The plane was scheduled to land at 7:55 p.m., but—due to thunder storms somewhere in the middle of the country—the flight was late. Too late to make the three-hour drive back to Silver City.
Carry-on dropped in the room, face washed, and downstairs to the bar. A drink and pretzels would be dinner.
The Tiki Lounge – I’m not sure if that really was its name – I just remember that whatever it was, it had nothing to do with the Sonoran desert. It was a Saturday night, but this bar had no draw. Just another airport hotel along Tucson Boulevard. I sat on a tall stool, ordered a Manhattan, and picked through the pretzels until I found a whole one.
In the corner of the too-large room was a group of three tables and maybe a dozen people, over-dressed and local. All had a distinct 70’s, pre-disco look. Women: Big Hair. Men: Tom Jones sideburns.
So it was no coincidence that a man in a dark wine-colored velour shirt (top 5 buttons unbuttoned) and wearing a medallion the size of Olympic Gold, was standing, microphone in hand, singing What’s New Pussycat in a key ever-so-slightly lower than the accompaniment.
His moves were deliberate, studied. His whole body leaned into the chorus, right arm outreached, hand open then closing to draw the air and the audience in with it.
At the end of the song, Tom dropped the mike to his side. He shook himself from the shoulders in a loosening up sort of way. He humbly raised this palm to the audience to deflect applause.
“Thank you. No. Please. Thank you.”
The audience – the others around the three tables – did not cheer or agitate. The applause was slow, heads nodded. One fellow closed his eyes, brought his pinched fingers to his pinched lips in a kiss indicating perfection. Tom had hit an ace down the center line.
Beautiful.
The evening’s emcee took the microphone, quieted the crowd, then “Let’s hear it once again for (I couldn’t make out the name).” Gratitude moved around the tables a second time as the singer’s upturned palm fended off pride.
It seemed late for this sort of thing. It felt as though the bar should have already shut down for the night. But something was going on here.
Another pitcher of beer was ordered.
The emcee turned to the audience. “Please help me welcome, once again, to the Tiki Lounge, star of the Tucson stage, our very own Darlene Dolores.” A sweeping gesture lifted Darlene to the microphone. She stood, first with her back to the tables; head bowed, a deep breath, then turning slowly and raising her voice to We’ve Only Just Begun.
One by one each took a turn at the microphone. Each was someone special up there. The screen was turned so only the singer could see the words. But no one needed to look. Each was a professional. An entertainer. The center of another world. Complete.
- July 2009