I’m hearing all kinds of stories about Kelsey’s Bar. They say they refurbished the joint. Ripped out all the old seating, trying to make the place look respectable. Say they flat out ruined the place. Killed the ambience, the seediness. I decide to check it out for myself.
First thing I notice as I walk through the door is the joint is crowded. Can’t even get to the bar for hipsters and students. This is not good. I need to create a diversion. I start coughing and spluttering “damn this wretched disease”.
Next thing I got the whole bar to myself and a choice of barmaids and whiskies. I pick the blonde and a straight Kentucky mash.
“Hold the rocks sister.”
“You want ice with that, mister?” the broad behind the counter asks. “Sure” I answer. She’s around 5’11″, with legs made for stamping on any guy who gets in her way, and what she makes up for in looks she lacks in brains. Maybe she can help me.
“Say, doll -What kind of coat can only be put on when wet?”
She looks at her fingernails then burbles “a raincoat?”
SONG – Salamander baby, take me way down south
Tallahassee mama, I can’t stay here no how
I look up to the stars I see nothing
I look into your eyes I see a black, black heart
Salamander baby, take me down
The main bar room is full of shifty looking folk and things don’t get any prettier in the smoking area. Some of these guys look like they haven’t noticed the personal hygiene aisle at the grocery store, like they think shaving foam is some kind of new cheese. I’m standing next to a giant mass of tangled ginger hair starts speaking. The only way I can figure out there’s a guy behind it is from the light bouncing off his glasses. Hair don’t wear glasses, and beards don’t talk. As he begins to disentangle and move the hair from his face I notice he has a moll. She’s around 5’10″, wears heavy make up and shades and never speaks or changes her expression. I wink at her and she doesn’t even tell me to take a hike. I figure maybe I’ll follow it up with a smile but before I get a chance to a siren sounds. Half the punks in the joint freeze, mid-conversation. The rest of ‘em make for the fire exit. I decide to use the main door, no need to get jumpy. As I walk past the bar I turn to the blonde broad behind the counter and say;
“It’s a coat of paint. The answer is a coat of paint.”