An hour after the stranger's disappearance toward the beach, Pat and I went back to our spot, leaning against the wall of the building, chatting. And who should appear, but the woman and child. The woman was carrying the little girl's pink tights and she wanted them back! "I don't want people to see my panties!" she stated firmly, twirling to show us how her skirt flew up. We assured her that they definitely weren't visible and Gramma said, "Now go on in there and show off those pretty brown legs!"
She bummed a cigarette from Pat and in doing so, dropped the pink tights. Pat pointed to them and she scooped them up. Pat gestured at the sidewalk and said, "Is that yours?" "That" was a paper towel Kotex with a bright smear of fresh blood. The woman yanked it off the sidewalk, took two steps toward us, yanked up her voluminous skirts and replaced it. Somewhere.
She began apologizing profusely, nearly weeping, saying over and over "I'm still bleeding!" (a reference to menstruation.) We tried to reassure her, but she kept on until I finally grinned and said, "Get over it!" and she laughed and hugged me (which I could definitely have done without. I don't like strangers all up in my face.)
She and Pat chatted about their grandchildren. They talked about paying the kids to do chores and the woman said that her grandmother had brought her up and sent her as a child out to the store. "I was just a little kid, running up and down Exposition Boulevard! And I didn't think nothing of it!" she said, with some wonder.
Eventually, the conversation waned and she went in to get the girl. Pat and I raised eyebrows at each other and went in, too.
As I passed the refreshment table, the Hot Dog Lady grabbed me forcefully by the sleeve and hissed like a goose, "Don't get to close to That Woman! She's not nice! (venomous look at her back) Just look at her - half-naked in the wintertime!" She added that our new friend was with the Fat Piano Player and that his girlfriend of some years was sitting right there. "See the blonde lady? I don't know how she can put up with him" (sad shake of her head.)
Having loathed the Fat Piano Play from afar for some time (he's a weird dude) I wondered, too. How either woman could go for him.
I reassured the Hot Dog Lady as best I could that I have every ability to take care of myself and returned to our table. I was just in time to see the blonde lady leaving the premises with the Fat Piano Player waddling along right behind her. Of our visitor, there was now no trace -- except for her sweater, left hanging on the back of her chair.
Who says the jazz club is just a bunch of old fart jazz fans?
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