June 13th, 1987. Headlines everywhere—Reagan to Gorbachev: Tear down this wall.
Diana is far from her rainbows and roller skates days. She would turn back if she could but her bright yellow cottage with the red gingham curtains has already been rented out to three starving actors.
Her trademark mane of “down to her ass hair” is coiled and wrapped under a soft brown turban. Her skin has no foundation. She is speckled with light nose freckles highlighted by a velvety mole at the corner of her lip.
The legs of her bib overalls are stiff with french fry grease and a few drips of bus station floor goop—things she was trying not to think about. Gum shoe. A hocked loogie on the bottom of her Red Wing work boots.
It turns out overalls are not the best choice for a 65 hour cross country tour on a Greyhound bus—with a longer than long pit stop to see Nana in the ninth ward. Her shotgun house—neat as a pin and hot as hell.
Gasp. Gasp for air but can’t get a good lungful. Half the passengers are full of beer sweat and fumes and the other half haven’t showered for days. She sniffs her armpit. Aches to unwind her turban. Strip down. Lay down in her fluffed up bed on the hardwood floor. But no.
She shouldn’t have stayed over so long with Nana. Should have stuck to her one night sleepover plan that allowed for Motel 6 stops at Destin and Kissimmee in the most leisurely way. So she could be rested for her new gig in the Florida Hollywood—so far far away from the California Hollywood.
Anything further would be Havana. Which she did think about. Join up with the socialists or communists or whatever. Get out.
But Nana oh Nana. So crinkled and shrinkled with her rose pattern china and her TV shrine to granddad in his Tuskegee Airmen uniform. He was so handsome. Wasn’t he? Fighting the Nazis. He’d turn over in his grave if he knew she was a Commie wannabe.
Oh Dee little Dee won’t you sit and stay a spell. Tying on her checkered apron. Jambalaya. Po’ Boys. Muffalettas. We got to fatten you up.
Thank you very much Nana. The bibs were her fat pants and now they too were boob tight and not ass friendly.
The stops were just about long enough to button up her bibs after a quick pee. Well they were until the right side clasp bent into itself in a fit of yanking at it in a filthy rage that forced her into a shoulder slide wiggle just to get out.
So now she was fasting on a coke bottle she refilled with water fountain water because her first gig was on Saturday—just four days away. She’d be wearing a hawaii flowered bikini top and a hulu bottom skirt for her first performance of the Pina Colada song which was god oh god so ridiculous.
But according to Brenda Sue the owner manager that’s what all the girls wore on Saturdays and that’s the song she and Declan fell in love to—and she Brenda Sue had been in a hula skirt. She’s says it all without taking a breath. Clanking bottles in the background and a whoop and holler.
The Dolphins just scored. Thanks Jesus for that. So did she want the job? Brenda Sue asked with an inhale that could only be smoke.
And no not really she didn’t want the job but she had to—had to get out of LA.
Ok, yes. When can I start?
Friday after next? Exhale. Another background football whoop. Field goal, says Brenda Sue and now she has to go. And now Diana has to go.
So she wrapped it all up and tied it in a bow. Left no forwarding address or number. Told Nana she’d call her on Sundays.
The bus stops at the last stop. Hollywood the week before July 4th hangs limp and drippy. Everything sticks to the skin. Sweat bubbles and stings the eyes.
She takes a cab to the Hollywood Beach Resort. O’Malleys is around the back—beachside. A1A is on the front. Cars bleep and roar. Sounds like LA traffic. Feels like home.
She pulls her shoes off and rolls up the cuffs. Waits for a man on a large tricycle to pedal by. And then a woman on rollerblades bending and weaving.
Way way out in the Atlantic a storm is brewing. Lightening cracks. Zips. Snaps.
She wades into the water up to her knees. A school of silvery fish dance and flip in the air.
She’s a mermaid. The salt washes her toes. She sits down, clothes and all and lets the salt bath sweep her clean.
Oh those buses! I’m with you and Wendy on the nostalgia.
And this is delightful storytelling!
Love you Mama, and all your amazing talents.