SLIM'S PINK DOOR JUKE

Photo by Keetha

In honor of our newest Follower, whose reading and opinion I value, and who never thinks I'm vulgar, no matter what.

HER? The one a-cacklin' fit to bust? That there’s Miss Carla Bethune, with her honky-tonk lipstick and that ratty old three-fox fur thing with ‘em bitin’ each others’ tails---that thing looks like sump'n you’d a drug out from under the porch. Who in the blue blazes would put sump’n like that around their NECK and wear it, anyway?. I swear she found that thing dead somewheres.

She always HAS been a bit of a heller, she has. Ever since that time she worked over there at Perkin’s PanAM, serving in the caffay---she got her eye on the School Superintendent that time, remember? He’d come in for a cup a coffee, and she’d fling everything on the menu at ‘im---know whudda mean? And her in that pink nylon uniform every day of the month, and it so thin it showed her Kotex belt some of ‘em.

One night she was out here in a pair a them wind-up-your-leg sandals---like in Quo Vadis? ‘member that? Those things twisted and turned like Jack’s beanstalk up them dumpy legs til who’d a thought it. And silver, at that. With big ole chunky heels---wadn’t SHE a sight?

She had on a white big-tailed dress like that one blowed up around Merrlunn MON-roe, and even though there wadden a breeze stirrin’, ever now and then, she’d sorta give a big gasp, stand there stiff-legged and spraddled a little bit and throw both hands down over her skirt, right in the middle. Then she’d just throw back her head, and giggle. Just ridicklus, that’s what it was. And kinda pitiful, too.

You come back just any time, OK? We’ll be right here---open all the time.