In Missy Gaulinfat’s one and only Beauty-Torium, the juice was back running. Partially thanks to the City of New Orleans, but more directly to the diligent efforts of Poseidon, Missy’s spouse, successfully pokin’ round the shop’s ancient fuse box with a wooden dowel instead of a metal trowel. Ergo: no fried Poseidon! Now Fats Domino was amiably drawling over their ancient jukebox, “see ya Bye and Bye, ’cause I’m a-WWWalkin’ To New–Or-L’ns!” Missy tugged on her florid blue-crimson headscarf, wondering aloud, “Now whut mischief could dat big Lummis be getting in, I’m thinking…”
A stocky unshaven trucker, Julian Hernandes, had heard the real Loomis serenading his sweet lady friend, reunited, Lyndsey Pattison, on the Secaucus access to the Jersey Turnpike toll plaza. “WALK-IN’ TO NEW- OR-LEANS, La-lalalaa…”. Hernandes liked what he heard.
He motioned roughly to the love birds. “Get in. I got no radio in my camion but I like musica. Mucho!!” Lyndsey, with supernatural strength, hauled the dazed Loomis up into the cab and they were off like Captain America and his Easy Rider pals.
Jouncing thru Jersey, Loomis came a bit alive, “You sure dem sports writin’ freaks didn’t get a piece of your action, Lyndsey?” Upon her strident refusal, Loomis broke into raucous song, explaining a lil’ history to their willing host. “Here’s one I heard sung by the late and definitely Great, Wilbert Harrison…’FROM ‘BOTTOM OF M’ HEAAAAART, IT’S A MESSAGE- I LOVE YOU…” Whereupon Loomis leaned over, kissed Lyndsey’s ear and fell fast asleep.
Julian hipped Lyndsey that they were going to stop in Mahwah. He had a half-pallet of charcoal briquettes in the back for a beat, old comedy joint called “Nobody’s Inn.” Lyndsey warmed to the notion, hopeful that the proprietors might dig their singing duo just for “funsies.”
“Hey man,” Julian piped up. “Nowaday, anythin’ goes. We’ll lay over there, a bit, an’ we’ll see.” Half an hour later, Julian had uncorked the load of charcoal cubes, and Loomis and Lyndsey sat entwined on stage, enchanting Stan Rosenszweig, owner, chief cook, and bottle-washer of Nobody’s. Julian signaled madly that now was time for him to split, but the lovebirds were singing “Hi-Draped Pants,” and Stan was sold on the act.
With their means of “escape” gone, Loomis and Lyndsey didn’t hesitate to accept Mr. Stan’s offer of a room and fifty per show, good dough for a pair of “Nola ‘Fugees” under the circumstances. Shown their quarters, Loomis fell atop the bed. Lyndsey joined him, her nightgown already on. “I feel funny for some reason, Loomy..”
He drew her close. “Y-yer just gonna hafta get use to it, babe. We’re in for the long haul.”
A crude electric buzzer jolted the pair awake; five hours later they sat at their podium amidst a squinchy room full of guffawing drunks. Just when it all seemed lost, Lyndsey whipped out Liza Minnelli’s version of “Together,” and Loom apparently knew the comeback lines. Heckling melted into a warm and fuzzy love feast. Loomis tossed a lil’ Creole humor, as in “Love ya like frog’s eggs”, and the night was won.
After another day of drawn curtains and pledges of eternal fealty, Thursday evening arrived. Though the house wasn’t as packed with stiffs (apparently Wednesday’s children of woe liked Nobody’s a bit more); things looked okay. But a huge oaf, a friend of Mr. Stan no doubt, hurled some derogatory Katrina jokes and Loomis took less than kindly. While Lyndsey was going into “Get Happy,” Loomis lofted her chair into “Nutso,” and Stan’s floor men leapt into action. Through the checkered-glass doors of the club flew Lynds and Looms, landing unceremoniously
on the parking lot’s gravel, right at the feet of one Enderth Parks.
NEXT: Stick around for Installment 28, “I Believe We Can Fly!”(to be continued)
