Author's note:
Hello! This is a sequel to an earlier story, "Beach Party, take 2: Say it with flowers." That original was a twist on the 1963 drive-in classic with Annette Funicello (as Dolores), Frankie Avelon, and Bob Cummings (the professor). If you'd like to read it first, you can search it by title – or the link is on my Profile page.
Also, as an aside, Dolores gets a better shake this time :-)
August was nearly over, and the last days of summer were at hand. It had been a ride. Spectacular surfing; rock 'n roll. Romantic breakups and makeups. Bonfires, clambakes, and epic "turf battles" with Eric von Zipper and his misfit bikers. All crowned by the sea, sky and stars, and the sheer joy of being young... along with, of course, the mysterious professor doing research for his "Sutwell Report" on American teenagers.
Dolores in particular had taken the bearded prof under her wing, and shown him the ropes of surfing life. She even came to his bungalow during his first week, to help with his book – where she proceeded to faint (embarrassingly!) after smelling his exotic flowers. When she came to, he suggested right away that she go home and lie down. Dolores was greatly impressed by this concern, and promised she'd return. She did several times, with Donna and other friends, and even Frankie once, to answer questions and explain things. (Or "wise him up" as Frankie put it.) Dolores noticed during these visits that he seemed to have a special interest in her. However Robert (his first name, which she liked to use) was always a gentleman.
Unfortunately, during this swingin' time, Dolores had run through more of her resources than she planned on. She just loved the seaside life so much, and was so generous in helping friends, and people in need, that she had almost nothing left for junior college that fall. Let alone her dream of going to State. She sat at the kitchen table in the girls' beach house, doing the math, and resigned herself to working full-time instead. Hoping to recoup enough for JC next spring, at least. She wondered if she could get back her waitress job at her hometown restaurant. The customers were rude, and the manager would sometimes yell at her. But it was money.
Her figure had developed in the past two years – such that at least two married businessmen had hinted they would "pay her way" in return for... said developments. That was money, too. But she would rather wait tables. Closer to home, Robert had warmly thanked her and the others for their help with his research. Alas, just not financially.
The luckiest beach dweller of the summer, though unlikeliest, was the tall, brawny 'surfer dude' they called Deadhead. It was a friendly nickname among the gang, although it did reflect the dim intelligence he showed at times. Despite his lowish IQ, and goofy ways, he had a handsome face and muscled physique. Enough so, that he caught the eye of a Life photographer, who was documenting the youth scene in southern California. The 10-page magazine feature was like the professor's book in a way, but minus the anthropology. Deadhead ended up on the cover of the issue, and got $5000 for the day's work.
Given this good fortune, Dolores had timidly asked him for a small loan to tide her over, until she could start waitressing again. She was a hard worker, and promised to repay it as soon as she could. But he hemmed and hawed, saying that he had to (suddenly) "be careful" with his money. In point of fact, Dolores had helped him out many times, this summer and last, never asking for anything in return. Still he just said "Sorry," and walked away, leaving Dolores feeling embarrassed for asking.
Frankie had already left for home. (She sighed. Summer romances are just that.) Robert was leaving soon. And the rest of the gang would be gone by next week. The "Beach Party" this year was almost over.
With the season winding down, the owner of the professor's bungalow wanted to spruce it up for a fall rental. So he hired Johnny, one of the remaining surfers, to paint the kitchen while the prof was at UCSB for the weekend, presenting a preview of the Sutwell Report. Johnny in turn brought along Deadhead (not the smartest dude on the beach, but definitely the tallest and strongest), and they finished the job in two hours. While they were toting out their gear, Deadhead accidentally knocked a file folder on the floor, spilling the loose pages. As he was picking them up, he saw the name Dolores, and began to read. A few minutes later Johnny walked in, and started riding him for snooping.
But Deadhead said, "Hey, you gotta see this! He did some sort of experiment with Dolores. Made her think she was a stripper."
Johnny grimaced. "Oh, come off it, man." He took the papers from Deadhead, and skimmed them. Then he sat down, and read closer. "Dolores... D'Allessio?"
"That's her stage name. It's all there, like a movie script. He did it with some weird flowers."
"Wild..." said Johnny, as he flipped through the pages.
"Yeah! He's like Heckle and Jeckle."
"That's Jekyll and... never mind." He studied the papers some more; then glanced out the window. "Hey, I saw some flower boxes dumped out back. You think it might be them?" They went out to look. Most of the flowers were dried up and dead. But underneath, they found three that still looked alive. They put them in a big Folgers can, with new dirt and fresh water, and a coffee scoop of plant food they found in a cupboard. In a few days, with TLC and some luck, the blooms were open again.
"That's right," said Johnny, with barely contained fervor, as he nestled the exotic blooms before her face. "You're Dolores D'Allessio. The exotic dancer. The hottest, sexiest stripper in the world."
"Red hot!" chimed in Deadhead, with his own avid grin.
They were at Cappy's bar, dubbed "Big Daddy's," now closed for the season. But Johnny had picked the lock, and they told Dolores that Cappy wanted them to get it ready for a private party that weekend. She was one of the few teens still around, and they said they needed her help. She was busy packing for her own departure the next day. But she was always willing to do a favor for a friend.
"I'm Dolores D'Allessio..." she repeated, in a trance. "The hottest, sexiest stripper in the world..."
On her way over she had stopped by Robert's bungalow a final time, to say goodbye, since he was leaving that afternoon. When she got to Big Daddy's, she took up a broom, and diligently swept a month's worth of sand and grit from around the bar – while the boys shuffled chairs around, and furtively watched her. Soon Johnny called a break, and they invited her to smell the pretty flowers they had brought "for the party." She was delighted at first, by their wonderful fragrance. Then as the boys urged her to smell them more, she began to get woozy. A warning seemed to click in her, and she drew back. But Johnny soothed her and distracted her, and got her to keep smelling the flowers – until, within another minute, she was going under. Every breath of the fragrance lulling her deeper now. Making her more receptive, to whatever would hear.
She was wearing her snug two-piece swimsuit, pale pink and well-filled, from the beach that summer. Her white wrap was draped on the bar. When away from the beach, she usually wore long pants and a sporty blouse. But Deadhead had told her how warm the building was today, and suggested the swimsuit. (He liked it – a lot.)
"Rich, gorgeous. Famous!" Johnny pressed, with growing excitement, as he saw the ideas taking hold of her. He tried to remember more things the professor said. "Men worship you. They give you everything they have. Everything, to see you strip!"
She breathed in more of the lush fragrance. Her eyes closed, then reopened, wide and blank. "Men worship me. They give me everything they have... to see me strip..." Just hearing her say the words, made him shiver.
In the midst of this, Willy the Geek wandered in, asking if the place was open. "No!" Johnny barked. "We're busy. Get outta here!" He was a gentle kid, if a little slow, and walked out meekly. Deadhead locked the door against any more strays, and Johnny again held the flowers under Dolores' face. Coaxing her to inhale more of the rich, hypnotic fragrance. They were following the professor's script. And the plan was going perfectly.
Johnny shook the blooms (something else he read in the notes), to loosen and release more of the scent. "Deeper," he said to her. "Breathe deeper." And Dolores breathed it in, again. Her eyes were getting even foggier, and glazing over. "More," he said, and she did so, as he held the blooms closer. Losing her will; falling under their spell.
He shook the flowers more. She couldn't do anything, but breathe in the fragrance. It was so sweet, and powerful. So overwhelming. Making her believe anything.
Her eyes were open but glassy; her voice without tone. Gazing into space. "Men give everything they have... to see me strip," she repeated. Unable to resist.
"Say it again," Johnny told her.
"To see me strip," she recited again. Her gorgeous chest rising and falling; her expression blank. "They give everything... to see me strip." She was completely hypnotized now. Her mind, and body, theirs.
"Because you go all the way," Johnny said, with emphasis. That idea excited him most of all. He shook the blooms hard, until they fell apart, to free the very last of the fragrance. She breathed in the final, concentrated essence... and echoed, in a slowing voice, "Because I go all the way... I go all the way... all the way..."
Her head slumped, and she dozed off. They watched and waited; wondering if it really worked.
In a minute, Deadhead hesitantly touched her shoulder. She roused up; and looked around. Her face, and whole demeanor, with a different cast. After sizing up her surroundings, she turned to the pair beside her.
"Did you want something, boys?"
"Uhh, yeah," said Deadhead, trying to get his head together. He shifted himself in his chair. "Yeah! We want you to... do a show. Right here. Right now!" Johnny was likewise eager. "Where you go all the way...!" he contributed.
She took note of their giddy desire, with a leveled gaze. Of course they do. She leaned back in her own chair, and looked them over.
"Got a Capri Light?"
Deadhead did a double take, at Dolores making such a request. Then he darted behind Cappy's bar, and grabbed a pink-and-white pack from the wall dispenser. With shaky hands, he peeled the cellophane, and picked open the foil wrapper. While Dolores watched, amused. He knocked the first cigarette an inch outward, and extended it to her.
She was about to pluck it with her fingers. Then she decided to send a probe... and leaned forward, to draw it forth with her lips. She could sense him staring at her ample bosom – and a glance aside, showed Johnny showing the same interest. She always liked to know who and what she was dealing with. She straightened up, and brushed her thumb with her index finger. Deadhead hurriedly snatched a lighter from the cash register.
She got up, and sidled to the bar. Smoothly donning her beach wrap; taking charge of the object of their lust. While leaving the front parted... just enough.
"I'm a star attraction, in case you haven't heard," she said coolly, as she primped her hair in the plate glass mirror behind the taps. "New York; Paris. Rio. Monte Carlo every New Years Eve. I don't do private shows." She turned back towards them; and reclined, gently, against the bar. Her arms to the left and right. "I like big houses; big applause. Big pay." A smile traced her lips. "Especially the big pay." She petted the brass railing to her right, with her fingertips. As she moved, the half-open wrap shifted from side to side. Teasing the swimsuit, and body, beneath.
"Huh?" The boys looked at each other. This wasn't what they expected. It dawned on them – they hadn't done it like the professor. He'd started the fantasy with her "on stage," and the show going on in her mind. But now, they'd have to get her to that point.
She brought the cigarette to her lips, for a languid draw. Then struck a pose, without really seeming to. Meeting Deadhead's gaze with her own; letting it dangle everything else in front of his imagination, that the beach wrap and swimsuit concealed... yet strategically revealed. The pull of her sensuality was almost palpable.
She exhaled slowly. He went deep into her eyes; recklessly, willingly, into their depths. Into their promise of untold pleasure. And she knew he was hooked. She didn't need to say another word.
She set one foot in front of the other, at an angle, to maximize the impact of her shapely legs. Tilting the front ankle down, to simulate heels. Then she subtly rolled her hips and shoulders, like a kitten settling into a comfy cushion. And waited. In moments he was lost in dreaming about Dolores... sweet, innocent... wanton... stripping nude for him. The images welled up, of her gorgeous body. Filling his mind. Imagining her most intimate curves; her most secret, voluptuous beauty. Every inch... for him to see. Then he came to, and announced, "We can pay big!" Johnny hesitated, then nodded vigorously.
"Hmmm, how much?"
Deadhead thought (or tried to). "Well, uh, a hundred dollars?"
She laughed. "Are you kidding? That's cab fare in Vegas."
He vaguely remembered his money from the magazine, and said, "Five hundred?"
"I didn't know I was dealing with a couple tycoons." She stepped away from the bar, and picked up her shoulder bag. "See you later, Hef."
"Wait, wait!"
She turned back, with a steady gaze. "You get one more chance. And if it's a laugher, that's it, adios."
Deadhead looked at her, standing there. The glories he wanted so near, and so dear. With the flowers spent, the chance would never come again. He scanned up and down her figure. Dolores. Sweet, innocent... and lushly beautiful... Dolores. Her body awaiting his eyes. She was garbed exactly the same as on the beach, any day that summer. It was just the way she stood, and moved; just her attitude; somehow transforming her from a beach girl to a sexual bombshell.
The more he stared, the more incredibly beautiful and desirable she became. His mind was spinning. And he suddenly said, "Five thousand dollars!"
She didn't laugh this time, at least. "Still not my going rate..." she demurred, softly touching the cigarette to her lips. But she let the words linger, to see if anything interesting might follow.
And Deadhead pushed ahead, "Remember, it takes a lot of time and work, for a big show."
"Yeah!" said Johnny. "Getting a theater, the security; legal stuff, permits. Checks have to clear..." He searched for something else. "Paying taxes!"
Deadhead gesticulated. "This is cash! Right here, right now!"
"Uh-huh. Not enough, surf boy. Not if you want me to go 'all the way'." She turned her gaze on Johnny. She had seen how excited he was at saying the words before. So she reached out a hand, and lightly tickled his ear with her fingers – as she said with a silky voice, "What are you paying, big boy? To see me go... all the way...?" He gazed helplessly into her eyes, as she flickered a slight, alluring smile... and touched a fingertip, so gently, inside the whorl of his ear. Moving the tip in a tiny circle within; the touch so intimate, the sensation so intense, that Johnny was instantly, hopelessly in thrall. Then saying again, low and soft, "...all the way..."
"I got a thousand!" he blurted out, after a beat. "Well, almost. You can have it all!"
"And," Deadhead jumped in, "you don't even have to dance much. Like ten minutes. Or five! As long as you... just as long as you..."
She eased back from Johnny ; and eyed Deadhead again. "As long as I..." – she tapped the ash from her cigarette, with a wry smile – and let the sentence finish itself.
They both nodded, with tense, eager looks.
Dolores pondered a minute. She took a slow draw, and exhaled. She was a top professional – but was still a bit inveigled by their lovesick visage. "Six thousand?"
"That's it," Deadhead said. "It's everything we have." And Johnny nodded again.
Small crowd, she mused. But appreciative.
She tamped out the Capri in the bar's scallop-shell ashtray.
"Go get it. All of it – in cash." She closed up the beach wrap now; and looped its sateen sash. "We don't want to worry about those 'checks clearing'."
They sprinted to their cars like Hollywood slapstick, drove to the bank, and withdrew all their respective savings in hundred dollar bills. Away from Dolores' aura, Deadhead's hormones simmered down a little, and he started to hesitate. But Johnny said, "This is our only chance, man. First and last. Maybe, I dunno, maybe after she wakes up, we can get it back. Before she knows she has it." It sounded iffy, but was enough to keep the pedal down.
Back at Big Daddy's, she nimbly counted the cash. (Somewhat surprised the lunk really had it.) She tucked the bundle into her shoulder bag, and parked it on a table, where she could keep an eye on it. As the boys waited anxiously, like two spaniel dogs, she lit another cigarette. And looked casually around the empty premises. The raised platform, for the dance bands, was okay. But the lighting... ugh. "Any spotlights here?" she asked, as she dandled the Capri in her fingers. "I don't like dancing in a post office."
"Ahh, just a sec," said Deadhead. He clambered up the wooden gangway to the catwalk, where bands sometimes performed from. Three lights were clamped on the railing. He quickly plugged them in, and aimed them downward. Meantime Johnny scurried back and forth; switching off lights by the bar and the pool tables, pulling shades on the rear windows, and turning on more lights up front. The scene improved... to some extent. Dolores shrugged a shoulder. "What do you have for music?" she inquired now, as she did a lazy stretch, and set her cigarette in the ashtray. Expecting this not to take too long. "Something a girl can move to."
Johnny looked distressed. But Deadhead rang out, "I know!" He scrambled behind the bar. "The promoter guy had it. Came out just last year –" He hefted up a box filled with 45's, and riffled through the stack. "The flip side of, uh, Low Tide or something. Cappy didn't think it fit the place... but it's perfect!"
He found his prize, and brought it to Dolores. She looked at the label, and almost laughed. "The Stripper. David Rose orchestra." She rolled her eyes. "Subtle choice." Then she passed it back to Deadhead. "Okay, Hef. It'll do."
Deadhead turned round, and suddenly realized he had nothing to play it on. Dolores noted his desperation, and grinned. "Hurry up, surf boy. I'm getting out of the mood." He dashed to the jukebox, and tried to pry open the locked glass canopy, without success. Then he grabbed an empty scuba tank and smashed it in, to get at the turntable. He pushed the shards off, flopped down the record, and found four quarters left in the tip jar for 12 repeat plays. And finally the needle dropped.
She had acted indifferent, to keep the edge. But in fact, she liked the song. Especially this version, the original, with the New York arrangement. It had a downtown tempo; full orchestra; an underlying samba beat; and no strings or added bridges. The riffs were rambunctious, audacious; even playful – and honest. The sense of men truly treasuring, and desiring, to see a beautiful woman dance on stage... and undressing her with this music.
As the sexy, full-throated horns kicked off, she paced... strutted... an ellipse on the platform. And came to a stop at center stage. The brass and percussion, as always with this arrangement, starting to pull her in; to take control. She was a pro, and danced on her own terms; and nobody better doubt it. But sometimes... when things were just right... she didn't always want to "keep control"—
As the drums hit their stride, she gave in, and surrendered herself to the rhythm. Her breaths deepened; her whole body moved sensuously; and she reached for the knot at her beltline. She had toyed with the boys' wishes that she go "all the way." But as the anthem built, she knew now, that she would indeed... give everything. Her matchless beauty; her most intimate self; her all.
"And awayyyy we go!" said Deadhead, in his best Jackie Gleason, as the boys settled in for their glimpse of paradise.
The glossy knot parted beneath her fingertips. Unraveling like a silken orchid. The scarlet bands of sateen dangled from each hand; then dropped, to swing from the side loops. Defining every movement of her hips and torso. The smooth white wrap, by gravity and its own geometry, lolled open. Presenting a glimpse, then a glimpse more, of the pink swimsuit beneath... and what was beneath that. She owned the stage, in time to the throbbing beat. Toe-to-heel, nearly balletic, like a runway model. With a skillful catch in her gait, that flaunted every dimension of her figure to stunning effect.
With her back to her 2-man audience, she next spread the wrap outward, and in, like a fan. She tipped her stance to one side, with one leg slightly turned, to angle and beautify her body – and fanned the wrap once more. Lifting the hem upward this time, above her waistline, to grant a full view of her tilted hips; so shapely, from behind, in the form-fitting pink. And did an awesome grind; synching her legs and torso to produce a wondrous motion, like a rocking wave.
It was sultry; erotic; irresistible. She kept it up, for beat after beat, as the boys stared mesmerized. The gyre more enthralling than any mere flowers could ever be.
Any concern of Deadhead for his 5000 dollars was gone. Had he ten thousand, or twenty, or any amount, she could have tapped it all at that moment. The only numbers he could think about were Dolores' measurements. The only future he cared about was the next three minutes. Until finally she stopped, and released the wrap – and him.
Now she turned back around, facing forward. Again she commanded the stage. Dancing audaciously; undulating her body, as she caressed it with her palms. Radiant; sensual. Every move of her thighs, her hips, her torso, enthralling anyone who watched. A hand touched behind her head; and passing over her bosom. Sliding from fierce femme fatale, to yielding, bedroom eyes. All in awesome, seductive harmony with the music. Supremely confident; supremely beautiful.
She then began to ease the wrap off her shoulders. Just a couple inches at first. Snugging the spread collar around her upper arms, like a faux bustier, to tease the straps of her swimsuit. Then she drew the fabric lower, from her shoulders. And still lower, down her arms. Arching her back, boldly, as her upper body was revealed. Closing her eyes, with her lips parted in lust and pleasure; as if a lover were embracing her, and drawing the garment downward, off of her. Overcoming, and vanquishing, her resistance. Gliding so gradually down her smooth, suntanned arms. Peeling it from herself, to unveil the swimsuit... and the curves it embraced.
Deadhead and Johnny were captivated. Feasting their eyes; nearly out of their minds. (In truth, they had seen her clad the same, routinely, every day on the beach – but now, the sight was almost too exciting to stand.)
"Take it off!" Johnny called out, his voice close to breaking like a 15-year-old. And Deadhead echoed, with more guttural enthusiasm,"Take it off! Take it off...!"
Granting their wish, she relaxed her grip, and let the fabric tumble. Past her waistline, to low on her hips. The sleeves bundling at her wrists. She turned 180, and stretched her right arm upward; slashing the wrap across her back diagonally, like a brandished ensign. Then she dropped both hands, and let gravity now take the garment off her. Suspending it from her ten fingertips; then letting half of it swing, down and left, to hang another second from the fingers of one hand. Dangled there like a final thread of innocence. Then giving it to the stage. Deadhead whistled. Johnny could barely sit still. She wore just the pink two-piece swimsuit now. Garbing her fabulous body. And after dreaming of it all summer and last summer, they were about to finally satisfy their yearnings.
As the music went into high gear, she faced them, for the finale. Commanding the stage, as she strutted and danced, to the driving beat. Rolling her shoulders and bosom. Stroking a hand up her thigh. A seductive, tempting, tigress. More sultry and provocative than any beach girl, at the wildest midnight bonfire, would ever dare. She tilted her hips to the side, contrapposto... and reached behind herself, to the clasp of the bra. With the most enticing smile. Ready, at last... to go all the way.
In seconds, mere seconds, the boys knew the thin pink straps would come around, loose, in her fingers. The awesomely filled top would be drawn away, and drop to the stage. Then the bottom, sliding down her hips, inch by glorious inch. Then... everything.
Her upper body remained still, to bring full focus to its bountiful beauty – as she held, at the brink. Waiting for the unseen percussion to hit its mark. Deadhead and Johnny were fixated. Dreaming it; willing it; wanting it more than anything on Earth. And at that final beat; at the perfect chord in the music; her fingernails slipped into the snaps... and started pulling them apart. And just microseconds before the straps gave way, and the top yield and fall – there was a pounding on the door. Loudly, insistently. Dolores stopped, in a sort of confusion. And began blinking her eyes. The boys panicked; Johnny yanked the cord on the jukebox. Then a high-pitched male voice rang out, "Hey! Are you open now? I hear music – " It was Willie again.
Deadhead bellowed back, "No, moron! We're – checking the speakers!"
"Okee doke," came Willie's voice, and he was gone.
On the stage, Dolores was shaking her head. Trying to get her bearings. She glanced around, vaguely; and sat down on the edge of the platform. She shook her head again. Then she saw the boys.
"Oh. Deadhead." She touched her forehead lightly. "What's going on?" Now she looked around the bar, with more focus. "Oh yeah. The party..." She stretched her arms, like a big, lazy yawn. Then set her hands on her knees. "What else do we have to do?" she asked, gamely.
Deadhead and Johnny sat, shell-shocked. Deadhead's mouth hung open; Johnny moaned in an odd sort of way. Dolores noticed, and asked with concern, "Are you boys all right?"
Deadhead just lifted and dropped one of his big paws. Johnny said, "A little queasy, is all."
"Hang on," she said, and she tapped the air with her finger. "I have a roll of Tums. Let me get – "
"No!" said Deadhead, suddenly animated. "I mean, I'll get it!" He lurched to his feet, knocking over his chair.
"Don't be silly. I know exactly what pocket it's in." She stepped over to the cafe table, and opened up the sequined canvas bag. And stared down into it.
"Oh, wow!" she exclaimed. She reached in, and lifted out the wad of hundred dollar bills. Regarding it with a radiant smile. "Wow! Robert must have slipped it in, before I left. For helping him this summer. What a wonderful, wonderful man!"
"Wait a minute! That's, that's..." sputtered Deadhead. But Johnny pulled him aside, and whispered urgently, "Do you want to get us in trouble?"
"But it's ours," he whispered back. "That's everything I got!"
"Me too. But what do we say? What are you gonna tell her?"
Deadhead breathed hard, as the gears turned in his mind – and came up empty. Meanwhile Dolores sighed, and put the money lovingly back into her bag. She beamed at the boys. "I can even go to State now! Like I always dreamed..."
Her expression softened, as her thoughts drifted back. "That first time I went to his bungalow, he was looking at me... you know. But he never made a move. He was just worried when I fainted, and offered to walk me home. And he didn't mind at all when I said he didn't need to. A real gentleman." She licked her lips, thoughtfully. "If he comes back next summer, it'll be different. Really different – " She glanced at Deadhead, with a bashful smile (but a glint in her eye). "Well, if any man helps me that much, I've got to thank him."
"Thank him?" Johnny asked, with a squeak in his voice. "How?"
Dolores hummed to herself, blissfully. "All the way..."
She sighed again, and hugged the bag in her arms. Then she opened it, just to look at the wondrous, welcome surprise once more. "There must be at least five thousand dollars!" she said, with delight.
"At least," affirmed Deadhead, looking like he had eaten some bad clams.
"Or even more," added Johnny, like he'd shared that meal.
Then she noticed the jukebox. "Holy Toledo! I didn't see that. What happened?"
Johnny answered, glumly, "Oh, Von Zipper probably hit it with his bike. Who knows."
Dolores nodded. She had witnessed more than one donnybrook in Big Daddy's the past two summers.
"Anyway," she said decisively, "this goes to Western Union tonight, and straight home. I don't want to be tempted to throw it away on something crazy!"
"Right," said Deadhead, just as glum.
Gosh, Dolores wondered, he and Johnny looked so sad for some reason. And here she was, all giddy, and absorbed with herself and her windfall. "Don't feel bad," she told them. "If this happened to me, it can happen to you. Dreams really come true!" She patted their hands affectionately – although they just didn't seem to cheer up. Oh well, she reflected. Boys are hard to figure. "I'll be back later, to help finish," she promised.
"Ohhh, I think we're done here," said Johnny, as he looked around wanly.
"Great!" said Dolores, with a satisfied smile. "I'll probably leave tomorrow, so you guys have a super year. And hi to Cappy!" She started toodling a catchy tune she'd heard someplace... "Dah-dah-dummm... dee-dah-dah-dum..." as she donned her wrap, hefted the shoulder bag (strap over her head), and set off.
Johnny slumped in his chair, in the Slough of Despair. Deadhead stood futilely flexing his hands. Then his chin lifted slightly – as something seemed to dawn on him. He turned toward the bar... and looked at the broom, propped neatly in the corner, by the dust bin. And the space on the railing, where she hung her wrap. A thought glimmered in his consciousness, albeit vaguely.
He turned back now, and looked at the door she had just left by. He pondered the something, as best he could. Then, a bit haltingly, he set his toppled chair upright. And sat again.
Outside, Dolores strode down the mostly deserted beachfront, in the gathering twilight. The "magic hour," as the Hollywood folk called it. Up ahead, Willy the Geek was sitting on a railing, alone. He glanced up when Dolores went by, then looked down again. But a few steps further on, she stopped. She turned around... and slowly walked back. He looked up again, and the pretty girl was right in front of him. He was a little scared, and wondered if he was in trouble. She hesitated, as if unsure of what she was doing. Then she kissed his cheek. And she didn't understand why, but said in soft voice, "Thank you..."
He blinked twice – and didn't understand either. But smiled like Christmas morning.
She then continued her way down the oceanside lane, towards the wire office. Savoring the Pacific breeze (with just an autumnal nip); the wheeling seagulls; and the magic, eternal music of the surf. And in her heart, bid her own special goodbye to the best summer of her life.