Posted 24 January 2008 - 12:54 PM
Rob Roy sat astride his massive black stallion looking down on Shirley Temple with a haughtiness that just made her blood boil. She had first seen it when he brought her, against her will!, to this horrible little town so far west of her beloved Madison Ave.
She stomped her foot petulantly. “I will not, ever, in this lifetime work in that saloon of yours!” Arms akimbo, and lower lip stuck out as her exclamation point.
“Well” Rob Roy countered, “We’ll just see about that.” His strong cowboy hands caressed the saddle horn between his legs, furrowing Shirley's brow a little more because she couldn’t understand why her belly went all gooey sometimes around this man she so disliked.
“Just because you won me in that poker game against my dear sweet Pa-Pa, does not mean you own me.”
“Why yes Miss Temple that is exactly what it does mean. I am truly sorry your dear, sweet pa-pa is a degenerate gambler who can’t hold his licker, ’sept if he hired her from one of those Bowery brothels.” He chuckled, enjoying being lewd in front of Miss Fancy Knickers.
Shirley stomped her little foot again, turned on her heel and stormed off with Rob Roy’s laughter ringing in her crimson ears. “I’ll get him for this, and for every other humiliation he has put me through.” She vowed.
All through the night she tossed and turned plotting vengeance, dreaming of revenge, figuring how to give that mean Rob Roy his come-uppance.”
The next morning she was behind the stick, a phrase she had heard Rob Roy use many times that she couldn’t think of let alone utter without going all pink around the cheeks. She was Polishing glasses, organizing liquor bottles, Wiping down the beautiful Mahogany bar when Rob Roy came down the stairs, shirtless no-less, a cat who just ate the canary grin on his face.
From an open door on the second floor came the sleepy voice of Marta Ini, a half Mexican half Italian whore, who had recently taken to Rob Roy’s bed for free. “Carino, Please you bring me some coffee of the Irish?”
“You’re gonna get some black coffee, and a second helping of Scotch, and you’re gonna like it.” He called back, followed by her titters.
He bellied up to the bar his powerful shoulders blocking out the sun coming in from the window, Rock hard abs slashed this way And that with knife wounds, and love bites that were as fresh as the cream that had just been delivered and was sitting on the bar perspiring slightly in the gentle morning heat.
“You’re gonna make me two Ramos gin fizzes right now, fast and hard, and every morning here after I expect four of them to be on the bar, just shaken, the bubbles from the seltzer still jumping enough too tickle my nose. And the head better be spectacular. Every morning, awesome, stellar head is what I expect. If you aren’t hot, and glistening then the head is no good.” He was trying to make her blush, trying to make her squirm and bite her lip with em- bare assed- ment.
She smiled prettily, and put her plan into effect. Her plan was to become the best darn barkeep west of the Hudson, Squirrel away some cash, to buy her freedom, and then get back to her beloved little brownstone on Grammercy Park.
“Mr. Roy,” She began, fluttering her eyelashes and putting a little western lilt in her voice so as to be pleasing to the ear of this savage who had no more manners than a guttersnipe from the Five-Points.
“I’m new at this so if you wouldn’t mind walking me through this gin fit thing today I will have it ready for you tomorrow.”
Rob Roy, who everyone called Roy, looked with suspicion at this purring kitten before him, who just yesterday was as wild as a puma caught in a trap.
“It’s a Gin Fizz, a Ramos Gin Fizz, Elixir of the gods, a blessing to all have woken up after a night of whiskey and women to a head full of bumble bees, and a stomach as delicate as the skull of a baby chick. Jeeze woman you sure don’t know squat for a girl who went through collage. Take that there shaker and put it open side up in front of you.” He began, wondering where this was going and getting up on the balls of his feet ready to duck in case any eggs, gin or orange flower water came sailing his way.
“Now with one hand crack one of those eggs that Farmer Macdonald just brought us, getting only the white in the shaker.” As she struggled not to get in any shell into the tin, Roy continued. “That Old Macdonald, he has a chicken on his farm.” He hummed a little diddy (da-da-da-da-da-da-Duh) to himself and decided he should make a song out of it sometime. “So I first had the Gin Fizz of the Ramos coupla years back when I was down in N’awlenz. It was hot, hot as the hinges of hell… Good work, now donate an ounce of that fresh Macdonald cream to the shaker… When I was walking around looking for some liquid refreshment. I stumbled upon this tavern in a rather seedy part of the crescent city, a bar that still to this day brings joy to my heart when I think about it…OK, now contribute 2 ponies of that Old Tom Gin, the juice of half a lemon and half a lime, a spoon of powered sugar...”
“You getting all this?” Roy fired at Shirley who was running around looking for things, dropping things, sometimes spinning in one place. “Now supply 7 drops of orange flower water. You don’t know what orange flower water is? It smells as good as a Parisian Trollop, and is as strong as her pimp, so be careful, 7 drops, no more no less. So I walk into this bar, and belly up, my shiny boot on a brass foot-rail, a Black Cherry Royal Roll to brace my elbow. I was going to order a whiskey but then I noticed everybody in the bar had these long thin drinks that looked like they could satisfy the thirst of a man 2 weeks out in the desert. The drink was as pale and white a ladies thigh. I ordered one up, asking his barkeeps pardon, but what was this concoction called? The saloon master said it was a Ramos, that’s all he called it, like everyone in the world should know what it was and it’s name.”
Shirley stood before him her bosom heaving, a shaker in one hand a big lump of ice in the other. She closed her eyes, brought the tin to her nose and inhaled heaven. Fireworks went off behind her eyes. Images of languorous picnics in warm butterfly filled meadows, and slow deep kisses on that plaid blanket filled her brain. She dropped the lump of ice in the shaker, placed the other, smaller tin on top and brought the heel of her hand down on the edge to create a seal.
Even though she had never been a saloon, or tavern, never stepped foot in a bar or a blind tiger, she knew what to do. She brought the cocktail to shoulder height and started rocking in slowly; slow and steady like a hansom cab containing a dandy and his mistress, hidden in central park after the opera. She speeded the motion up, gradually building, reminding sweet Shirley of the bonnets of the workingwomen in the alleys near W .11th Street. The sound of the ice reached a cacophony, like a team of horses, barreling down on you, their hooves sparking on the cobblestones. The sound itself intoxicating, the clatter of danger, the ice chips whispering against the inside of the shaker with the joy of lover’s sweet nothings.
Roy stood there gob smacked. He beheld this little whipper-snap of a thing behind his bar; panting and wobbly, dew drops of perspiration trickling down her décolleté. Her hair was coming out in wisps giving her the freshly f#!ked look.
She snapped the shakers with the suddenness and force of a public knee-trembler. She grabbed a tall thin highball glass, and strained the Ramos into it. With the patience of a professional she wrung the last drops of espuma from the bottom of the tin. She added spurts of soda water until the creamy head stood 8 turgid inches from the bottom of the glass. Her eyes were far away and dreamy as she reached for her first cocktail. Roy stood stock still in his tracks, watching the proceedings in slow motion.
She grasped the glass around its base, feeling the heft and girth hard in her hand. As she hoisted the fizz all got quiet for Shirley. The bouquet hit her when it was half way to her hungry lips. Her eyes closed partially, the glass came to her lips and ecstasy crashed on her tongue. Cool silky Ramos shot across her taste buds, electrifying them, and slid down her throat. In her haste, her longing, her need she had brought the glass up a little to fast. The creamy, perfumed head stuck to her upper lip, and just a few drops snuck out from both sides of her mouth. The drops stuck in her hair and rivulets down her long swan neck and into her cleavage.
Her vixen eyes bored into Roy, and she daintily wiped the corners of her lips in a no-nonsense gesture. She cocked her head, and with confidence and drawled.
“I think I’m gonna be just fine behind your stick Mr. Roy.”
A DUSTY SHAKER LEADS TO A THIRSTY LIFE
