Big Pretzel - (An Adelaide Story)

The coffe stank. Instant decaffinated granules drowned beneath overheated milk.
“Decaf’s not coffe. It defeats the fucking purpose of coffee.” Dion spat, as the waitress continued to serve the offending beverage beside him.
To cease Dion’s ranting, I ordered two espressos and carried them to our table.
“Now this,” Dion gestured to the tiny cup, “Is coffee.” I smiled in agreeance and took a sip.

The mall we were in was garishly lit and uninspired; sterile, as is the norm. I glanced over to the jewellers, where a solid-framed woman was selling the store’s products through an amplifier.
“Some job, eh?” Dion cocked his head in the woman’s direction.
“She used to be an entertainer.” I said. “‘Big Pretzel’ was her name. She’d entertain the troops in Vietman by dancing and swinging tassles on her tits.” I looked over at the woman who, now, appeared a lot different from the woman in the photos my uncle showed me.

In the seventies she was slim but voluptuous, with red and gold cappped tassles on her breasts, matching sequined underwear. She smiled out of the photos with bright red lips and false eyelashes. Now, outside a chain-store jewellers with a burgundy suit and conservative make-up, she had grown around the waist and thighs. Her holding of the microphone encumbered a certain poise and grace that comes with age and a past in showgirl entertainment.

“I wouldn’t want to see her in tassles now.” Dion quipped and performed a mock shudder of revulsion to support his statement. I smiled quietly and thought it would be a treat to see Big pretzel whip out the sequins one last time and perform for me.

Big Pretzel - (An Adelaide Story)


Joined January 2008

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