yeah. It’s just like bingo, but we play for meat.” He holds up a plastic-and Styrofoam-wrapped raw steak.
I’m still hungry, actually thinking about how that steak might taste cooked in the motel microwave, when the theater proprietor rushes in, waving a ripped piece of yellow paper. “I’m so glad I caught you! Someone called after the show.” Bounce. Bounce. “A reporter from the L.A. Times wants to meet you at the Pig ’N Pancake for breakfast!”
“The L.A. Times?” Magdelena’s bright blue eyes widen.
“Huge circulation,” Madre beams.
Quiet Paula smiles, too. “The L.A. Times?”
“I’m really glad I caught you,” the proprietor says again. Bounce.
Another round of drinks, then.
Magdelena pulls the hair band from her ponytail, lets her blond hair fall on her shoulders, floats from her barstool, and lifts her arms over her head. “I’m a street light,” she sings. “I want to be a star! I want to inspire and show off and get a makeover and grace the covers of magazines like Drew Barrymore.”
“It’s just a reporter,” I mumble.
“Oh, don’t be a pill, Frankka.”
I hadn’t noticed the jukebox before, but now Dolly Parton’s singing about a hard candy Christmas and I guess Magdelena’s right. Don’t be a pill. I’m getting buzzed. Maybe my afternoon worries were nothing more than hunger. If news of a reporter from the L.A. Times can make my fellow travelers this happy, maybe it doesn’t matter if we’re lost or saved.
“B-6!” the bingo caller cries.
Raw steak for the dad-to-be.
We down our drinks like Kool-Aid, trip home to the Rivershore Motel to share the good news.
Chapter 5
THE REPORTER SHOWS UP
The reporter shows up in high-heeled boots, a long denim skirt, a black V-neck sweater. The clip-clop of her steps as she approaches our green vinyl booth says “downtown,” says “professional,” says “I’m a long way from L.A. and this better be good.” The Versace sunglasses perched on her head must be there to keep the sandy blond hair out of her eyes because there isn’t any danger of the sun showing its face today.
Madre stands, offers Miss L.A. the empty chair. “Long drive?”
Magdelena looks a little crestfallen when the reporter admits she didn’t come all this way just for us.
“I was down in southern Oregon,” she says. “My editor thought the two wildfires would merge. All the meteorology reports pointed to disaster. I’m Lifestyle, so I was there to hit the human interest angle—families who’ve lost everything, missing dogs, college kids last seen in the fire zone. But…” She shrugs. “Fire’s ninety-five percent contained. So I kept driving. I actually caught your show last night. I ran the idea past my editor. You’re performing in L.A. this weekend, right? We can promo it.”
“That’s awesome,” Magdelena coos, easily placated.
“We are honored by your visit,” Barbaro chimes in. “I hope you will find our brigade as wondrous as any forest fire.”
Little plush