Lookin’ for Love

Sixty-Six Warren

sixty-six f

Warren

A t forty-one, my body was breaking down. More and more I opted to work the lunch and early-evening shifts. The crowd was older, calmer, and less raunchy.

Not only was I addicted to drugs and alcohol, I was also addicted to the lifestyle dancing afforded me. A piece of me went to the devil each day, but I didn’t care. My bills were paid, my drugs were free, and I had a beautifully furnished apartment to go home to every night.

I still longed for stability, sobriety, and a life in which I wasn’t constantly assessing myself and my audience. I prayed for a miracle, a guardian angel, a prince charming to sweep me off my feet.

Angels come in all shapes and sizes. Would I recognize mine when he or she came along?

Dream Girls was my home base, but more and more I drifted toward other clubs catering to the lunch crowd. Grady’s Bar and Grill in New Brunswick became my second base. Customers continued to whistle and shout, “Show your tits!” but I knew their requests were hollow and part of the game.

Grady’s stage was located behind the bar and had wings projecting on either side. I danced the full length of the stage, connecting with the closest customers. Repeatedly, I tried to catch the eye of an older, white-haired man in jeans and a plaid shirt who was a regular fixture at Grady’s. He’d plant himself on the barstool in a back corner with a beer, sandwich, and fries. Unlike most other customers, he kept to himself.

The bar was empty on Wednesday, July 3, 1985. Most people had taken an extra-long holiday and left for the Jersey Shore.

Felix, the bartender, and I sat at the corner of the bar waiting for someone to come in.

That someone turned out to be our solitary, white-haired customer. He surveyed the empty room and asked, “Are ya closed?”

Felix jumped to attention. “Waitin’ on you, Warren.”

Warren gave us a half-smile and sat on his favorite stool. “Ham ’n cheese on rye and a Bud.”

“You got it,” Felix said.

I stood and stretched. “Any song you’d like me to dance to?”

“Rest your feet, little lady. No point in dancin’ just fer me.”

I glanced at Felix. “You heard the man. Take it easy.”

“Thanks.” I turned to Warren. “Would you like some company?”

Warren stared into his beer before replying. “Guess so.”

I sat next to him and asked Felix for a seltzer with lime. It was too early for alcohol, even for me.

“I’m Ava.”

“Warren Anderson.”

“Pleased to meet you.” I held out my hand. We shook.

Something nagged at the back of my brain. His name had a familiar ring.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” I asked.

“I got no kids, so ya wouldn’t know me that way.”

“Where do you live?”

“Got me a couple acre farm in Piscataway.”

“A farmer? Here in New Jersey?”

“Yup. ’Least now I am. I’m a retired carpenter. Local 19.”

Local 19! The union my father had belonged to. Blood rushed to my face. I held on to the bar to keep from toppling over.

“You okay there?” he asked.

I nodded, unsure what to say. Fortunately, Warren changed topics.

“I been watchin’ ya. You seem different from other dancers.”

“And you seem different from other customers.”

We laughed.

“I take it you been at this racket a while.”

“Too long.”

“Why not do somethin’ else?”

“I need the money,” I said.

“Smart gal like you could find a million ways to earn a livin’.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno. Maybe be a lady barber, y’know, a beautician.”

I smiled at his four-syllable pronunciation—bee-you-tish-un. “That’d mean going back to school. I’m too old.”

He snorted. “Dearie, ya ain’t old till ya get to my ripe age. I’m turnin’ seventy next month.”

I did the math. Warren was eight years older than my father. No doubt he and my father had worked together at some point.

I decided to take a chance. “Did you know Hank Wilson from Local 19?”

Warren did a double take. “Hank? Sure I ’member him. Always had a pocketful o’ pistachios.”

It was my turn to do a double take. My father loved pistachios. His hands were permanently stained pink from the dye on the shells.

“He—he was my father.” Long-suppressed tears filled my eyes.

“Was?” Warren asked. “Did he pass?”

“Sorry, no. I should have said ‘is.’”

“Ya get to be my age, ya never know. How’s the ol’ boy doin’?”

“Okay, I guess. I haven’t seen him in a while.”

Warren gave me a quizzical look.

“It’s a long story.”

Just then a half-dozen young guys walked in. Felix gave me the eye, meaning it was time to get back to work.

Warren understood. “To be continued.”

I circulated through the small crowd on my next break and made sure to connect with Warren one last time before he left. The link to my real father scared me to death. I hadn’t seen or heard from my parents in twenty-two years. I had no wish to revisit the events that had led me to the present, yet I sensed Warren was about to play an important role in my life.