Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Fifty-four

I wasn't sure why Jerry Springer was sitting behind the piano at Andy's, but I'm certain it wasn't for the purpose of entertainment. Marge and her old, wrinkled cleavage were leaning over the piano, flirting big-time, and telling Jerry Springer she never missed a show. She reminisced about the "Brothers who became lovers" show and the "Left-handed teachers who masturbate at recess," offering two of her favorites. "Those shows really demonstrated what the real America is all about ..."

Andy had a couple candles going, which added a new layer of redolence to the joint. So now, along with the bouquet of cigarettes, mildew from a flood five years ago, and spilled beer, there was the scent of fresh forest pine. I looked for Andy behind the bar but only found Jerry the bar fly chatting up Miss Illinois, who, surprisingly enough, held Jerry Springer to his offer of dinner. "Tough task by Mr. Springer," I thought sarcastically. The closer I got to Miss Illinois, the less fresh she looked. She seemed to have a sweat going and looked like, if one would lick her, she would taste salty.

"Hey, Jerry, Miss Illinois ... what's going on?"

"Since we sort of know each other, you can call me Michelle," Miss Illinois said as she got up and gave me a big hug, which not only confirmed that she tasted salty (she put a cheek to my lips), but that her breasts were very real.

"I've kind of grown to like the name 'Miss Illinois,'" I said.

"Hey, what about one of those hugs for your Uncle Jerry?" Jerry said, getting no reply.

Regardless, he got up from his bar stool and hugged Miss Illinois like he was about to go down on the Titanic and this was the last soul he'd ever make contact with. That, or the last time he in fact made contact with another human was when the Titanic went down.

"Ow! Excuse me. You're hurting me. Excuse me!" Miss Illinois pushed Jerry away. He just smiled and sat back on his stool.

"I wish Andy'd get back from the shitter. I need another drink. Whad'ya say, little girl, want another. Whad'ya drinking?"

"A Harvey Wallbanger ... but thank you, no."

"So what's the deal with Mr. Springer?" I asked.

"Could you be more specific," Miss Illinois said.

"Sure. Why's he here? Why are you here? More specifically, what's he doing at my piano flirting with a woman his own age?"

"He came to talk to you."

"Me? What about? He hates me."

"I don't think he likes you too much, but I don't think he hates you."

I became totally annoyed. Maybe I was still bothered by not being at dinner with Kate, Max, and Tracy. Maybe I was mad that Jerry Springer was sitting at my piano, like a don waiting to decree his orders. Maybe I still had a little residual "inflammation" pain. Anyway, I thought about it and still wasn't sure why, but it seemed like my tolerance was at an all-time low.

"What the fuck does he want to talk about?"

"Listen, Sam, since my name is Michelle, and not Jerry Springer, you'd probably have better luck if you asked him."

"Thanks for the advice."

As I walked away, I noticed Jerry the barfly had lost patience waiting for Andy and was helping himself to a drink behind the bar. Well, sort of. He actually poured with one hand and took a shot with the other. It seemed like a very efficient way to get plowed.

I couldn't wait for Andy any longer, so I approached the piano. Marge was in midfawn over Jerry Springer.

"Were you really the mayor of Cleveland?" Marge asked.