Pretty Flamingo

[Steven Hunley]

Pretty Flamingo
By
Steven Hunley

Me and Arthur Lee had something in common, something we shared. I was proud of it once but now I’m not so sure. It was a woman, and her name was Patty.

Arthur Lee died just a couple of years ago. He was the leader of a band called Love. Their song, Little Red Book was a hit back in the day. You may not have heard of them, it’s a time long time past, but musicians remember them. They still imitate their style. That song Vertigo by U2? Just a copy of Love’s song Seven plus Seven is. Bono even copied Arthur Lee saying, “One two three four.”

Except Bono made it, “Uno dose tres quatorse." He should have said quatro.

I guess Bono donno his espanyolo. Respect to him anyway. We all can’t be bi-lingual.

I met Patty at lunch one day across the table at City. She was a student, a free-spirited, Bohemian art student. What could be better? Not much.

Her mother owned a Baskin Robbins ice cream store in La Jolla. To keep her out of trouble in L.A’s music scene she sent her to City College in San Diego. Spoiled little rich girl Patty, always got what she wanted.

In addition to her mother owning an ice-cream shop, Patty was just plain fine. She dressed sexy, like girls do when partying on the Sunset Strip. She had a decent figure and red-platinum hair that she combined so well with her o-so-long legs and her o-so-short crimson skirt that clings so tight, so very there, so outa sight, just like in Pretty Flamingo by Manfred Mann. Sometimes she wore boots. Boots be sooo sexy. Just look around. They’ve got women’s legs attached to them.

Too soon after introductions the bell rang and we had to go to class. The last thing she told me as we parted was,

“I’m Arthur Lee’s Groupie,”

That’s what she said.

“Oh Wow,” that’s what I said, trying to sound impressed.

I didn’t even know who he was. I’d heard the song Little Red Book on the radio but didn’t know any more than a group called LOVE had made it a hit. I didn’t know he was a genius.

Within three days we were going out. She loved making out and was so practiced at it she had me loving it, and in the process, loving her, too. It was easy for me to fall in love at the time. Falling in love wasn’t old hat. And I was a virgin. We’d make out in La Jolla at her mom’s house there beneath Mount Soledad.

One day her mom came home early and interrupted what was going to be a first for me. You know, a record-setter. A trophy event. Patty was not to be deterred so easily. The next night she called.

“Come over now,” she whispered with a certain sense of urgency.

I did.

As I pulled up she was standing outside in a fur coat that reached mid-thigh, and the boots. She was damp, I thought from the dew on the grass.

“She’s cold. It’s cold out and damp. That’s why she’s wearing a coat.”

That’s what I told myself. But I was wrong. She was hot.

And she was damp alright, but in a different sort of way. We took off down the street.

“Make a left."

I turned to go up Mount Soledad. It had a view of the sea on one side, the city on the other. The road was all hairpin-switchback-uphill-straight-a-way-but-not–for-long. When I leaned a little nearer I noticed her perfume. It was one of her most dangerous weapons and it was at the ready.
I’ve always been a sucker for good smelling women.

She scooted closer then closer yet and whispered in my ear,

“‘I wanna give you something special,” all soft-like.

We were about pass by a vacant lot but she said,

“Pull in here.”

There were few vacant lots there on the mountain but she’d spotted it at once. It was like she’d been there before or something.

I pulled off the road, and faced the car overlooking the city. The streets below were filled with a thousand multi-colored lights racing off into the distance at breakneck speed. Then there were the tall buildings of downtown San Diego. Behind that loomed the blackness of Mt. San Miguel and beyond that lay the mysterious shadows that only exist in Mexico. Yes, it was romantic. And I didn’t even know the meaning of the word.

A single embrace, her breath so close, a touch, and then a sigh. It was just…… like…… that.

“Let’s go to the back seat,” she suggested, “There’s more room there.”

In the back seat she began to get intense, like she wanted something she had to have.

I thought at first it was a new-improved squeeze, or an intimate term of endearment. That must be what she wanted. Perhaps it was some more tongue. I was wrong. It was something else. It was a good old you-know-what.

I can’t say exactly what she did. Saints preserve me. But here’s how she did it.

She started by revealing secrets in my ear, revealing them real soft-like, real sincere-like. When she told me what she wanted, how could I refuse her? I couldn’t. Not me. Off with her coat. Surprise! There was nothing underneath, nothing but Patty.

So I had her.

That’s when she became Queen Patty the First to me. Each man has his own Queen Whoever, one and only one. I believe that may be how it is with women too.

So in reality she had me. It was a little of the ol’ in, a little of the ol’ out, a little of the ol’ in and out. Something happened to her when she was beneath me. She had some sort of woman-quake, some sort of major seismic event. So impressed and scared and nervous was I….. that I didn’t. Whatever happened to her was intense. I just couldn’t put my finger on it. Or now, looking back, maybe I should have.

On the way home I was in a good mood. Tremendously good mood. I figured that somewhere, somehow, something, had made me a man, like I’d joined some kind of exclusive men’s club.

“Glad to be here boys,” I felt like saying to all the he-men in the world, “I finally made it.”

Then I’d interlock my fingers and hold my arms aloft pumping my fists like in Rocky. They would applaud of course.

I was laboring under the illusion that I possessed complete and total self control. Really I’d just been too nervous to relax and let go.

I figured this ability would broaden my horizons, expand my vistas so to speak. If you’re going to labor under an illusion this was certainly the one. If you were bound to be wrong-headed about something this fit the bill. If you’re going to be delusional and wrong-headed at the same time at least be happy about it. So I was.

But the next day I had trouble getting hold of her. She had found me out. She had found me out in the backseat of my own motor vehicle.
She somehow became more distant. Her calls, which had been frequent, became less frequent, then infrequent, then not frequent, then not at all.

I tried for weeks to reconnect, you bet. Was I sad? You bet. But did I ever get over it? You bet.

There was you see, that girl in philosophy class, Bonnie.

I wasn’t dumb enough not to know what medicine would fix me. I needed a second one; Uno Numero Segundo. Someone to take my mind off number one would do the trick. I needed a dose of Bonnie. And that’s what I would get.

Exactly how I obtained her is another story you understand. There’s no room or time for it here and now, and this is certainly not the place. It being all over the internet and all.

But Patty, if you’re reading this, take heart. Allow me to celebrate you. To bring your ego to a sort of climax. You were steamin hot and I admit it. Sorry I didn’t deliver the goods.

Like I said, me and Arthur Lee, we shared Patty. When you were with Patty the First it was almost like being in LOVE.


http://youtu.be/tc_LzMHIbYg

http://youtu.be/PaV5UCMsW-8


Authors note: Little Red Book: written by Burt Bacharach. Arthur Lee’s genius made it his own.

Pretty Flamingo: written by and sung by Manfred Mann, base played by the incomparable Jack Bruce.

[hillwalker]

You had me hooked on this right from the beginning (or should that be DaCapo?).

It brought back many pleasant memories from my long-haired days - sadly the West Coast of Wales and swinging London rather than San Diego but... a richly entertaining read.

H

[Hawkman]

Hi Steven,

I’m afraid I’ve been neglecting these boards lately, but I always enjoy reading what you come up with. You have a fertile imagination and a good facility with story telling, even though some of the references to specific locations in your tales can be a little obscure to a Brit of a certain age, like me, whose travels have always been easterly :)

This particular tale reads very much like a first draft to me. You have mapped out your story and established its elements in place, as though you wrote it quickly to record the ideas. But to me it reads a little jerkily. Take your opening paragraph, for example:

“Me and Arthur Lee had something in common. It was something we shared. I was proud of it once but now I’m not so sure. It was a woman. Her name was Patty.”

You have five staccato sentences, idiomatically expressed, as if they were character dialogue. But it’s not dialogue. Does the reader need this distraction? To be honest I’m undecided about this, but it just doesn’t read well. The whole opening could be expressed in two sentences which would flow more easily.

“Me and Arthur had something in common, something shared, which I was proud of once, but now I’m not so sure. Her name was Patty.”

Which is much more economical and intriguing as an introduction.

I particularly don’t like the dehumanising “It was a woman” which is in any case unnecessary, as the reader will identify Patty as a woman.

Another paragraph which doesn’t read well:

“I met Patty at lunch one day across the table at City. She was Marylyn’s friend. They were both art students, girl art students. What could be better? Not much.”

I’m not crazy about the syntax of the opening sentence, but again this is an idiomatic thing, and I freely admit that I’m not up to speed with “Newspeak” but you should be aware that you are potentially limiting your audience. Older readers might just interpret this as bad English and give up. Then again, maybe this isn’t important.

The subsequent sentences, again delivered like rapid fire from a gang-member’s, nickel-plated nine, could be eased by a little judicious review of the punctuation.

“She was Marylyn’s friend and they were both art students. Girl art students; what could be better?”

Also you have introduced a character who doesn’t seem to be present, Marylyn. Then you mention that they were both art students. Big deal, what’s so special about art students? Is it relevant? It is not apparently so at this juncture, especially as you introduce Marylyn and then start talking about her mother, which, we don’t realise until the end of the paragraph, is actually Patty’s mother.

So, I think this story would benefit from a little proof reading and editing to smooth out the niggles. Quite frankly, the story actually starts at:

“I’m Arthur Lee’s Groupie”

We really don’t need any of the preamble, the story isn’t about Arthur Lee, Marylyn or Patty’s mother. Cut to the chase I say.

Live and be well. - H

[AuntShecky]

I agree with Hawkman in that this could use a little editing and tightening, BUT--

You know how web posters still type "lol," even though they really didn't "lol" at all? Well, I'm here to tell ya that from the second paragraph on, I really lol'ed. And I really mean it.

The jokes are too numerous to reiterate (besides, you know what happens to comedy when you try to analyze it.)
Still, did you ever hear the definition of a perfect wife? The answer is quite politically incorrect, but the perfect wife supposedly is blind and mute and her father owns a liquor store. I remembered that old chestnut when I read how Patty's mother owns a Baskin-Robbins.

Oh, and I loved this passage:

As I pulled up she was standing outside in a fur coat that reached mid-thigh, and the boots. She was damp, I thought from the dew on the grass.

“She’s cold. It’s cold out and damp. That’s why she’s wearing a coat.”

That’s what I told myself. But I was wrong. She was hot.


Again, a little judicious pruning would highlight the punchlines more effectively. But as I say, this is a
laff riot!

[kittypaws]

Steven.....what can I say?

I always enjoy reading your stories...I like the flair they are told in; that cockiness attitude, the flow.

Just hope Patti doesn't stumble upon this in cyber!

kittypaws

[Steven Hunley]

Hawkman,

I agree the five staccato sentences were a little too much. I was using them like a gun to hit the reader and always save one for myself if something goes wrong. I've adjusted it.

The bit about Lee is going to stand. It elaborates on the setting and provides a bridge between then and now. He was a genius and even the Doors went to see him when he played on the Sunset Strip in LA and they were unknown.

I've axed Marilyn. Poor Marilyn.

But as for the art student bit. I've changed it but stick by my guns here. Girl art students are a bit wild, Bohemian as all get-out, and as inventive and creative in their art as they are their love-making. Always pushing your envelope, so to speak. Not dried-up and mechanical like math or business majors. English majors can be just as romantic, God bless 'em.

So I ask you, what could be better? Not much.

Thanks for the great responses, all of you.

And Hill, yeah, Da Capo,and Forever Changes to you too.

[Hawkman]

Fair do, Steven, it's your story, but I'd still look at this paragraph:

"In addition to her mother owning an ice-cream shop she was just plain fine. She dressed sexy, like girls do when partying on the Sunset Strip. She had a decent figure and red-platinum hair that she combined so well with her o-so-long legs and her o-so-short crimson skirt that clings so tight, so very there, so outa sight, just like in Pretty Flamingo by Manfred Mann. Sometimes she wore boots. Boots be sooo sexy. Just look around. They’ve got women’s legs attached to them."

The trouble is here you establish the subject of the paragraph as Patty's mother, so the following description reads as picturing Patty's mother. Just a thought.

Best, H

[Steven Hunley]

OMG you're right! They don't call you the eagle-eyed Hawkman for nothing!

I'll fix it right up! Thank you.