Venetian Blonde

By Champ Clark

"She stopped me in my tracks. Made me think twice about sitting at the bar and ordering that drink. Alcohol can make me stupid and sloppy. And, when drinking, I had a habit of falling in love. I didn't want to fall in love with Frankie. I guessed she could break my heart."

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9781663219558

Champ Clark

A former writer with PEOPLE Magazine, Champ Clark lives in Santa Monica, California. He is the father to beautiful Sarah Ana.

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Copyright © 2021 Champ Clark.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-1954-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-1955-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021905017

iUniverse rev. date: 03/23/2021

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty Four

Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty Eight

Chapter Thirty Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty One

Dedicated to Julia Clark Salmon

-Who helped me write my way out of a corner-

and

Eddie, John, Jonathan

-Who helped me keep my eye on the ball-

CHAPTER ONE

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F rankie was a tall, long-limbed, flat-chested, red-haired native Alabaman with many admirers…all of whom she encouraged. Myself included. It was a long time before I realized that Frankie was as phony as the color of her hair.

I first saw Frankie working behind the bar at the Tip-Top-Tap not long after I’d fallen off the wagon after five years of earnest and hard-won sobriety. Now, with a failed marriage just behind me, I’d decided to make up for lost time.

The Tap wasn’t my usual joint. Back in the day that had been The Dew Drop Inn. But after you’ve been sober for a while and then taken the Big Slide, you avoid revisiting your previous haunts. Old drinking acquaintances are just too happy to welcome you back into the fold.

I’d already hit the Tap a few times before this particular afternoon, making sure it was going to be my kind of place, where anonymity would be my only companion. I’d discovered that at night the Tap turned into a college bar, crowded full of skinny pants and young girls who looked right through me.

But in the afternoons, the Tap was indeed my kind of venue. An authentic dive that only became a faux dive at night. A couple of mid-day drinkers spaced around the bar, an obsessed hep-cat finessing his life away at the ancient Farrah Fawcett Majors pinball machine, a vintage juke with Chuck Berry’s My Ding-A-Ling and even some classic Charlie Pride. Behind the bar a faded portrait of Chicago’s first Mayor Daley…even though this was Los Angeles. And, on this afternoon…Frankie.

She stopped me in my tracks. Made me think twice about sitting at the bar and ordering that drink. Alcohol can make me stupid and sloppy. And, when drinking, I had a habit of falling in love. I didn’t want to fall in love with Frankie. I guessed she could break my heart.

Choosing a stool at the far end of the bar, I sat and watched as Frankie poured a beer into a glass out of a tap that said Old Style. Another Chicago nod. I’d lived a few years in Chicago. Cold as a ditchdigger’s ass.

Heya, Frankie said, looking my way.

Hi, I said, ready with the sparkling repartee.

What can I get you?

A Margarita on the rocks…with salt, thanks.

Jose Cuervo ok?

I certainly hope so, I replied, warming up now.

To my astonishment, Frankie actually gave this a little chuckle and turned to make my drink. I watched her through the mirror behind the bar. Like I said, tall, long-limbed, flat-chested…with an ass the Queen of England would have envied. She was Popeye’s Olive Oil with red hair and sex appeal.

Here ya go, Frankie said, putting down my drink. You want me to keep a tab open for you?

No, thanks, I think just this one, I said. She stood there and I couldn’t think of anything else to say. So I said, I haven’t seen you before.

Frankie looked at me and I noticed her eyes were a speckled grey, unusual for a red-head.

I usually work nights…the college crowd, she said. Lousy tippers, but there’s always a lot of them, so it evens out. I’m kind of liking it here in the afternoon, though. Quiet. And I like the music on the jukebox better than the DJ at night. I’m old school at heart.

You in college, too? I asked, though I figured Frankie to be in her thirties.

Yes, well, not really. I take class…I’m an actor. I just auditioned for a play this morning…hope I get it.

An actress. Who takes class. Still, I guessed she might be good, whatever stage she was on.

What play? I asked.

You know Tennessee Williams?

I said I did, though not personally. She gave me her little laugh again. I was on a roll.

"Streetcar…for Blanche. Did you know that Blanche is only thirty in the play? I always thought she was supposed to be a lot older. She’s such a great part. And I have the accent…authentic, too…except I usually tone it down in real life."

Where are you from? I asked.

The South. Alabama born and bred.

I have some family in the South. Virginia.

That’s not the South.

Well, it kind of is, actually. The ‘Cradle of the Confederacy’ and all.

It’s NOT the South, said Frankie, with a trace of anger. And when she said it, she let her full Southern girl accent fly, with a Rebel flash in her grey speckled eyes. At least, not the real South. She paused. You ready for another? Start a tab?

I said, Sure, and she moved away.

It’s a funny thing about drinking. You’d think that, over time, the more regularly you drank the more resistance you’d build up to the alcohol, needing more to achieve the desired accompanying effects. But, in my experience, it’s just the opposite. For me, with just one or two swigs, I’ve got the buzz going.

I didn’t mean to insult you, I said as Frankie delivered my second Margarita.

Ha, no worry…Y’all.

I guess I’ve never been to the deep South.

You should go sometime, said Frankie. We got gators and swamps and good eating possum and ‘Dueling Banjos’…all that good stuff.

Sorry, I said. I’m Drake.

Drake? Frankie paused. Like a duck?

I wish I had a nickel…

Frankie reached over to the register and pulled out a coin, slapping it down on the bar.

Here’s a quarter, Drake-like-a-duck. That means I get to keep calling you that. I kind of like it. It’s cute.

I fingered the quarter, trying to decide whether or not to be angry. I’d always hated my name.

Why don’t you play something on the jukebox with it? Frankie suggested. That’d be good, don’t you think? A quarter a song. You pick.

I got up off my stool and walked over to the juke. Pinball hep-cat was still flipping away.

Don’t play any Elvis, he said, looking up with a steely-eyed glare. There’s some good Skynyrd, though.

I flipped through the song titles. The Skynyrd was about the most recent thing on there. I almost selected The Night Chicago Died, just to keep with the bar’s theme. But then I saw what I wanted and put the quarter in the slot.

As I walked back to my stool at the bar the music began to play and pinball hep-cat looked up again and hissed, I thought I told you no Elvis. Then he swiveled his hips just in time to catch a ball with the flipper before it dropped into the machine’s abyss.

Um, I said to Frankie. I don’t know your name.

I like this song, she said. Oh…it’s Frankie.

Frankie, would you…um…would you like to dance, maybe?

Wow, really? Wow, I don’t know. I’m kind of working now.

No, I’m serious. It’s quiet here. And you’re not really busy. You can pretend you’re Blanche. I’ll be Mitch.

Oh. Well, ok. Yeah…I guess.

And then Frankie came around from behind the bar and took my hand. And we started to move slowly together. Close. With her head on my shoulder. Pinball hep-cat said to himself, Fuck Elvis.

Frankie and I danced.

Wise men say only fools rush in

But I can’t help falling in love with you

Shall I stay?

Would it be a sin

If I can’t help falling in love with you?

Frankie whispered something in my ear. But I didn’t catch it.