Ebbile

Tiki Clean
	"Please, let me remove it for you." "No!" she snaps sharply. Then, realizing her meanness, says softly, with her head bent down, "Thanks, I can do it." It pains me to see the one-handed girl attempting to take out a cigarette from her pack. It's obvious she has not been one-handed for very long. We are all uncomfortable watching her. "Herr'mon," she pronounces my name, with the correct Spanish accent, "why doesn't someone give him the words, so he doesn't make a fool of himself?" I shrug. No one cares enough about a fat ukulele player to hear all the words to Little Grass Shack. But I don't tell her this. I give her a beer, in the bottle, like she insists, but underneath the bar I dry it with my towel, so it won't accidentally slip. El Burro stares at her, the same way we all did when she first came in almost a month ago. He doesn't hide it, so I constantly send him back to the storeroom for cases of beer or the broom. The Tiki Room is a polite place if nothing else. On Fridays, she orders La Isla Bonita special, 2 enchiladas topped with crushed pineapple, rice, and beans. It also comes with a free Mai-Tai, but for her, we substitute two Heinekens. If I were ten years younger, I would serve her meals on the house, play Julio Iglesias on the jukebox, and pray for a miracle. But I am not ten years younger, and in my trailer out back I stay busy enough. I have a VCR and illegal cable. No need to obsess. "I left my wife because she kissed our dogs on the lips." Each time she comes in I reveal something intimate about my life. She seems interested, but she tells me nothing. She's like a pack mule with her secrets, weighed down by her untold stories, and she thinks no one can tell. Mules are stupid animals, but they save people a lot of work. You can't overlook that. She probably thinks she is saving people the trouble of listening to her stories. I hope she grows accustomed to her stump soon. She needs the stares like she needs an extra head. La Muneca wants to make friends with her, but she comes on too strong and puts the girl off. She does not want to wear her rattlesnake bracelet or learn the Mexican hula. La Muneca is dim-witted, diagnosed as mildly retarded by the state of Nevada, but she deserves to have a friendship like anyone else. I can't explain to her that you can't make friends with a pack mule. One night, after I had shared with the girl my best Scotch, a bottle I had been saving for an occasion of any significance, she told me how she lost her hand. We did not finish the bottle-maybe if we had I would have learned the real truth. As it was, she told me she paid an alcoholic doctor in Four Corners a lot of money to do it. She said she had to cut off her hand because there was something wrong with it. I asked her, "was it cancer or arthritis?" She said it was none of those things. She cut it off because it glowed in the dark. And the light radiating from the thousands of veins kept her awake at night. She had to remove it or go insane from the insomnia. "I wanna go back to my little grass shack in Ka-luka-uka iee. Oh, uka-puka iee, luka muka, iee..." She had to point out El Hueso's bad way with lyrics. It's starting to bother me, too. But there's nothing I can do about it. In the desert, entertainers that do not include vulgarity in their act are hard to come by. El Hueso is clean. And the Tiki Room is clean if nothing else.

Tiki Clean

   "Please, let me remove it for you."
   "No!" she snaps sharply. Then, realizing her meanness, says softly, with her head bent down, "Thanks, I can do it." It pains me to see the one-handed girl attempting to take out a cigarette from her pack. It's obvious she has not been one-handed for very long. We are all uncomfortable watching her.
   "Herr'mon," she pronounces my name, with the correct Spanish accent, "why doesn't someone give him the words, so he doesn't make a fool of himself?" I shrug. No one cares enough about a fat ukulele player to hear all the words to Little Grass Shack. But I don't tell her this. I give her a beer, in the bottle, like she insists, but underneath the bar I dry it with my towel, so it won't accidentally slip. El Burro stares at her, the same way we all did when she first came in almost a month ago. He doesn't hide it, so I constantly send him back to the storeroom for cases of beer or the broom.
   The Tiki Room is a polite place if nothing else.
   On Fridays, she orders La Isla Bonita special, 2 enchiladas topped with crushed pineapple, rice, and beans. It also comes with a free Mai-Tai, but for her, we substitute two Heinekens. If I were ten years younger, I would serve her meals on the house, play Julio Iglesias on the jukebox, and pray for a miracle. But I am not ten years younger, and in my trailer out back I stay busy enough. I have a VCR and illegal cable. No need to obsess.
   "I left my wife because she kissed our dogs on the lips." Each time she comes in I reveal something intimate about my life. She seems interested, but she tells me nothing. She's like a pack mule with her secrets, weighed down by her untold stories, and she thinks no one can tell. Mules are stupid animals, but they save people a lot of work. You can't overlook that. She probably thinks she is saving people the trouble of listening to her stories. I hope she grows accustomed to her stump soon. She needs the stares like she needs an extra head.
   La Muneca wants to make friends with her, but she comes on too strong and puts the girl off. She does not want to wear her rattlesnake bracelet or learn the Mexican hula. La Muneca is dim-witted, diagnosed as mildly retarded by the state of Nevada, but she deserves to have a friendship like anyone else. I can't explain to her that you can't make friends with a pack mule.
   One night, after I had shared with the girl my best Scotch, a bottle I had been saving for an occasion of any significance, she told me how she lost her hand. We did not finish the bottle-maybe if we had I would have learned the real truth. As it was, she told me she paid an alcoholic doctor in Four Corners a lot of money to do it. She said she had to cut off her hand because there was something wrong with it. I asked her, "was it cancer or arthritis?" She said it was none of those things. She cut it off because it glowed in the dark. And the light radiating from the thousands of veins kept her awake at night. She had to remove it or go insane from the insomnia.
   "I wanna go back to my little grass shack in Ka-luka-uka iee. Oh, uka-puka iee, luka muka, iee..."
   She had to point out El Hueso's bad way with lyrics. It's starting to bother me, too. But there's nothing I can do about it. In the desert, entertainers that do not include vulgarity in their act are hard to come by. El Hueso is clean.
   And the Tiki Room is clean if nothing else.