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04-23-03, for Shon
She comes bearing women and wishes
There used to be a stage in here.
In fact, there used to be tables in here, and chairs. And, if we all think back, we'll probably remember that there used to be electric lights and alcohol and even bar-type munchy food. And, if you listen closely (no, you don't have to listen that closely, the patrons here are nothing if not vocal in their opinions and preferences), you'll hear muttered questions about the new menu items (“hummus? What the @#*($ is hummus? Does it have anything at all to do with hummers?” You must remember the crowd with which we're dealing 3;)
But now that's all gone. Replaced by linen and silk and—could it be?—what appears to be hand-spun goat hair cloth draped from the ceilings and down the walls, turning La Taverna into Tribe Badir. Grumpy patrons have been shown, not to the well-worn polished barstools and chairs left smooth by hundreds of scantily-clad bottoms, but to large floor-pillows embroidered and henna painted. Shades of red and green and gold fill the room, and shadows are cast upon the rough-woven fabric that covers the walls.
And what shadows they are! Who knew that the movements of the Patrons were so graceful, so delicate; both provocative and evocative? What was once a simple grope or stroke or tweak has been turned, by the magic of candlelight into a dance of passion and seduction rivaled only by the ancient carvings and designs of the Karma Sutra itself.
Waitresses, normally clad in the short black skirts and ruffled underskirts of French Maids, or the low-cut bodices of serving wenches (or, frankly, in the tight leathers and black T-shirts of biker-chick night, depending on the mood of the evening) are missing tonight. They have been replaced by quiet (for now) women with kohl-lined amber eyes, softly-rounded bodies, and golden-tanned skin, shimmering from a light coating of scented oils, draped in purple silk pantaloons and turquoise headscarves. Their breasts are covered (if one can call them “covered”) in copper-beaded bras that jingle delicately with their movements. In ringed hands they carry trays of pavola cake and spiced tea.
There used to be a juke box (we think), but now in some darkened corner we hear, instead, the sound of tassel bells being rung, again and again, as one lucky patron is given, again and again, the most special of birthday wishes.
Ah, so now we understand. The patrons nod their head approvingly and the talk resumes, admittedly with more hushed and reverent undertones than might normally be heard on a typical night. But there is a question in the crowd. The reason for the confusion is clear—these birthday transformations should, by all rights, be presented by a birthday representative. A satyr, a sprite, and elf, or—dare we hope—by the Nymph herself?
The mood is broken by muffled curses from behind what should be the bar, but what appears instead to be a line of hastily-carved wooden camels. “What do you mean, there aren't any more girls? I said I needed a harem, darn it. A Harem! This barely qualifies as a 3;a 3;a something smaller than a harem!”
More muffled curses and conversation from behind the camels, and something that sounds vaguely like a foot stomp is followed almost immediately by the unmistakable clatter of a dropped clipboard.
And there she is, Our Nymph. She hastily makes her way to the front of the room, tripping only once (fine, twice) over the beaded sandals and the too-long-scarves draped around her waist. Her wings are unfettered today and they wave behind her as she moves between the patrons.
“Ahem.”
You would think, by now, that they'd recognize this sign.
“Ahem.” She stops and reaches for the scarves at her belt. It is then that we realize that's all that's there. Scarves and a thin belt made of beads and coins. A dozen, perhaps. Certainly not more than a dozen-and-a-half, gauzy layers of silk between the now interested eyes of the patrons and Our Nymph's perfect legs.
She pulls one cloth from her belt and casually drops it in the lap of the nearest patron before doing an almost passable imitation of a belly-dance. She steps, slides, rolls her hips over to the next set of floor-pillows. At last, she has their attention. Their rapt attention, in fact, as she reaches for the trailing end of a second scarf. Lifting the corner of silk she places it between the teeth of a dark-haired man who, until now, has been steadily drinking what appears to be a rather good Scotch (we assume that he's brought this himself. While not technically allowed, the bar at La Taverna tends to shy away from purchasing quantities of top-shelf liquors. These are, after all, writers who most often frequent the establishment. And cheap writers, to boot. So if a patron wishes to, discretely of course, bring in his own, higher-quality beverage, one tends to turn a blind eye. Provided, of course, that he continues to tip the waitresses.)
With a step and a shimmy and an oh-so-slow turn, she moves away from our scotch drinker. He holds the fabric tight between his teeth and she allows the scarf to pull away from her hip. A flash of skin, but only a flash.
“Thank you.
“And now, it is with great joy that I present to you the Birthday Boy of the day.” She gestures with a heavily braceletted arm towards the darkened corner. All eyes turn expectantly. Nothing.
She tries again. “And NOW, it is with Great Joy that I present to you to Birthday Boy!” Again, nothing. Nothing, that is, save the sounds of leather-covered wood against willing flesh. An easily recognizable ‘thwap' followed by both a moan and the slightest of giggles.
“Oh good grief. He's unwrapped his gift early. Which means, I suspect, that he's also started unwrapping the harem girls. Folks, I apologize. It appears as though our birthday boy will not be making an appearance tonight after all. Please, enjoy the change of ambiance for the evening. The rental agency needs everything back by tomorrow morning. There's all you can eat olives and hummus and pita back at the bar—er—camels.
“And, before I forget 3;Happy Birthday, Shon. Enjoy!”
