CONTINENTAL CLUB GRAFFITI
By Linda East Brady
 

Pearl was grateful there was no line in the ladies’ room, a rarity for Saturday night at the Continental Club. The two-stalled can wasn’t much bigger than a walk-in closet.  An obvious bleach-blonde reapplied her lipstick in the mirror. Pearl nodded at her, giving a glance to her own reflection – hair still big, mascara still strong despite the heat. She was wearing her husband’s favorite outfit, a leather miniskirt with cowboy boots that matched, and a sleeveless purple turtleneck.  She sidled past the girl at the mirror and ducked into her preferred right hand stall.

Pearl liked the womb-like refuge of the stall.  She liked to consider what other women had written as they sat alone with their pants down. Pearl ran her manicured nail down favorite message in Austin, an eye-level admonition – "You know Elvis died like this."  It always made her grin.

Then she saw fresh dialogue, new since last week’s gig.  The opening message, wrought in flourishing ballpoint, declared:  "Blaze Carabello is fine!!!!"

Another hand had written beneath:  "Damn straight he’s fine!  I would do Blaze Carabello in a heartbeat!"

And another yet, in blocky magic marker – "Honey, I did do Blaze Carabello in a heartbeat!"

Pearl considered the gossip on the whitewashed stall.  She heard the muffled sound of between-set swing music drifting in through the lounge door.  A chattering bunch of women were now queuing up for the toilet.  Pearl wiped and yanked up her panties.

She fumbled in her purse for a pen.  She didn’t have one.  She did have nail polish – she never left home without it.  Most girls didn’t take care of their hands anymore.  Pearl’s mama always told her you could tell if a woman was a lady by the condition of her hands.  But then, Mama had also said never to marry a musician – win some, lose some.  She pulled forth her Revlon Le Jazz Hot polish and shook it, the mixer ball clacking against glass.  

At least eight girls waited now for a stall.  The air around them reeked of stiff hair, dancer’s sweat and cologne.  Washing her hands, Pearl gave each girl in line a hard look, and then stomped into the club, the door banging behind her.

The next woman in line shot into the right stall.  As she sat, a smear of magenta wetness caught her eye.  It smelled like nail lacquer.  Underneath the discussion of Blaze’s attributes was a fresh slash of graffiti:  "I’m MARRIED to Blaze Carabello!"

Outside the bathroom door, the girls distantly heard a man bellow: "No!" 

A croak of feedback quickly followed. 

Another woman came in.  The women looked to her, the curiosity plain on their faces.  

"Pearl Carabello just brained her husband with his own guitar," she informed the ladies in waiting.

"Oh, my.  He dead?"

"No. But he ain’t feeling too good. Good thing they make Stratocasters so damn tough.  He’ll recover, so long as his precious guitar ain’t hurt."

A couple of women nodded, then turned to wait for the next stall to open.
 
 

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LINDA EAST BRADY is a Southern girl who presently finds herself in the far north. She is an established music journalist, having served two years as a contributing editor for the online guitar magazine HHGI.  Her work has appeared in INSIDE THE HEARTLAND, SOUTHLAND BLUES and the Fender Museum of the Arts publication.  Her first novel, LONE STAR ICE AND FIRE, is forthcoming in the spring of 2004 from Coral Press.