WAIT!!! Is it too late to enter a prop story?
***WARNING: THIS STORY CONTAINS FOUL LANGUAGE. ADULT SUPERVISION IS ADVISED!***
So there I was... Day 2 at a prop convention. Not just any old prop convention, but the greatest movie prop convention in the world: The 54 Acre Great Darke County Prop Convention and Mixer of 1996.
The afternoon had been exciting but draining. Long lines waiting for autographs, the food court had run out of bourbon chicken, and being the second day of the convention, many of those who chose to attend in character saw their costumes beginning to wear down, fray, and once bright colors had grown started to become slightly muted.
As I had missed my opportunity for the ultimate “Van” meet-n-greet trifecta (Lee Van Cleef, Mario Van Peebles, and Druish King Dick Van Patten) I decided it was time to head out and retire this unrecognized Drexl costume and maybe catch a drink at the bar adjoining the convention center, by the main entrance/exit of the convention center.
I made my way to the oasis, which was a small hotel bar made to fit twenty patrons, with a small step platform in the corner for hotel jazz. Bob Hope’s
the Paleface was playing on the TV’s behind the bar, which was tended to by a wide tracksuit wearing fellow whose attempt at joining in the festive occasion was a pair of sunglasses.
This breather would be a nice reprieve to unwind, toast the festive convention, and admit defeat on the autograph/memory collecting front.
I made my way to the bar when in a sideways glance, my eyes were drawn as if by tractor beam to the dame standing on the small step stage along with a tuxedo’d man playing an upright bass and another sitting behind a 3 piece drum kit. We locked eyes (the dame and me, not the two penguins and me) and the rest of the nearly empty bar fell away into darkness leaving the two of us alone absorbed in a moment... like if we both were standing in Magneto’s plastic prison cell at the beginning of X-Men: United.
Her hair was the color of bricks in old paintings.
She had a full set of curves and the kind of legs you'd like to suck on all day.
She gave me a look l could feel in my hip pocket.
Maybe this prop convention wouldn’t be a total bust after all. And speaking of “bust”...
Yep, this was starting to get interesting.
Having finished a slow jazz blues number that left the room steamy, she approached me, her sparkling red dress shimmering with the dreams of every Tom, Dick, and Harry in the room wishing he was me.
“Is this seat taken?” she pried, motioning to the empty bar stool next to me as the smoky words slid out between her fire engine red lips. This dame had looks that would turn a priest straight.
I motioned for the bartender. “A martini for the lady,” I said.
“And for you?”quipped the rotund bartender who reminded me of the “She’s Your Queen” vocalist from Coming to America.
“Crown and Colt.”
Suddenly, our party of two was interrupted by a guy dressed as Andy Dufresne. He had been sitting a several stools down completely absorbed by
the Paleface the entire time the chartreuse had been singing. He brushed past me and took the dame’s blue gloved hand and moved it to his lips to kiss it, when I sprung up raising my own ungloved fists.
Half startled, Dufresne posited ”Would it help if I you knew this is my wife?“
“Married?” I laughed. “You know, that makes us practically related.”
Dufresne looked puzzled. His eyes kept occasionally darting toward
the Paleface on the TV’s, but he pulled a stool from the other side of the dame and wedged it directly between ours. The balls on this guy! I laughed. “So you’re going to have a drink with us?” I asked incredulously as he remained standing between the dame and me.
“No thanks,” he replied, his attention returning to the old movie playing on the televisions.
“No thanks?” I asked, the aggravation rising in my voice. “What does that mean? You drank before you came down here? Already loosened up. Is that it?” I prodded trying to raise his anger and also to size up what kind of man this tall drink of water with a silver spoon up his ass really was.
“Naw, I don’t think so,” I continued. “I think you’re too scared to be drinking. Now see, we’re sittin’ down here, ready to negotiate, and you’ve already given up your ****,” I schooled him, “but I’m still a mystery to you. Yeah, I know exactly where your white ass is comin’ from.
“See, if I asked you if you wanted a drink and you grabbed a Hennessy and started to throw em back, I’d say to myself, ‘This ************’s carryin’ on like he ain’t got a care in the world. And who know... maybe he don’t. Maybe this fool’s such a bad ************, he don’t got to worry about nothin’, he just sit down, drink my Crown, watch some TV.’ But you ain’t even sat down yet.
“On that stage over there, since you been in the room, was this fine ass woman singing with her breastesses damn near hangin’ out, and you ain’t even bothered to look. You just been clockin’ Bob Hope. Now, I know Bob’s pretty, but he ain’t as pretty as a couple of titties.“
Dufresne responded keeping his eyes on
the Paleface, “I’m not drinking cause I’m not thirsty. I’m not sitting cause we’re not staying. I’m not looking at the singer cause I hear her sing every night, in our bedroom. Besides, it’s Bob Hope,” he offered.
Not understanding I asked him, “So?”
He responded, “Hope is a good thing. Maybe the best of things. And good things never die.”
I thought for a moment. Then I laughed.
I looked at the bartender, who had been stoic, now shaking his head at the utter disrespect being flung at me. “Well looky what we have here,” I announced, “Charlie Bronson...”
With that, I beat Andy Dufresne like he just broke Rooster’s nose and therefore ought to have something to show for it. He resisted and got a few punches in, but ultimately I stood triumphantly over his slumped body having beaten him unconscious. In a stupor of blinding rage, as I regained my composure, I still taunted my foe, “He must have thought it was White Boy Day. It ain’t White Boy Day is it?” I called out to the bartender.
“No, man,” the bartender responded as he once again reminded himself that he really
really needed to get a new job. “It definitely ain’t White Boy Day.”
As for the Dame and me, we retired to my hotel room, where I first showed her my prop collection which included Rudy’s javelin from Revenge of the Nerds, Gary’s squirt gun from Weird Science, a leather biker’s cap from Police Academy, and a box of chocolates from Forest Gump. We ordered room service and had everything from Little Eyed Joe to damned if I know, followed by some naughty time where we
related like Rabbits.
The End
Oh crap, do these stories have to be non-fiction?
Nevermind.
congratulations
Usagi Pilgrim
