Hog's Breath Saloon

1980's

Ft. Walton Beach, Florida

 

 

 

Fairy tales and fantasies

Harsh reminders of what will never be

Grains of sand and time erode and anguish

Consequent existence, interpersonal supervenes

Jagged shards of shared and shattered dreams

Sweet secret romantic whispers pooled on silky pillows

Wasted wishes trickle down and billow off into sea breeze

 

 

Our energies had dwindled like the slow drag of a dying car battery.  Blurred vision and garbled voices. Patience tested by the week’s new onslaught of hurried vacationers going nowhere.

Reckless partying and too little sleep had left us drained, in a stumbling stupor. Three weeks in Ft. Walton Beach and Destin, Florida—even for two thirtyish party-boy professionals—had left mirrored effects of sap-sucking insects on withering trees.

We stopped off at the Seagull lounge and restaurant for some tasty, grilled amber jack.

A few blocks over, Wendy poured us a couple of free drinks at Clint Eastwood’s Hogs’ Breath Saloon: its slogan, “Hogs’ breath, better than no breath at all.” And it’s a guess, but the freebees weren’t likely a token of Clint’s generous hospitality.  

Then, we bopped over to the Green Frog strip club, seeking air-conditioning, an ice-cold brew, and a place to waste time as we waited for Victor’s disco to open and get rocking.

Never big fans of sleazy dancing-girl joints, we decided to grab a liter for later at Cash’s Liquor store and checkout Jamaica Joe’s up on Santa Rosa Blvd, Okaloosa Island. And as luck would have it, there was a good early crowd for Thursday night.

No sooner than seated, Naomi, the bartender, leaned over, kissed me smack-dab on the lips, and complimented my crazy outfit. Long-legged, multicolored, pastel geometric-patterned Jams (called clam-diggers or Capri pants for women), side-split just below the knee, accented by a black wife-beater-tee covered by a long-sleeved, pink-linen beach shirt, and a psychedelic welders’ cap that added a touch-of-personality with the bill turned backwards. Sort of looking like a circus clown to anyone who wasn’t a surfer from the West Coast.

At a table just to the opposite side of the empty dancefloor, sat two couples. Illusory, conservative types. But when the raven-haired beauty stood and walked toward the restroom, I almost fell off my stool. A little muscled-up and chunky built by most preferences, but a tiny waist, without an ounce of fat. She suited my taste to a tee. Perfect in every way. Firm thighs, calves, and shapely-round bottom, probably once a gymnast or swimmer . . . maybe still.

I sat for the next hour, trying to figure out a tactful approach without coming across distasteful or rude. But once they stood to leave, I became ardently hysterical. An “easy come, easy go” believer, my frenzied panic was out of character and control. Ironically, my sidekick, David had begged to leave since we’d come there. And suddenly, two hours in, I jumped up and said, “Let’s go.”

We rushed out to get ahead of the leaving foursome— and then, fifteen feet outside the front door—I fell to my knees and grabbed my chest. Gasps from coming and going patrons, mouths fell open and eyes bulged at the seemingly obvious, as an older woman whispered, “I think he’s having a heart attack.”

My friend and both couples hustled over, ready to check, tend, or give CPR if needed. The buff boy asked, “You okay, bud?”

I rose methodically to one knee . . . gazing into the black-haired babe’s brilliant baby blues, a pastel azure, and in my best English or Australian accent, I said, “It’s me heart, me heart. I think I’m freaking bloody in love.”

Branwen, my ad-libbed nickname, (meaning, raven beauty) shook her head and turned away, trying to hide her smile. Leaving her true reaction a mystery. Her mad boyfriend was quick to call me an obnoxious jerk, among a cluster of choice obscenities.

Lover boy, another of my impromptu monikers, wanted to punch me, but his friend stepped between us to hold him back. Luckier for the aggressor than me; I’d thought and would have liked to have tangled and erased any doubt.

In case he hadn’t figured it out, you can’t build muscle in your head and there isn’t much padding to absorb the shock inside noggins pounded into submission.

Then, the puffed-up, wannabe gladiator, grasped my exotic epiphany’s hand and led her off into the dimly-lit parking lot.

In a slapdash performance—just before she was snatched away—I stood, and slyly slipped a folded cocktail napkin into her palm unseen.  A somewhat magical feat, at least under the noses of inattentive onlookers.

The note read: “Please, meet me here tomorrow night at 7:00. I apologize for the drama. But they say you only fall in love once; and I didn’t want to miss my chance. The thought of never seeing you again had inflicted more than a twinge of sadness—it correlated to lost in the abyss, flipping and twirling, sand-scorched skin, smothered and drowned beneath a tsunami."  

Okay, so it sounded corny and cliché. But it had taken me the better part of an hour to write, and I meant every word. I only wished my wit and limited vocabulary could have expressed a flashier cosmopolitan culture of sentiments.  

The following night, I was at Jamaica Joe's at 6:30, counting the crawling seconds toward 7:00. Then, I waited until 7:30, 8:00, and at 9:22, I had had enough.

Seldom such a slow learner, I finally figured out she wasn’t coming and gave up to leave. At the exit, I pulled the front door open just as she, dressed in shades of purple and lavender, and a blonde-haired Barbie in pink stepped up to enter.

Sheepishly, I looked away. Uncharacteristically timid and without the slightest resemblance to the boisterous, overconfident blabbermouth of our first meeting. The likelihood of her showing up to meet me, two and a half hours late, would have been ridiculously presumptuous. So, I nodded, smiled, and kept walking out.

I was almost to the parking lot, when she rushed outside and spoke loudly. “Hey—so, you’re going to leave without even speaking?”

“Well, you left me waiting and wondering half the night. So, I’d assumed, you didn’t come to meet me.”

Reeking with sarcasm, she snapped. “Oh . . . is that right?” Her head rocked on her shoulders like a boiling tea pot, fire blazed in her eyes. And as she made a sharp turn towards the bar, she threw up her hand in one of those ta-ta waves, and said, “Well, have a great night.”

Our anticipated encounter sure hadn’t gone as I’d intended. Drenched in sweat, every pore on my body an instantaneous high-pressure hydrant. I was about to lose it. Like a crestfallen puppy in desperation, who only wanted to be the woman’s best friend, grab a sniff, or nuzzle and lick her leg. But my best chance for success had blown up with more fury than Mount Vesuvius. So, I left.

At about 11:30, and ready to call it a night, we stopped at the Carnival, a locals’ hangout for after-shift bar workers who prefer to avoid touristy outsiders.

Ten minutes later, my fantasy girl and her friend arrived, swarmed by a flock of admirers. Right at home, they knew everyone, which made it surprising we hadn’t met. Ten to twelve week stints every year for the past fifteen years, I knew most locals, and the majority knew me too. Which wasn’t always a plus.

I walked outside and hung over the balcony, listening to the breakers, inhaling the warm salt air, and hiding my disappointment. A dainty tap on my right shoulder, somewhat, startled me. I turned, and there she stood, smiling. I’d never had a more pleasant surprise; until, she said, “So, are you still pouting?”

“Me, pouting . . .? I don’t pout about anything.” Knowing already that my macho bravado wouldn’t work with her.

“Well, you sure could have fooled me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I simply liked the package and wanted to meet you. But the attraction must have been one sided.”

“Nope, it was mutual . . . but apparently not strong enough to warrant your waiting for an explanation as to why I couldn’t be there sooner?”

“I’d come to the conclusion you weren’t there for me . . . not at 9:30.”

“Then you’d be wrong. There was no way I could meet you at 7:00, like you asked, and no way to let you know. You could have included a phone number in your message. But you didn’t, smart boy. So, I came soon as I could, hoping you’d still be there. And then, happy to find you . . . you ignored me and walked out, drawers in a wad, before I could explain.”

“What about Bam Bam?”

“Who’s Bam Bam?”

“Your big muscle-bound boyfriend.”

“Well, I’ll have you know, the person you’re referring to, isn’t my boyfriend . . . he’s my brother.”

“So, why didn’t you tell me that last night rather than leave?”

“Honestly, I hadn’t decided if I really wanted to talk to some strange character who’d gone to such goof-ball extremes just to meet me. It was a little scary at first.”

“Yeah . . . I guess it could have been. But I panicked when you got up to leave. Desperate to do whatever it took to get your attention. So, I acted like a complete idiot.”

Relief washed over me as her stern face melted into a smiling, childish giggle, and she said. “Well, it worked. Although, there seems to be a pattern of unpredictability with you. But you have my undivided attention if you’ll stop being so childish?”

At a loss for words, I had to start somewhere. “So, what’s your name?”

“My name’s Lori . . . and yours?”

“I’m Ric . . . Ric Myworld.”

“Oh, no, you must be kidding . . . Mr. ‘Rock My World.’ I really don’t know if I like you at all now.” Thankfully, Lori laughed and gave me a chance to explain that I wasn’t referring to the ‘Rock My World’ play on words.

For over thirty years, Lori and I lingered somewhere between madly in love and torn apart by life and responsibilities. But every minute, a glorious time! After not talking for quite some time, I decided in 2020 to look her up and try to rekindle what, we had always agreed, should have been. Only to learn she had passed away in 2019.

Thinking back: Our last meal at Sam Montalto’s Pandora Steak House, now closed. We later cuddled close on the dance floor at A.J.’s Dockside oyster, seafood restaurant, and bar. Firm breasts against my chest, cleavage peeking, and her exposed waist, warm and moist to my fingertips as we grooved to the house band’s spot-on rendition of Boyz II Men’s: End of the Road. Who could have known . . . this would be our last chance for love and happiness?

A factory of complex functions, it feeds and nourishes the brain, body, and pumps zing into our inner emotions to keep us alive.

Yet, once broken, the heart is but a lifeless, hollow muscle.