She shifts her semi-nakedness around: lug and shove, urge. A pink spotlight will harp on it above. Until now, I didn’t know that buttocks could be shrugged. They call such business dancing, her sixth half-hour set tonight. Juke music has papered the house with blat and shrill. Maybe ten men sit in this Queens Irish bar at 2 a.m. Maybe three are watching Cheryl still. But patiently she will flesh out the night: motion that’s supposed to be sensual yet is, in fact, rather like a pantomime for yanking your stuck window shade down inch by inch. Don’t misinterpret me: Cheryl is choice stock and lush as a Stratolounger. But her almost nudity seems more problematic than sensational here: like a poverty trove. Even her image in the wall-length mirror appears inattentive. Kinda hard when your narcissism is unrequited as well.
Me, I’ve just written a full screen treatment from nix in six days and am power-chugging bourbon to kill my wild head off. Cheryl is clothed now, smaller, less of a stark contrast. Her alternate has begun tossing skin around on stage. Near the bar our conversations tablehop and meet by chance. I’m a writer, so? Oh, novels. Um, also Playboy and Esquire. Cheryl isn’t wonder-shot. Well, national review. “You’re kidding,” she says, “who are you?” I tell her my name. “God,” she blurts, undressed by amazement, “The Gimlet Eye.” And I just stare at Cheryl: like maybe she had drawn half an anaconda from her nose.
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